Roanoke Times
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: MONDAY, March 8, 1993 TAG: 9303060273
SECTION: EXTRA PAGE: 1 EDITION: METRO
SOURCE: BOB WILLIS
DATELINE: LENGTH: Long
2 OUTS AND THE BASES ARE LOADED
BOB WILLIS played out a boyhood dream last month by spending a week at Atlanta Braves Baseball Heaven - a fantasy camp - in West Palm Beach, Fla. This is the second part of No. 21's report.Thursday, Feb. 11: It turns out to be Practical Joke Day. As we gather for the morning meeting, Pat Jarvis, a rotund fellow given to intoning solemnly, "Elvis is in the Second of two parts building," stands at the forefront of the staff. The video cameraman has been taping all week, so it's nothing out of the ordinary when he trains his lens on the former pitcher.
Then behind Jarvis, other staffers set up a hum, and he notices that the cameraman is focusing on his feet. One shoelace has been set ablaze by Glenn Hubbard.
Jarvis reaches down to swat out the flame. Then he resumes his stance, silent for a few seconds. "Will all women leave the premises?"
As the laughter dies down, Jarvis says: "That's the oldest trick in baseball. I felt that. It just shows how long I can take it."
It's Billy Baer's 40th birthday, and Wine has called him out, but he doesn't show. He's in the training room: Demonstrating sliding technique to a teammate, he has caught his cleats and twisted his ankle.
Baer is on the sidelines at calisthenics. "You're hobbled up too?" I ask. He scowls. "I've never been so ticked off in my life. Everything was going good, and my wife's coming in today." He tries a step or two. "I can't run on it."
Somebody will run for him, as with me and Bill Skinner, and Baer will get three hits in the morning game. Our opponent for that one is the team coached by Bobby Wine, Sonny Jackson and ex-Houston outfielder Jimmy Wynn. Their Luther McDaniel is the talk of the camp: He struck out 17 in a losing effort, then 15 the next day in a game he won.
McDaniel and Rockwood tie up in a pitcher's duel for five innings. Then we break it open with two runs in the top of the sixth on Lin Wood's double to right. Three more in the seventh give us the 6-1 victory.
Batting right-handed against the southpaw, I work the count to 3-2 and strike out. On my second at-bat, on a 2-2 count I tomahawk a high pitch far down the right-field line, my longest blow of the week; but it's only a loud foul. With a 3-2 count again, I move the baserunner up with a ground-out. "I don't think he's that tough," I proclaim in the dugout.
A third at-bat gives me an unsought chance to deliver on my bravado. McDaniel is tiring, though; I walk on five pitches, four in the dirt, and my runner later scores.
It's a good one to win, giving the Shoot Fires a 3-1 record. One of McDaniel's teammates says to Clementi: "The way you guys slap hands and root for each other, you'd think you'd been playing together a long time."
After lunch, we've been promised a feat of strength: Trainer Jim Lovel, a short but husky fellow, will pick up three of the campers at one time, nearly 600 pounds. In preparation they recline on the ground and lock arms tightly to form a unit. As they lie in the middle of a circle of players, several close in and cover them with sprays of shaving cream, suntan lotion and talcum powder. They should have known.
That afternoon we prepare to play the Dirty Dozen for the championship of our division. Warming up, I find that my comfort level extends to playing catch with teammates: I pluck their throws easily from the air, the ball making a satisfying thwack in my glove. I came late to this game, but I can play it. The thought is exhilarating.
Hudgens gives up three runs in the first and comes to the dugout slamming his glove into the bench. The second inning's scoreless.
Then the floodgates open. Hudgens has allowed two more runs and the bases are loaded in the third inning when Wood moves over from third base to relieve. He walks in five runs before Negrin relieves him. So bad is the inning for us Shoot Fires that at one point Hudgens, now at third base, takes a grounder and tosses to second for a forceout; but there's nobody coming down from first.
By then it's 12-0.
The game threatens to drag on because of our hurlers' inability to find the plate, so Mahler comes on to pitch the remainder. He is shelled too. After a three-run inning he comes back to the dugout, joshing: "Hey, I'm pitching my heart out, out there. You guys get me some runs."
Vain appeal. Rockwood has a double and triple in the game, but not until the late innings, against relievers, do we break through for four runs. My first time up I go down swinging. The second time up, as their catcher goes into the infield, the umpire says to me: "You can hit this guy. Just follow the ball." I seem to be undercutting the pitches and decide to swing down on one. It results in a sky-high infield pop that might, indeed, have gone somewhere if hit on the nose.
Crushed 18-4, we seek solace from the beer keg at the clubhouse. Bob Stewart exults that he got two hits in his game. Back at the motel, my wife, Karen, has arrived, and we go to Manero's for supper.
\ Friday, Feb. 12: The training room, someone says, resembles the field-hospital scene from "Gone With the Wind." Every table's taken and players are lying on the floor.
I'm put in the whirlpool. Billy Baer is awaiting attention, his foot so swollen it won't fit in his baseball shoe. Matt Rockwood is icing his elbow. Ronnie Mintz, our second baseman's wife, was overcome by the heat and dehydration at yesterday's game; he's at the hospital with her, so we don't have nine able bodies. Brian Gelfand will play right field for us (but won't bat).
The week is drawing to a close, and it begins to look as if I'll never get to the mound again. I ask Gelfand whether I can pitch if there's another mop-up situation.
Oxford opens the five-inning morning game against the Wart Hogs of Darrel Chaney and Bruce Dal Canton. He gives up one run, and after four innings we're down 1-0. Hardly a mop-up, but I'm put in to pitch the fifth.
My wife says afterward she was a nervous wreck, but I manage to stay composed. After warmups, I turn my back to the plate and proclaim to my teammates: "I like the looks of this defense!"
And I do. After a ground-out, bases are loaded on a hit, a walk and an error. Then Hudgens gathers in a short fly to right field and doubles up the runner at first. I'm out of it. My only at-bat I strike out, but on the mound I've kept my team in it.
Still, we lose our second 1-0 game, and our record is 3-3.
In the afternoon game, we face the Hawaiian Punch, coached by Pat Jarvis and Mike (Michael Ken-Wai) Lum, a native of Hawaii. The Punch have become a punching bag; they've won only one game.
Jeanie, the wife of Al Abrams, Punch first sacker, tells Karen the team has a poor record because it has so many older players. But Abrams, 62, will have other chances to shine: He's played at 69 fantasy camps in the past 10 years. Jeanie, whose hands glitter with diamonds, follows him from camp to camp: "It's the only way I get to see him."
The Punch are punchless, while we roll, 14-0.
In my first at-bat, with two on, I hit a chopper up the middle that forces a runner at second. Next time, on a 3-2 count I'm called out on a pitch at my neckline; the umpire, standing behind the mound, is calling them all over the place.
I come up for my third at-bat with the bases loaded. A bleeder almost gets through the infield, but the shortstop reaches it and tosses to second for the force. I have an RBI. On my last time up I'm hit by a pitch; now I have matching leg bruises.
In the fifth inning, Rockwood launches a rocket to deep right field. It should be an easy triple, but Clements is ahead of him and Matt can only reach second. Later in the dugout, Beauchamp asks Clements: "You know what we call guys like you? Base cloggers."
The Rock pitches six innings; I go in to finish up. This is not exactly Murderer's Row I'm facing, and they're used to faster pitching. Flailing at my slow stuff, one strikes out and the others hit infield rollers; one reaches on an error, the rest are thrown out. Our regular season ends 4-3, good for fourth place overall.
\ Saturday, Feb. 13: At the stadium used by the real Braves, the old-timers play each of our eight teams a "Big Game" of four and a half innings, with the campers as visitors getting five innings at bat. Each of us is introduced over the P.A. system and trots out to the baseline to exchange high fives.
Appelrouth sings the National Anthem, and his teammates thrust fists in the air at the closing notes. The rheumatologist has family in the area, and several relatives are in the stands. "I couldn't miss this," says one. "It's like a double bar mitzvah."
The ex-pros breeze through their first three opponents - defeating Tyler too - but the Shoot Fires extend them to the bottom of the fifth. It's 2-2 when Lum gets caught in a rundown between third and home, then scores when the ball gets away. Larry Jaster comes off the mound to field my roller in my only at-bat.
At the banquet that night, each team goes to the rostrum for individual recognition and to receive bats signed by the old pros. Amid much hand-shaking and shouts of "Shoot fire!" we take our leave. "Ox" has compiled a list of names and addresses so we can stay in touch. It's been a great week, injuries notwithstanding.
When the games are over, you have the uniform, the autographs, the friendships, the memories - and the numbers. The Shoot Fires' team batting average for the week is .351. I haven't contributed much to that; my average is in the low .100s.
But that's OK. Pitchers aren't supposed to hit. Look at that 0.00 ERA.
Me, I'm a pitcher.
Bob Willis retired in November as associate editor of the Roanoke Times & World-News editorial page.