Media members from all over New England, including your humble correspondent from Lewiston, assembled in the players picnic area adjacent to the Portland Sea Dogs’ clubhouse at Hadlock Field Monday. We swapped war stories as we awaited David Ortiz’s first appearance in a Portland uniform.

A couple of players warned everyone to be on the lookout for skunks who had made their home behind the outfield wall. Somehow, they were able to bite their lip long enough to allow the urge to crack a joke comparing reporters to foul-smelling vermin to pass.

After about a 30-minute wait, Ortiz finally emerged from the clubhouse wearing his ever-present smile and a red t-shirt. I don’t recall seeing him let out a sigh, but I wouldn’t have blamed him if he did. Talk about a big fish in a small pond. Ortiz had to know that there wouldn’t be a whole hell of a lot of peace and quiet for him to enjoy over the next 72 hours.

The slugger spent the next half hour patiently answering inquiries to the health of his rehabbing wrist, his once-troublesome knee, Josh Hamilton’s stunning performance in the All-Star Home Run Derby and even whether he was paying for the clubhouse spread.

There hasn’t been much in Maine to compare to Ortiz’s three-day tour in Portland. Maybe Bruce Springsteen did a run of sold-out shows here in the 1970s before he had to start playing in stadiums. The great Celtics teams of the 1980s semi-regularly played exhibition games at the Cumberland County Civic Center, but those were one-night stands, so it’s unlikely Larry Bird and Rick Robey ever did anything more than stiff waitresses at the Old Port Tavern with lousy tips. Many athletes, the latest being Kevin Harvick a little over a week ago, have passed through for autograph appearances, but most of them were out of town before the ink dried.

One would probably have to go back to 1965 when Muhammad Ali came to Lewiston for his infamous fight with Sonny Liston in Lewiston to recall an athlete as charismatic as Ortiz creating such a public spectacle in little ol’ Maine for more than 24 hours.

Ortiz was as gracious as could be, whether it was the media or the fans. He posed for pictures, even when he was standing at third base during a pitching change Monday’s game. He signed autographs. He played the role of Big Papi at all times.

The Sea Dogs had the unenviable task of sifting through dozens of requests from fans and parents asking for a personal audience with Big Papi for their sick relative or underprivileged child. If they tried to fill every request, Ortiz wouldn’t have been back in Boston in time to take on the Yankees. Fans might complain a little less about how spoiled today’s professional athletes are if they understood the demands that are made on their personal time. Outside of Tiger Woods and maybe the football or basketball coaches at certain D-1 universities, it’s hard to imagine anyone who has to meet more demands than Ortiz.

The big man handled it all with good humor and endless aplomb, all while knowing there would be even more pressure on him when he started wearing a Boston uniform again in a few days. He had to know that the moment he sat down in the Red Sox clubhouse, he would have to answer the same questions he’d been answering since he went to Pawtucket a week earlier, except twice as often because both the Boston and New York media hordes would be coming in waves. He had to know that he’d have to start speaking for Manny Ramirez again, since Manny seems to be retreating back into his shell. He had to know that if he didn’t start hitting right away and the Boston offense faltered against the hated Yankees, he would be taking at least part of the blame.

Maybe I’m just too simple, but making $20 million a year wouldn’t keep me from having an anxiety attack in that situation. Forget about worrying about Joba Chamberlain throwing at my head. I could probably deal with that as a professional athlete because you don’t generally become a pro athlete without an unusually competitive nature. It’s all the ancillary stuff, the off-the-field scrutiny, that would spur me into daily Ryan Leaf-like meltdowns.

Yeah, I know, it’s all part of the job. It’s all part of being Big Papi. Before Monday, I would have traded places with the man in a nanosecond. Today, I think I’d only trade biceps and wallets.

Randy Whitehouse is a staff writer for the Sun Journal. He can be reached [email protected]