Cubs Fantasy Camp, Part Two

"How ya feelin', Eppy?"

It's Randy Hundley, calling out to me in the clubhouse as I'm trying to put on a pair of baseball stirrups for the first time in, oh, at least 25 years. "Feelin' good, Randy!" I shout back, but in truth I'm not feeling so hot this morning. For one thing, I'm completely hungover, only had about 4 hours of sleep, and the eggs I ate for breakfast aren't sitting so well. "Mickey Mantle would have done it this way," I tell myself, trying not to let the fact that The Mick was also a tremendously gifted natural athlete get in the way of my ill-logic.

To be quite honest, I'm really nervous this morning. I know I can hold my own in a social setting like the camp's "Get Acquainted" reception last night, but out the ballfield is a different story entirely. I haven't played hardball in a quarter century, and haven't been part of a regular softball game in at least seven years. When I made plans to come to Cubs Fantasy camp several months ago, my noggin was filled with grandiose notions about hitting the batting cage regularly, and working out like crazy so that I'd be in decent shape by the end of January. But while I did get a regular bike-riding regimen happening to help me build up my endurance, that completely fell off after Christmas, as all my free time became consumed by getting the Palm Springs house ready to be put up for sale. So I'm out of shape, my skills are rusty, and my personal goals have basically been downgraded from hitting for the cycle to not embarrassing or injuring myself on the diamond. Yes!

We all crowd into the meeting room at Fitch Field to hear some more opening announcements, and find out which teams we're going to be playing on. Before the announcements, I feel someone flicking my hair — I look up to see Hall of Famer Fergie Jenkins looking down at me with an expression of humorous disdain. "Who's that guy from Notre Dame — Samardzija?" he asks. "You look like Jeff Samardzia's brother." My playing skills probably won't earn me much notice this week, but I can already tell that my hair is going to be a near-constant topic of ribbing, at least from the coaching staff. It's a fairly conservative (or at least conservative-looking) crowd of campers, and I've got the longest hair and biggest sideburns by far. Bob Dernier calls my name to let me know that I'm on his team, then dryly instructs me to "leave the hair in your locker." Everyone cracks up. "Hey, it's Pepi!" shouts Ron Santo, referring to the absent Joe Pepitone, who of course sported some pretty killer sideburns (and unlike me, a groovy toupée) back in his Cubs days. Santo, who showed up this morning, regales us — in typically non-linear fashion — with several stories of death threats he received back in his playing days.

The hair-related ribbing will continue throughout the day. Mostly it's funny — "All that hair is holding you back," chides Lee Smith, after I get nipped at first on a close play, while Leon Durham refers to me several times as "Haircut" — but in one case it's just bizarre: While getting my photo taken with the full coaching staff, Glenn Beckert yells, "Who gave you that hair — Bin Laden?" (What the fuck is that supposed to even mean?) "You can tell they're all jealous, can't ya?" says Ron Coomer, as I walk away, simultaneously laughing and scratching my head.

As in any camp of this sort, there are some blowhards in attendance who take this kinda shit waaay too seriously. Happily, no one on my team fits that description — they're all extremely good dudes, in fact — and our team coaches Bob Dernier and Ed Lynch are both generous with their instruction and quite pleasant and easy-going on a personal level. On the downside, our team has the median oldest age in the camp — and though I'm the third-youngest on the squad, I'm not the one-man "youth movement" that we could really use. Still, we manage to battle Glenn Beckert's team to an exciting 11-10 victory in our morning contest, which ends when we throw out the would-be tying run at the plate in the top of the 7th. I have a solid game at second base, catching a sinking liner to end one scoring threat, and making several put-outs at the bag without any errors; I even knock in the game-tying run with an RBI single in the bottom of the 5th.

The afternoon game, however, is a disaster; energy completely sapped from the morning contest, we lose 19-4 in our afternoon game against Leon Durham and Lee Smith's team. I don't get any hits, but at least I don't make any errors at second, either. During the last inning, Dernier tells us all to play a new position; I end up in right field, marveling at the gorgeous, cloudless expanse of Arizona sky overhead while the other team's batters deposit hit after hit into left and center. But as Dernier sums it up after our ignominous loss, "at least none of us got hurt."

An amazing and unreal day all around, and I finish it having a great time talking music and getting to know my new teammates over dinner and Patron shots at a local Mexican joint. I'm not making the same mistake as last night, however. I'm going to bed relatively sober — and, like, NOW.

 

Comments

[Don]

Not much of what Beckert says will make sense all week. He's a good guy, though. Are his son and son in law there again as his keepers/watch dogs?

Make sure you really stretch your legs every day, especially the hammies. Seriously.

Did I mention I'm insanely jealous?

[Tom Rose]

This is absolutely blowing my mind!

[Bob MacKay]

And now the real work begins. Good luck, try not to get hurt and have FUN!(and yes, the stretching advice is solid).

[Anthony DP]

What a blast, man! I too am totally jealous. I am not sure what's better to share drinks with Dernier and company, or to be coached by that entire crew of former cubbies. The summer that Pete Lacock (1975?) was on the team my brother and I were fixtures at Wrigley. Grandstand seats were less than $3.

[MetalMike]

Dan speaks the truth, camp was phenomenal.