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Every once in awhile, you get to experience something that sends your mind spinning back to the days of youth. For many, it’s a larger event such as a high school reunion, where you hit the gym (or the surgeon -- hey, I’m in L.A.!) and work up the gumption to face an old flame and impress those friends you haven’t seen in years. Others fondly remember their yesterdays at joyous occasions such as a wedding or holiday, or in the somber circumstances of a funeral where family members and friends laugh as they fondly remember the departed through their tears.
Sometimes you get a chance to do these things in your work. Whether you decide to scrap a first career to pursue a dream, or dip into your savings to indulge your creative side (a film, a book or a website), those opportunities do occur from time to time.
I had a chance to experience one of those throwback moments last week in a story for the FOXSports.com video world. I was invited to don a uniform and work out with the Lake Elsinore Storm, the Class-A affiliate of the San Diego Padres. My mind raced me back to the days of youth baseball and football as I strode into the equipment room to get outfitted for the day. There have been dalliances with corporate softball through the years, but those were more about building camaraderie and post-game elbow-bending than the competition. This was to be a return to pure sport, if only in the “fantasy camp” sense. I wasn’t expecting to reprise Dennis Quaid’s turn as Jimmy Morris in “The Rookie,” but I surely didn’t want to embarrass myself.
My colleagues Jeremy and Brad were on-hand to shoot the festivities, and I must say, we were all taken aback when we entered “The Diamond.” It’s a charming park with a great feel, new surface and just a warm atmosphere. We were welcomed to the field by Steve Smaldone, director of PR, who told us about the field, the team and coaches and tried to get me mentally prepared for the day’s events. Surely, if I could speak in front of hundreds of people with regularity and roll through our video hits, I could do this right? Sure, tell that to the muscles that were having trouble remembering the motions of swinging a bat and throwing the ball with distance and velocity. I held my own in the batting cages during my two weeks of preparation after setting up this date, but I was set to face former big leaguer Wally Whitehurst, who surely had the stuff to make me look foolish. And it was all to be made available through the power of video technology.
The first order of business was to get me outfitted in a uniform. I appreciated the positive comments about the size of my shoulders and quads during the fitting process. Clubhouse manager T.J. Laidlaw had a good eye in setting up sizes and putting the pieces together, but I could see there was something troubling him. As the uniform continued to come together, I had to face a piece of my past. Time, gravity and way too many hours behind a desk have conspired to change my dimensions and force me to use an extra notch on the belt. That wasn’t my concern at the moment. No, the reply proffered in addressing that issue is simple. I was raised in Chicago. Therefore, I contend that “the meat got me.“ Actually, that could be my epitaph.
It’s no secret if you’ve read my work or watched the fantasy videos on FOXSports.com that I have a ridiculously oversized head. In youth football, administrators once had to address the need for a helmet larger than those previously stocked. I believe that I was the first student to break out an air helmet. I proudly slid on the uniform pants and slowly buttoned the No. 35 jersey that was assigned to me this day. I’d already donned a lacrosse cup to help in the event of a bad hop or, more likely, a misplayed grounder, so I felt comfortable from the neck down. One piece remained, and a once-raucous equipment room fell silent. I kept waiting for the ominous theme used in the old western films during gun fights to start playing. There was a face-off between my swollen dome and the batting helmet rack in the offing. I’d like to say that it went down easy, but the video doesn’t lie. We went through several batting helmets before finally trying the largest helmet in stock. Happily, it finally slumped down on my skull, and we were in business! With the application of a pair of eyes to the helmet (check out the logo here and navigate over to get some merchandise), I was ready for action. I forgot to mention that the business of selecting a hat went down similarly. Frankly, I cried in my beer and still remember when my daughter quizzically wondered aloud, “I have big head like daddy?”
My next meeting required the signing of a waiver for the day‘s activities. I would not hold the Storm, manager Carlos Lezcano, hitting coach Shane Spencer or Wally Whitehurst responsible for anything that happened to me on the field. I had only myself to blame for the good, bad and ugly to come during my day in the minors.
Did I mention that I’d officially hung up the cleats before most of my new “teammates” were born? I made sure to address that issue in my introduction to the club, and I wholeheartedly admit that I haven’t been that nervous in quite a long, long time.
We stretched and ran a few sprints. Stretching was something that wasn’t stressed quite so much when I was playing youth ball. Sure. We did a few minutes of warm-ups, but with practice time limited, you got to the hitting fairly quickly. Trainer Will Sinon and strength coach Charlie Woida asked me to assess my flexibility before the drills began, and I answered with the only description that came to mind. “Rock-like.” Yeah. That’s not something to tell trainers whose work is to keep you lean, limber and off of the disabled list. Stretch! Stretch!
After that, we rolled into throwing to get loose. Like the new kid on the first day of school, I stood around awaiting someone to befriend me. Normally the outgoing, gregarious loudmouth of FOXSports.com, I was the rookie in THEIR world, so my quick tongue failed me. Infielder Keoni Ruth showed me some love and invited me to toss. We started at a short distance and pushed it back to where I was having visions of gunning down runners from the outfield. The delusions were fleeting, as I quickly remembered how long it had been since I’d done this type of shoulder work and generated several short-hop throws that kept Keoni guessing.
With throwing done, the team scattered into individual drills. I worked in the game of “pepper” and finally began to participate in fielding drills, taking up residence at first base alongside Jeremy Hart. I inquired about whether the severe height differential between myself and Mr. Hart would cause issues for the infielders. Hart stands 6-foot-2, and the DMV generously lists me at 5-foot-7. I was assured that my participation wouldn’t impact anything but my ego. Jeremy did give me some great tips on footwork to help set up for the throw. In my younger days at first base, coaches emphasized setting up and getting the target up before the fielder was set to throw. I started drills with that mentality and had to scramble with my feet to catch the bag as the throw came. Jeremy had me straddle the base and wait to set up until the throw was coming. It worked so much more cleanly and I looked less like I was auditioning for “Dancing With the Stars.”
I actually felt that I performed fairly well in those drills. Sure, I misplayed a ball or two as I anticipated the next short-hop that never came. And, I short-hopped a couple throws to the plate and double-clutched when practicing throws and footwork on the 3-6-3 double play drills. Hey, it was only appropriate that I was wearing the No. 35. Think about it. I already gave you the Chicago connection.
Batting practice began, and I stepped off of the field in preparation of my shot. I was taking some very deep breaths (maybe hyperventilating?) and getting my practice swings in on deck. Finally, I got my shot in the cage. The first drill was bunting. I pulled the bat back and failed to get the first one down. I expected to be fined in “Kangaroo Court,” but they showed me love. During my first round in the cage, I swung over the top of a few balls and made solid contact non several occasions.
Hitting coach Shane Spencer, who won three rings with the Yankees, pulled me aside and gave me a few tips on hand placement and setting up for the top of a pitcher’s motion. Even in the 60s or low 70s (perhaps slower, but forgive me if my heart was racing), you don’t have a lot of time to adjust or react to the ball. With his words in my head, I stepped back into the cage and ripped several balls down the line and several others into the left-center field gap. I became more comfortable in the cage and looked forward to each pitch … until the skipper gave the signal for a pitch behind the dome. Unnerved, I laced the next pitch into center field.
With my turn in the cage done, I’d done what I set out to do. I had played decently in the field, scooping a couple of low throws in the dirt and making decent first-to-third throws. I admit that anything thrown high was an adventure, as my vertical rivals that of Georghe Muresan, but I hadn’t embarrassed myself. I’d settled into the cage and made consistent contact.
This was a fantasy day for the fantasy guy. I can’t thank the Storm, the coaches and players enough for letting me get reacquainted with my first love. The first crack of the bat during the game of “pepper” sent chills down my spine. When I stepped into the cage and generated a solid crack myself (there were marks on the bat to prove it), I relaxed and felt like a little kid again.
The day began with great trepidation. I don’t scare easily, but this was a pretty awesome experience, and I‘ll admit to being green, twitchy and queasy. We all dreamed of being big-league stars when we got older and played ball under the sun went down on more summer days than we care to count. I remember going to minor league games and sitting in the bleachers at Comiskey Park and Wrigley Field as a kid with dreams of hitting the field. I feared souring those great memories of personal triumphs as a kid by mishandling every batted ball and every and swinging wildly and missing every pitch thrown to me. By the end of the day, I had the spring back in my step, a smile on my face and my love affair with this game was renewed.
Since that day, we’ve welcomed back our national pastime and the joys of minor league baseball following a trying off-season. I went to the Storm home opener and watched nearly 9,000 people celebrate the retirement of Jake Peavy’s No. 22. It was my daughter’s first ballgame, and I hope that it was the beginning of a life-long passion that we can share.
I’ve watched the video of my day in the sun several times since leaving “The Diamond” and I can’t help but smile from ear-to-ear. If only for a day, I realized my childhood dream and played minor league ball. The workout inspired me to change my diet and get back to running and extending my time on the ellipses and treadmills in the gym.
I enjoyed that brief time on a Tuesday afternoon in Lake Elsinore, CA immensely. It made me feel like a kid again, and that’s something that I’m not yielding anytime soon.
I’m living the dream. Get out there and find yours.
P.S. -- Carlos, I’m coming back in 2009, and I’m going yard.
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