Cubs Fantasy Camp, Part Seven: The Big Game

After a week that seems like it whizzed by in a few seconds (though my body feels like I've been at camp for at least a month), Saturday morning is now upon us. Today, us fantasy campers take on our coaches in "The Big Game" at Hohokam Stadium, the charming ballpark where the Cubs play their spring training contests.

Thanks to the continuing internet connectivity issues at the Dobson Dump, I get to the clubhouse later than usual; but whereas it took me nearly a half hour to suit up properly on Monday, I can now throw on my uniform, stirrups and all, in less than ten minutes. The morning's meeting serves as something of a wrap-up for the "season": The final standings are announced (we finish in sixth place with a 3-7 record, though it could just as easily have been 7-3 with a few lucky bounces), and the team coaches say a few words about the past week and levy a few more fines on their players. Bobby Dernier and Ed Lynch once again fine me for the length of my hair (that's the fifth time this week), as well as for ducking dramatically out of the way of a Friday afternoon infield pop-up that I lost in the sun. "I sure enjoyed the hell outta watching you play this week," Bobby D chuckles. 

We all drive or bus it over to Hohokam, then line up by team along the first base line. The park announcer calls each player's name over the PA system; when you hear your name, you run over to a spot behind home plate, politely tip your cap to the "crowd" (which I'm guessing is about 200 strong at best) and stand still for a second to let the photogs capture your image. I'm so happy to be alive and playing baseball on this gorgeous morning, so thrilled to be wearing a Cubs uniform on the field of this amazing ballpark, so relieved to have made it to the end of this often-grueling week without sustaining anything worse than a badly bruised hand, a locked-up lower back and a pulled glute...I can't just tip my hat and leave it at that. Instead, I throw my arms wide open to embrace the moment, the game, the baseball gods, and the universe itself. To paraphrase Lou Gehrig, today I feel like the luckiest Dan on the face of the earth.

In "The Big Game," each team gets one inning in which to face the coaches. You bat first, trying to score as many runs as possible by the time you reach the end of your lineup; then you take the field and try to get three outs on the coaches before they score six runs. Once the three outs or six runs are recorded (whichever comes first), the next team comes up to bat. Since our team finished sixth, we don't come up to bat until the sixth inning; after watching a couple of innings from the stands, several of us venture down into the dugout — both because it's rare to be able to watch a game from a real MLB-approved dugout, and because we've heard that there are sandwiches and sodas in the dugout cooler. The rumors are indeed true, and there is much rejoicing.

The coaches' lineup includes Bobby Dernier, Willie Wilson, Leon Durham, Ron Coomer, Keith Moreland, Todd Hundley, Jody Davis, Jose Cardenal, Henry Cotto and Pete LaCock. Ed Lynch, Rick "Big Daddy" Reuschel (pictured above) and Lee Smith will be taking the mound for the coaches, along with a few unidentified ringers from somebody's farm system. It's really interesting to see how fluid and (seemingly) effortless it is for these ex-players to swing a bat or throw a ball, and how the fundamentals of the game are still so deeply ingrained in their brains and bodies. And damn, Willie Wilson (pictured below) may be pushing 55, but he is still one intimidating mofo at the plate.

The campers jump out to a 4-0 lead in the first inning, and we're miraculously still ahead by the top of the sixth, when it's time for us to bat. I come up eighth in the batting order and dig in against Ed Lynch. "Now batting," says the announcer, "Number 8 — Dan Epstein!" He pronounces it like Brian Epstein, so I turn around and yell "Ep-STEEN!" in his general direction. "Now batting... Number 8, Dan Ep-STEEN," the announcer corrects himself. I turn back to the mound and see Lynchie totally cracking up. Hey, it's the first time I've ever faced a major leaguer; is it so wrong to want them to say your name correctly on such an auspicious occasion?

Lynchie throws me two high ones, then tosses a fat one that comes in about elbow high, right down the middle of the plate. I smoke it for a line drive over the third-base bag — by far my hardest-hit ball all week — but Ron Coomer is playing me to pull, and he gloves my smash without even moving an inch. On the way back to the dugout, I thank him for catching what should have been a sure double, since there's no way I could have actually made it all the way to second on my dead legs.

Last night on the way to the restaurant, our left-centerfielder Scotty Marks hatched a plan for our squad's on-field entrance. "Since the coaches been ragging on you all week for your hair," he said to me, "You should wait until we've all taken our positions on the field, then you'll walk in slowly as if you're going to pitch to them. You'll throw one warm-up pitch, then switch with whoever's going to really pitch." Everybody is on board with Scotty's concept, but I've decided at the last minute to tweak it slightly; after taking my sweet time to get to the mound, I drop to one knee and start smoothing out the dirt on the mound, in tribute to my late hero Mark Fidrych. "Go Fidrych!" Coomer yells from the coaches' dugout. "Talk to that ball!"

I pick up the ball and hold it in front of my face while I toe the rubber; "Come on, Ball," I whisper, "We've gotta make this good!" I wind up and burn the sucker in, intentionally sending it on a trajectory about ten feet over the head of our catcher. The ball hits the screen, the crowd laughs, I give an exaggerated "What the hell, I tried" shrug and walk over to take my real position at second base. It is impossible to even begin to describe the all-consuming happiness I feel at this moment. Coomer (who is currently howling with laughter and pumping his fist at me) and Moreland will later tell me how much they loved the whole schtick, calling it the "pitch of the game." (A video of this exists, by the way; I'm hoping to be able to post it later this week.)

Alas, the good times pretty much end there for our squad. Since no one on our team has much in the way of serious pitching ability, Chuck Hixson (who has played outfield, third, second, first and catcher for us this week) valiently offers to take the ball. A former All-American quarterback at SMU, Chuck led the nation in passing in 1968, and set a record that year by throwing 69 passes in a wild game against Ohio State. He throws nearly as many pitches in our inning against the coaches, most of them in the dirt; Mike Beehner, subbing for our injured catcher Larry Malcolmson, gamely tries to scoop up Chuck's errant tosses, but to little avail. It's one walk and passed ball after another, but Chuck and Mike (whose combined age is 126, which is some real Satchel Paige shit right there) gut it out impressively. 

Hell, maybe I should have pitched — at least Jose Cardenal seems to think so. "Why you not peetching?" he asks me in his best fractured Chico Esquela patois when he arrives at second. "I want heet against you!" Given my lack of accuracy, and the fact that he just told us a story a few days ago about how he once pulled a knife on a bean-balling pitcher and chased him over the centerfield wall, it's probably for the best that I didn't actually take the mound. While we're talking, I notice our shortstop Paul Malek sneaking up behind Jose, baseball in hand. I try to keep him distracted, but the old Cuban apparently has eyes in the back of his head; mere seconds before Paul can apply the tag, Jose nimbly steps back onto the bag. "What, you keeding me?" he says.

The coaches take the lead in our inning against them, briefly relinquish it in the top of the 7th, then take it back for good in the bottom of that inning. Lee Smith (pictured above — he still looks like he could rack up 45 saves a season without breaking a sweat) comes in to nail down the save, and they wind up winning 22-20, which at least makes for a respectable showing on the campers' part. Our team disperses quietly, some of us heading back to the clubhouse to pack up our belongings, some of us heading over to In n' Out for the first decent lunch of the week. We're all exhausted, not so much from the inning we just played but from the 70 previous innings that we racked up this week, and there's a shared sense of melancholy that comes from having just shit the bed in "the Big Game," and not having any more games to play. (A feeling that I'm sure all of our coaches have experienced at one time or another.) But with the game over by 1:30, we're also pretty damn happy to have a free afternoon ahead of us. See ya'll back at the hotel hot tub!

Comments

[devin]

I am filled with jealousy.

[Jason]

Dan, great blog! It sure was a great time down there wasn't it??? I was on the Smith/Durham team and had a blast!

[Dan E]

Sure, Jason - I remember you from our Monday game. Thanks for checkin' in. It was a great time, indeed!

[Sean]

Yo, "Epstine"... Thanks for the entertaining blog. It's pretty cool to be able to re-live some of the moments from the camp. Either you're really discreet in taking notes or you have one hell of a memory. For me the week went by way too fast and I can't wait to do it again. If you're ever in Chicago, look me up.

[Dan E]

Hahaha, you got it Sean! I usually get back to Chi-town once or twice a year...

[Theo]

Hey Dan !
Great Blog and good luck with your book.
Theo from Beck/Kessinger's team

[Bryan Redington]

Dan:

I thoroughly enjoyed this blog... too bad it took me a year to find it... (I am Bryan Redington from the 2010 Big Daddy / LaCock team). 2010 was my first camp, and I made some great friends and had some awesome memories. I didn't make for 2011, but I hope to be there in 2012. I enjoyed playing against you and having some laughs... Good luck in your career, and don't forget us "little people"...

Bryan