Cubs Fantasy Camp, Part Eight: Post-Season Wrap-Up

You have a lot of time to think when you're out in right field, and towards the end of the week at Randy Hundley's Cubs Fantasy Camp, I had something of an epiphany about how baseball and life are similar: There are times when you need to be aggressive on the basepaths or at the plate — and there are times when you really just have to sit back and let the game come to you. Baseball's also like life in the sense that, once you've finally got it figured out, you're too old — or your body's too thrashed — to put that knowledge to good use.

While the only thing I led this year's camp in was nicknames ("Eppy," "Pepi," "Samardzija," "Haircut," "Wheels," "Juan" and "Dynamite" are the ones I can remember), I did start feeling way more comfortable and confident in the field by the end of the "season," and I did start hitting — thanks in part to the rubber thumb pad Scott lent me, which cushioned my badly bruised and swollen right hand against the shock of ball on aluminum bat. (And which also afforded us the endless opportunity for gleefully puerile dugout exchanges along the lines of, "Hey, Scotty — can I borrow your rubber?" "Hey, Dan — can I get my rubber back?" etc.) 

But sadder than the fact that my legs hurt so badly by then that I couldn't run the bases more than 90 feet at a time — or that my lower back was so locked up that I couldn't move to grab anything hit more than five feet to my left or right — was the realization that, by the time I'd really begun to get to know my teammates and bond with them as friends and fellow human beings, it was time for us all to go home. It's been a week now since we played our last full game together, and I miss 'em all. (Well, I do see Jerry Cook every day that I'm in the office, but I keep expecting him to ask me if I want to take second or outfield next inning.)

So while I'm happy to be home, and my legs are happy to not have to play any more baseball for awhile, part of me wishes I was still watching Scotty Marks and Mike Rothkopf flag down everything that's hit to them in left, and misses playing endless rounds of "That's What She Said" with them. I miss plotting the next double play with my Keystone Corner partner Paul Malek (even though we never actually turned one together), and hearing the hilariously scathing shit he'd say under his breath. I miss the childlike delight radiating from Chuck Hixson's eyes, whether he was batting, fielding, watching the game from the bench, or discovering a Cold Stone Creamery stand at the Phoenix Suns game.

I miss watching MIke Beehner quietly playing just about every position on the field, hitting like crazy, and even pinch-running for several injured folks on the team (myself included), proving that you can still kick ass on the ballfield at age 64. I miss watching Larry Malcolmson handle the catcher's glove like he was born to do it, and I miss hitting directly after his brother Ken, who always seemed to smoke a line drive single and put a runner on base for me. (I also miss Kenny's consigliere-like way of quietly coming up behind you and telling you what needed to be done, whether it was where to position yourself at second, or how much you needed to chip in for the dinner check.)

I miss seeing Steve Sasser amble off the mound with a crazy grin to catch a pop fly, despite his busted achilles; I miss Jeff Thrall's seemingly unflappable sense of calm, even when I'm yelling "You got it, Jeff!" on a ball that's closer to me than it is to him. Jeff and Sas, talking music and herbal digestives with you guys was a blast — I wish we'd gotten to do more of that. (And Sas, thanks for turning me on to "Spirit" by Eric Burdon & War — that's truly one helluva jam!)

I miss trading Blazing Saddles lines with Willie Wilson in the locker room, and talking music with Ron Coomer. I miss hearing Glenn Beckert and Randy Hundley giving each other all kindsa shit in the morning meeting. I miss Rick Reuschel high-fiving me after a game — only, he's holding his hand up above his head, where I can't possibly reach. Most of all, I miss talking baseball and life with Bobby Dernier and Ed Lynch. If I'm ever casting a spaghetti western and need a rugged, laconic, good-hearted and wryly hilarious ex-gunslinger to strap on a holster and come to the aid of a young hero and an embattled town, Bobby D will be getting a call. And while a lot of folks at camp gave Lynchie shit for his long-winded story-telling tendencies, I could easily have listened to him talk for hours — there is so much that guy knows about baseball (as an insider, a former player and a fan), and it was fascinating and fun to be able to pick his brain. 

Ed also paid me the greatest compliment at the players and coaches banquet on Saturday night: He and Bobby had introduced every other player on our team, clearly saving me for last. "Every good team needs a weirdo," Lynchie began, "A Mickey Rivers or Lenny Dykstra, a character who keeps everybody loose... and this year, Dan Epstein was our weirdo." Ed, I've honestly never been happier to be called a weirdo. Gents, it was an honor being your "weirdo" this year — and I might not be able to dive for a groundball, but I would gladly take a bullet for any of ya.

There were so many other awesome folks on other teams that I wish I'd had more time to talk to and get to know: Kevin Cashman, Jay Edwards, the Eccher Brothers, Beth Chaplin, Jerry Gaul, Jeff Yonover, Ron Hoyle, Joel Jess, Robin Peterson, Sean Fleury, Kevin Gander, Andrew DeLorenzo, the list goes on and on. It was so amazing to meet so many folks from different backgrounds and walks of life, brought together by our mutual love for baseball. As Bobby D says, "Baseball is our common language, but that's really just the beginning of it."

And really, what are the odds that I'd be lockering next to Bobby Farinelli, the one guy in camp carrying a copy of Howard Zinn's A People's History of the United States in his gym bag? Or that the day that book fell out of Bobby's locker and onto the floor, sparking a conversation and a friendship, also turned out to be the very day that Zinn died? The pre-game and post-game clubhouse conversations between "Skates" and I quickly became some of my favorite parts of the day, with us comisserating on everything from classic rock to our own aches and pains. Bobby took the above post-game shot of my arm, and that's him in the post-banquet pic below with me, Carmen Fanzone and Keith Moreland.

The Saturday night banquet went on a little long for everyone's taste, but those players and coaches who still felt celebratory and ambulatory hit the hotel bar for drinks, karaoke and general hilarity. After a couple of tequila shots, I felt compelled to sign up for a round or three of karaoke, despite the fact that the karaoke DJ actually mistook me for Eddie Vedder. "Eddie, I just want to shake your hand, man," he said, much to my horror. (And for the friends who've been asking — no, my least favorite singer in the world was not at this year's camp.) "How does your singing compare with your baseball skills?" Bobby D asked me as I filled out my karaoke slip. "About a hundred times better," I replied. "Thank god," he said.

I busted out "Sweet Caroline," both because it's my karaoke jam of choice, and because — at that moment — good times really never seemed so good. I also did "We're An American Band"; I saw Keith Moreland singing along the whole time, and he told me afterwards that Grand Funk Railroad is his all-time favorite rock band. Had I known ahead of time, I would have asked him to do it with me as a duet. Bobby D tried to convince Willie Wilson to lay some Al Green on us, but he unfortunately declined. Still, it was a memorable end to one of the happiest weeks of my life.

Oh yeah — Beth, if you're reading this, your "Big Daddy" asked me to tell you that he loves you very, very much.

Comments

[Don]

I thought I had a comment posted here the other night but apparently not.

That was a great essay, Dan. I'm really glad to see you had such a good time. You've likely heard this before, but there's a book in there somewhere. Whether it's along the lines of a Boys of Summer or something else, the 69ish era Cubs have never really had a definitive book. Nor has Fantasy Camp, despite a book by an author named Jeff Guinn back in 1994.

And sorry about posting an Eddie Vedder karaoke link. Had I known.....

[Dan E]

No worries about the Vedder link, Don! I'm sure he's a nice enough guy, but his voice makes me want to peel my skin off...

And yeah, I think you're right — there really hasn't been a definitive book on that period of Cubs history. The problem is, there have been several shitty ones, it might be hard to convince the publishing world that we need another...

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