My Baseball Fantasy Camp Adventure: Part 2

Having owned up to my pathetic 1-15 performance at Dodger Camp, I think I've earned the right to explain that disaster, and to salvage some modicum of dignity by recounting the dramatic - and far more heroic - ending to my fantasy week.

First, the explanation: For six months prior to Camp, I had followed a rigorous exercise regimen, supplied to all campers by the Dodgers' Trainer. It was designed to help us over-the-hill athletes avoid doing serious harm to ourselves, dazzled as we would likely be by playing on real grass and wearing major league uniforms with OUR OWN NAMES ON THEM, and therefore under the delusion that we were still lithe teenagers.

And so for six months, I stretched, bent and twisted my body in preparation for my week in the sun playing with the big boys. I even added my own workout of throwing a tennis ball against my basement wall to strengthen an arm that had not attempted a serious throw in almost 25 years. Not for me any injury caused by asking my body to do more than it was capable of;
I WOULD BE READY!

And for the most part, I was. I was toned and limber, and felt young and strong. During practice, my throws from the outfield were straight and true, and surprisingly long for an old man. Everything was working fine; I began to believe that the week ahead would be a breeze. Then suddenly - disaster. On the second day, I awoke with noticeable soreness in an area of my body that I'd never given thought to before - - and therefore hadn't exercised: My quadriceps.

The problem was brought to my attention when, in my second at-bat, I lined a clean hit over second base and took off for first. Not five steps down the line, my quads cried out in protest, slowing me to a Dennis Weaver-like limp as the center fielder took my scorching line drive on one hop and fired a strike to first base, the ball arriving there a full 5 seconds before my limping body carried my red face to the bag.

(And I used to make fun of Mel Queen being similarly nailed at first by Furillo!)

Fortunately, however, like all epic struggles, this one has a noble ending.

After limping through the remainder of the week and compiling the aforementioned 1-15 stat, I joined my fellow campers in the Grand Finale - a game against the Dodgers themselves, played before an appreciative throng of 6,500 of Florida's most senior citizens in Holman Field ...complete with real live dugouts, a PA announcer and a scoreboard!

At bat, I continued to embarrass myself as I had during the "regular season," popping up on what I swear was a spitball thrown by one Elwin Roe, although in a post-game interview, the Preacher Man vehemently denied it. "I don't need to waste my spitter on a guy who went 1-15," he said. Talk about adding salt to the you-know-what.

In the field, however, which had always been my strong point, it was a different story.

I was stationed in right when, with two out and two runners on, a barrel-chested Dodger with arms like telephone poles strode to the plate. It was two-time batting champ and line-drive hitter extraordinaire, Tommy Davis.

Thinking that he could easily pull our 47-year-old, 47 MPH pitcher, I shaded Davis toward center, which only added drama to what came next. Davis lashed a low line drive that started out in my direction, then began to sink AND curve away toward the foul line. Ignoring my throbbing quads, I took three excruciatingly painful steps to my left (three was all I could manage without falling down in agony), extended my gloved hand, and, I think, closed my eyes.

I looked up to see Davis standing halfway down the line toward, first, hands on hips, head shaking in disgust and disbelief. I looked down to see the ball nestled in the webbing of my glove, just as the PA Announcer fulfilled my boyhood dream by intoning, "How about that catch by Steve in right field!"

I trotted off the field into the arms of my adoring teammates, my pitiful batting performance redeemed and all but forgotten in the glow of my run-saving catch.

No, it didn't happen in Game 7 of the World Series. But it did happen.

And for that one brief moment, at age 50, I lived a young boy's dream of being a baseball hero.