Back in the early ’90s, I was still just a teenager figuring out how to take the magic I loved and share it with real people. Not just family members on the couch—but real audiences. One of the places that gave me that chance was a Florida treasure called Chalet Suzanne.
If you know, you know.
Perched just outside Lake Wales, the Chalet was a cross between a European fairytale and a culinary time machine. The décor was eclectic, the soup was legendary, and on New Year’s Eve—every year for 25 years—I got to be part of the magic there in more ways than one.
It was 1993. I was working the room, doing my usual strolling tableside magic—some card tricks here, a disappearing coin there. And that’s when I arrived at a quiet little table where a couple was enjoying their meal. He had a strong presence—friendly, but grounded. She had that sparkle-in-her-eye look that said they were used to attention, but not demanding it.
I launched into a few routines, and then I noticed the ring.
Big. Gold. Heavy Looking.
It glinted just enough in the dim light that I leaned in. That’s when I saw the engraving.
Wait… what?
I looked up at him. “Is that a World Series ring?”
“Yes,” he said with a grin.
“You played baseball?”
“I did.”
There was a beat. A slow realization began to dawn on me: This is someone important.
But I didn’t know who.
I wasn’t a big baseball guy at the time. While my friends were swapping stats and trading cards, I was practicing sleight of hand and rewinding old VHS tapes of Doug Henning specials. So I asked with complete sincerity—and probably a little too much curiosity—“What team did you play for?”
“Expos… and the Mets.”
And then his wife smiled—really smiled. That kind of smile that said, This is refreshing. He finally met someone who doesn’t recognize him right off the bat.
Then, something magical happened—literally. With a grin, he slipped the ring off and handed it to me.
I couldn’t help myself.
I held it for a moment quickly and made it vanish from my closed fist.
His eyes widened.
“Where’s the ring?” he laughed.
I held the suspense for just a moment longer, then revealed it with a flourish—intact, shimmering, and safely back open the finger of my other hand. He chuckled, clearly impressed. “Now that’s a trick,” he said.
It was Gary Carter. Hall of Famer. 11-time All-Star. A key part of the Mets’ iconic 1986 World Series win. He had just wrapped his final season the year before, finishing his career in 1992 back where it all began—in Montreal. In his final at-bat, he hit a game-winning RBI double over the head of former teammate Andre Dawson, and the stadium gave him a standing ovation. Even at the end, his teammates still called him “The Kid.”
When I met him, Carter had transitioned into a new chapter—serving as a television analyst for the Florida Marlins from 1993 to 1996. That night at the Chalet, he wasn’t wearing a microphone or stepping up to the plate. He was just a gracious man enjoying New Year’s Eve dinner with his wife… and a little unexpected magic.
I asked him to sign a card for a routine I was about to perform. It was the Ace of Diamonds. His pen scrawled across it: “To Scott, All my best. God bless. Always, Gary Carter. 1993.”
Normally, I’d give the card back. But when I tried to hand it to him, he shook his head. “No,” he said with a smile. “You keep it.”
And I did. I still have it today—his name across the face of the card, a memento of one of those quiet, sacred intersections between everyday life and something just a little more magical.
It wasn’t just that I met a sports legend.
It was that I met a man who didn’t need to be known to feel valued. Who shared kindness and grace with a young magician who didn’t recognize his face but honored the moment.
It reminds me that sometimes the best magic happens offstage—in small, unrepeatable moments when the mask of celebrity falls away, and what’s left is just two people… sharing surprise, laughter, and a little bit of wonder.
And yes, I did vanish a World Series ring.
But what stayed was even better.
Sharing His Wonder,
