In my mind’s eye, I am gliding like a deer across center field—smooth, swift. Or I am bending a curve ball past a swinging batter—crafty.
It’s easy to imagine those things because I did them once … a long time ago, way before computers and cell phones. It was the Kennedy Administration, 45 years ago.
In my memories, I will always be gliding and curving—notwithstanding the Santa Maria Valley Packers’ Fantasy Baseball Camp.
Sports Editor Sarah Thien rang up one day asking if I’d be interested in attending.
“It’s for old guys,” she said. “And I’m not exactly an old guy.” Sounded like she was looking for my demographic. With my memories massaged, I agreed: “Hey, yeah, a chance to shine again.”
But Friday night’s practice at Hancock College brought back sobering reality. I learned that, at 64 years old, I would be the oldest camper playing. Most others ranged in age from 32 to their early 50s. And many of them still played baseball or softball. No 45-year layoff for them.
And I learned that the baseball is way smaller and harder to see than it used to be. Even when I located the little white sphere, running to it was out of the question. The muscles I use to hike or step on the treadmill are in a different league from those used for speed. And the distances have grown. As Woody Roland, 48, a Seattle machinist asked, “Did they change the rules and move the bases?”
Finally, I learned—or relearned—that striking a thrown baseball with a bat is still not easy. With former major leaguer Bryn Smith tossing batting practice (and I mean tossing as in LOBBING), I whiffed on more pitches than I touched. Was it depth perception or hand-eye coordination or good sense that was lacking? How can a person strike out in batting practice?
This was daunting. Remember the humiliation of elementary school? Maybe Sarah should have kept this assignment. She’s at least young and cute and perky.
But as bleak as the prospects were, I decided to stay. I’m not certain, but I think I know why.
For one, I listened to Smith, the Packers head coach, and his assistants and decided that I wanted these guys to succeed.
Smith made it to the major leagues on guile, throwing a palm ball that looked like the express but arrived as slow as a milk train. It didn’t come easy for him. After seven professional years, he was still in the minors. In 1981, he was ready to quit when suddenly a 13-1 streak erupted and he was summoned to the Montreal Expos. He stayed in the big leagues for 13 years and won 108 games.
Now, Smith, who is a gifted teacher, wants to get kids away from sedentary pursuits like video games and back on the field.
“I want the kids to be enthused, not just look at the almighty dollar,” he said.
Even though he has to raise $75,000 every year, he’s not running the Packers like a business. Eight different Little League teams have practiced with the team prior to games. Sunday’s kids camp was free. The Packers are a nonprofit organization. Any profit goes to youth baseball. It’s hokey, but I liked that.
And there were 26 other reasons to persevere: the other campers.
Roland, the Seattle machinist, was one. During batting practice, he was critiqued intensely by his son James, a Packers outfielder.
“I got constructive criticism from my kid,” Roland said returning to the outfield. “‘Where’s your front foot? Where’s your back?’ I couldn’t feel either one. Blood was flowing where it doesn’t normally flow. It was adrenaline.”
Marji Hernandez, 52, of Williams, was the only female camper. She’s no wuss—she’s a rodeo barrel racer and a lineman for PG&E, only the second woman the company ever hired for that job.
You could hear the joy in her voice: “I played 17 years of semi-pro softball but I grew up in the wrong era. They didn’t let girls play Little League. This is awesome—my first chance to play baseball ever!”
“That’s why I’m staying,” I realized. It doesn’t matter so much what I do. It’s not about me. I want to be here to root for Bryn and Woody and Marji. I decided that if some wise-ass 30-something whizzes a baseball past my ear, I’m just going to swing hard in case I hit it.
Game day
Saturday, July 19, opened my eyes. Fifty-one-year-old Charlie Castillo dove headlong into first base, twice.
“Playing to win, that’s what it’s about, isn’t it?” he shrugged.
Woody drove in the winning run in the seventh inning with a long single to right. “If I’d have messed up, it would have been a long winter,” he joked. He was talking about coming back next year, from Seattle. So was everybody.
Marji misjudged a fly and caught it with her right eye. It swelled nearly shut and left stitch marks in her cheek, but she was undismayed. “Nothing broken, it’ll just be ugly for a few weeks,” she grinned from a wheelchair. “It was an amazing experience. Everybody out there was having fun, and it was really a good team atmosphere.”
That was it exactly. It wasn’t “about me” for anybody. Maybe we’d all grown up.
Smith has a saying: “The game is humiliating. It teaches you so much about yourself.”
INFOBOX: A note from the sports editor
John McReynolds drove one pitch into the outfield and didn’t strike out during his time at Packers Fantasy Camp. He even snagged a fly in center field. No word yet on whether he’s going to play again next year, but he did tell me that he’s glad I called and suggested the assignment.
And for the record, I never called anyone “old.” I think the term I used was “middle-aged”—and full of piss and vinegar.
Sports Editor Sarah E. Thien is thinking of sending John out to play football next. Send encouragement to John through her at sthien@santamariasun.com.
This article appears in Jul 24-31, 2008.