La Vie En Robe

Epstein Takes The Mound

As promised, here is the video clip of my brief visit to the mound during the Cubs fantasy camp coaches vs. campers "Big Game" at Hohokam Field. A big thank you to Spencer Cook for capturing the moment on video, and to Ron Coomer for egging me on in my Mark Fidrych tribute. (He's the one yelling "Come on Fidrych! Attaboy Mark!" from the coaches' dugout.) Man, that was fun...

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.

Baseball Book Update: Feb '10 Edition

After talking to so many folks this past week who were so excited and encouraging about Big Hair and Plastic Grass, my forthcoming book on '70s baseball and pop culture, I had a bit of a heart attack this AM when a friend informed me that you can no longer pre-order it from Amazon — because they now have it listed as "currently not available." Having gone through all kindsa ups and downs with this book over the past five years, I worried that the project might have hit yet another snag.

Thankfully, my editor was able to clear things up a bit, informing me that Amazon has done the same thing to all of my publisher's forthcoming titles over an electronic media dispute involving terms pertaining to Kindles, e-books, etc. Hopefully they'll sort it all out soon; but in the meantime, Big Hair is still scheduled to drop on May 25, and you can still pre-order it from Barnes & Noble.com — and for over 8 bucks off the cover price, at that.

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!

Cubs Fantasy Camp, Part Six

It's Saturday morning in Mesa, and the folks at the lame-ass Dobson Ranch Inn (beautiful sunrise from my window pictured above) still can't figure out how to get their internet working — so I'm once again posting from the Starbucks across the street. Seriously, what kind of horseshit establishment can't provide a decent reliable hook-up in this day and age? The same one that actually told one of my teammates with a straight face that the hotel's guests caused their internet to crash by visiting too many "bad sites" at the same time. And the same one that thought it sensible to close the hotel bar on a Friday night before we even got back from dinner...

Anyway, yesterday was yet another day of remarkable joys and deep frustrations. We really wanted to win our AM game against Jody Davis and Jose Cardenal's team — not because we were still in contention for the camp championship (they were, we weren't), but because several of our guys overheard their players talking shit about us in the showers on Thursday. "We don't have to worry about them — they're no good," was the general gist of their loudly expressed sentiments; and when we actually faced them, they turned out to have more overly-serious blowhards on their roster than the asshole Giants team we played on Wednesday.

Well, long story short, we lost 9-8 — but not before that "no good" Dernier-Lynch team gave 'em a good scare, leading by three runs or more for most of the game before falling apart in the bottom of the fifth inning. We almost took the lead again in the final inning, and might have won if our iron man catcher Larry Malcomson had been in the lineup; unfortunately, with his knee now blown up like a grapefruit, he has to sit out for the first time in something like 27 years of Cubs camp. 

We got killed our final game of the "season," a rubber-game rematch against our pals Moreland-Coomer, who were equally out of contention. The game was marked by a number of odd and amusing incidents, including the fly ball to right that fell exactly between myself and Jeff Thrall while — both of us immobilized by hurtin' legs — we watched each other watching the ball fall between us. I could barely run at all yesterday afternoon, but I somehow started hitting again. I went 3 for 4 in my final game: A "seeing eye" grounder through the middle, a line-shot off the pitching machine, and a Texas Leaguer to center, all for singles. Of course, in the interest of journalistic accuracy, I would be remiss if I didn't mention that I had Mike Beehner, the oldest guy on the team, pinch-run for me...

The weirdest thing that happened, though, was a late-innings incident where, with one out and a runner on first, a batter hit a bounding ball up the middle. Paul, our amazing shortstop (pictured above) cut to his left to grab it while I tried to cover the bag — but at that exact moment, a long foul ball from a game at the adjacent field landed between us, bouncing as high as the original grounder. For a second there, it was like being trapped in the middle of a pinball game or powerball lottery machine. Paul grabbed the closest ball to him, stepped on second, and gunned it to first for the double play. We'll never know if he grabbed the right one.

Afterwards, our team and Moreland-Coomer went out for a fine feast at Ruth's Chris in Phoenix, where I had another great convo with Bobby Dernier, and got to rap at length with Keith Moreland for the first time. I found out that not only do "Zonk" and I share a love for James Brown and soul music in general, but we also share the same birthday, albeit 13 years apart. Here we are, flashing some Taurus horns.

Awright, gotta run. Today's the "Big Game" where the campers play the pros at Hohokam Stadium. The campers have only won once in the entire history of the camp; we mean to double that "W" total today.

Cubs Fantasy Camp, Part Five

Meant to post this last night, but the semi-decrepit motel they're putting us up at (The Dobson Ranch Inn in Mesa, for those of you keeping score at home) has been without functioning internet for the last 15 hours. So this one's comin' to ya live from a local Starbucks, and is gonna be kinda brief.

We lost both games yesterday, though the scores were relatively close: 3-2 to Willie Wilson and Todd Hundley's squad in the AM, and 6-2 to our "hated rivals" Moreland/Coomer in the afternoon. Our bats have gone almost entirely cold — even the incredibly consistent Steve Sasser, who had (by his own modest admission) "about 12 hits in a row," has begun hitting 'em where they is instead of where they ain't. I almost beat out a grounder to first in the AM contest, urged on by a chant of "Wheels! Wheels! Wheels!" from my team mates that had Willie Wilson (pictured above) laughing so hard, I thought he was gonna cough up a lung.

But other than successfully fielding a grounder and throwing out a runner while Ron Coomer unsuccessfully tried to distract me with shouts of "Help me, Jesus!", the highlights of the day were the ones off the field. The evening's player-run BBQ not only provided us with the bext camp food we'd had all week, but gave me a chance to rap at length with Coomer, one of the most hilarious and down-to-earth dudes you could ever hope to meet. He's a big music fan, and he told me about how he and Paul Molitor bonded over their love for Springsteen and used to follow Bruce's tours in the off-season.

Best of all, though, was that I got Don Kessinger to sign the above ball "Don Kessinger — Disco Demolition." Though he's obviously best-known as half of one of the Cubs' greatest keystone combinations, Kess also managed the White Sox in the late '70s — and was their skipper on the night of the infamous "Disco Demolition" promotion at Comiskey Park. "A real highlight of my career, lemme tell ya," Kess laughed, when I approached him about it. "People were chanting 'Disco Sucks! Disco Sucks!' before we even came out for batting practice...I almost got my head cut off by a flying record!" I asked Kess if he'd sign my ball "Disco Sucks";"I'll sign it Disco Demolition," he responded. That'll be fine, Kess; that'll be fine.

Okay, gotta hit the clubhouse and suit up for the last full day of play. We've gotta win both games today to finish .500 for the "season," so hopefully our bats (and our legs) will come back to life in time!

Cubs Fantasy Camp, Part Four

Another amazing day, but I'm gonna have to keep this recap short, because a) I'm utterly exhausted, and b) I've aggravated what is apparently a "deep bone bruise" on my right hand with a few more hits off the handle, so hitting the space bar with my thumb is way more painful than it oughta be.

That's my teammate Jerry Cook, above, up to bat against the Giants' fantasy campers. Along with two other teams from our camp, we traveled to the Giants' complex in Scottsdale this morning as part of a day-long series of games; we lost ours 14-11 (I think), but despite the fact that we were facing live pitching for the first time all week, we hung tough with the Giants — and might have even won if it hadn't been for some unbelievably jive-ass calls on the part of the(ir) umpire. The biggest indignity of the game came on the final pitch, when our top slugger Mike Rothkopf — looking at a 3-2 count with two outs and bases loaded — was given a called third strike on a pitch in the dirt. On the plus side, Jerry gave us several strong innings on the mound, we came back strong from an 11-3 deficit, and we even nailed one of their baserunners in an attempted steal.

Oh, and the Giants' camp coaches were none other than Jack Clark and Gary "Sarge" Matthews, both of whom were infinitely cooler and friendlier than their charges. After the game, I asked Sarge (a favorite player of mine back in his late '70s days with the Braves and of course on the 1984 Cubs) if he'd pose for a photo with me. "Sure," he said. "I love the hair, man." Ed Lynch, who may be even more excited about my forthcoming '70s baseball book than I am — he even gave it a shout-out at the today's morning meeting — told Sarge about it. "I used to have a natural in those days," Sarge said, a touch wistfully.

 

We played our afternoon game back in Mesa against our campmates coached by Keith Moreland and Ron Coomer, who bantered hilariously with everyone throughout the entire game. As the day was unusually wet and cold for Arizona, and I hadn't been able to do much in the way of stretching before the Giants game, my lower back totally stiffened up on me; swinging the bat thus became sheer agony, and running — never my strong suit to begin with — was almost entirely out of the question. Thankfully, I was still able to contribute, knocking in a key run in our 12-11 victory with a slow roller that actually went (according to eyewitnesses) under the pitching machine and rolled back down the mound, giving me enough time to trudge to first. I also reached base a couple of times on errors; Bobby Dernier and I joked that my utter lack of speed completely throws opposing defenses off their game, because they have too much time to actually think while I'm "running" the basepaths. There is talk that "Wheels" should be my baseball nickname.

Once again, we battled back after being down by a considerable deficit; the late-in-the-game turning points were an amazing, "Dwight Evans '75 World Series"-style catch by Mike Beehner, our 64 year-old centerfielder, and an incredible third-to-home double-play turned by Chuck Hixson and our captain/catcher Larry Malcomson, both of whom are over 60 themselves. (To say these guys inspire me would be a severe understatement.) And then, in perfect poetic baseball fashion, Mr. Rothkopf once again came to the plate in the final inning with the game on the line, and drove in the winning run. I'd have taken a photo of the home plate celebration, but I was too busy participating in it. We now have a 3-3 record for the "season"; while we may not be the best team in camp, we don't give up, everyone contributes, and we have a total blast playing and hanging out together.

After the game, at Chuck's behest, I took a soak in the training room's "cold tub" — basically a jacuzzi filled with semi-frigid water — then followed it up with a soak in the hotel hot tub, a combination which helped my lower back exponentially. Finally feeling semi-human again, I joined several of my teammates for a trip to Don & Charlie's, a Scottsdale steakhouse that's loaded to the gills with amazing sports memorabilia — and where, in addition to enjoying a few good cocktails and some desperately-needed grub, my teammate Scott snapped the punning pic below.

Cubs Fantasy Camp, Part Three

"Dan, would you stand up, please?"

It's 9:15 AM on Tuesday, and we've assembled in the Fitch clubhouse meeting room for the first installment of the "Kangaroo Kourt," the daily bull session where the coaches call out their players' most notable achievements (and, more to the point, humorous infractions) from the games the day before. Bob Dernier is explaining how his team's Monday games helped him get a sense of his players' abilities — or lack thereof. And Exhibit A is the tale of how, on Monday morning, he tried to send me home from second on a long single to the outfield, only to have me get thrown out at the plate.

"I had my stopwatch with me," he says. "And Dan Epstein's time from second to home... was a minute and twelve seconds." The room rocks with laughter. It's funny because it's true. Unfortunately.

Someone said to me yesterday that, after playing baseball for a week at fantasy camp, you'll never boo a player again for anything except a lack of hustle, because you truly realize how hard it is to play this game on a daily basis at a professional level. I would concur with that statement, though at this point I'm not even sure I'd even ride someone for not hustling; for here on Day Two, there will be several times where I want very badly to run after a fly ball, bend down for a grounder, block an errant throw or run out a base hit, and my body will just flat-out refuse to go along with the program.

Our first game of the day is against Carmen Fanzone's and Larry Biitner's team, who slaughter us 19-5. I'm starting to make better contact with the ball, at least, albeit only after repeatedly hitting it off the handle has turned my right hand into something approximating tenderized and overly spiced meat. I am also infinitely less sharp in the field than I was on Monday (the inability to move my legs at will might have something to do with it). But it's a beautiful day, and I get to have a nice chat with Fanzone, the Cubs' charming utility infielder/trumpet player from the 1970s, about his current gig as a business rep for the musicians' union in Los Angeles.

We hit against pitching machines during the games, since few campers have the arms or the stamina to actually throw several innings per day. Unfortunately, the pitching machine in our first game is S-L-O-O-O-W, which not only makes it distracting to hit against, but also causes us to finish the game well after all the others have concluded. By the time we show up to lunch, there are only ham wraps and pasta salad left; rather than load up on grub like the day before and need a nap afterwards, I grab a small plate of pasta salad and make do with that. I also pay a petting visit to Fitch, a fluffy former stray who has since been adopted as the clubhouse cat. He's pretty quiet and low-key, but quite friendly, and it's a sweet and humorous sight to see him sitting in the doorway to the office, quietly watching the parade of players walk by every morning and afternoon.

We get our mojo back in time for the afternoon game, running up six scores in the first inning off the team managed by Rick Reuschel and Pete LaCock (pictured below) on the way to a 25-11 victory. I reach base three times on two singles and an error, drive in two of our runs, and score from second on an inside-the-park home run by our left fielder Mike — although in the latter case, I am running so glacially by this time that I nearly cause a three-man pileup at the plate involving Mike, our left-center fielder Scott (who was on first) and myself.

Afterwards, I drag my weary ass back to the hotel, though not before hitting a local supermarket for water, Gatorade, bananas and a 12-pack of Miller High Life. As I'm taking my mini-cooler over to the hotel's second-floor ice machine, I spy Leon Durham hanging out in the courtyard in front of his first-floor room. "You better get down here and join the party," he yells to me, so I grab a High Life and head down to the pool area, where about two-dozen campers and several players are enjoying a late-afternoon beverage. I wind up talking at length to Ed Lynch, a conversation that continues when we meet up later at a local Italian restaurant for the "Veterans' Party," which is thrown every year by our catcher Larry (who kindly invited me and several other "rookies" to tag along). Ed is a great dude and a hilarious story-teller, though most of what he tells me is completely unprintable here. Suffice to say that he thinks Keith Hernandez was the best player he ever played with — and "Mex" (as Hernandez called himself) sure sounds like he was fun to hang out with, as well.

Glenn Beckert and his very nice lady friend decide to sit with us at the party, and (despite yesterday's seemingly hostile "Bin Laden" comment) the old second sacker turns out to be a really lovely chap. I grill him about his participation in the Cubs' ill-advised "Pennant Fever" 45 from 1969 ("The black guys on our team could really sing, so they put 'em up close to the microphone, and told me to stand all the way in the back!"); and when he finds out I live in Palm Springs, "Beck" regales me with tales of hanging out in PS in the early '70s with Frank Sinatra, who was pals with Joe Pepitone and flew the two of them and Ron Santo out to the desert for a weekend getaway. "I drank more Jack Daniels that weekend than I ever have in my life,"  he says, "because that's what Sinatra drank." He also opines that the two reasons for the Cubs' '69 collapse were that 1) Leo Durocher rarely rested his starting lineup, and 2) Randy Hundley didn't drink. "Drinking takes your mind off the pressure," he insists. By the end of the evening, Beckert and I are good buddies — or at least, every time we cross paths, he will go "My man!" and slap me five.

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.

 

Cubs Fantasy Camp, Part One

Holy fucking shit.

If you had told me back in 1984 that there would eventually be a night where I would totally "bro down" with Bob Dernier — and Randy Hundley, and Pete LaCock — I, well, I don't know if I could have even processed that. I'm not sure that I can even process it now...

I began my journey to Randy Hundley's Chicago Cubs fantasy camp in Mesa, Arizona this AM about 30 mins later than I'd planned; I was just about to get on the 10 when I realized that I'd left my batting gloves back at the house, and had to turn back around to go and retrieve them. But everything else was smooth as silk Kessler: Cranked the Byrds all the way to the AZ border, because the SoCal deserts look extra pretty when soundtracked by McGuinn's 12-string and their glowing harmonies, then switched over to my iPod's spaghetti western playlist when I hit Arizona. It's amazing how different the terrain looks from the one state to the other; it's been a good eight years since I've driven into Arizona, and it made me smile to see all the saguaro cacti standing guard like silent sentries...

Stopped in Chiriaco Summit for a late breakfast, and had a decent batch of corned beef hash, eggs and hash browns down the road from the General Patton Museum. Didn't have time to go in, but did walk over to take a look at the various tanks and other military vehicles in its yard, as well as the statue of the General and his dog; note also the fractured tank tread, which I'm guessing is emblematic of a life cut short.

Got to the hotel around 5; the 6 pm meet-and-greet was postponed untuil 7:15 due to the Saints-Vikings game, and then unofficially delayed further because the game went into overtime. Finally, somewhere around 8 (or 9; I don't know, I'd already had a few beers at that point), Randy Hundley took the podium in the banquet room to welcome everyone to the camp. Randy (pictured below) is old-school in the extreme, steadfastly refusing to swear (even though he said "poop" and "fanny" about a million times), and even at one point accusing Larry Biitner of "throwing like a gay guy" during one of his many anecdotes. Wow.

The list of coaches at this year's camp includes the aforementioned Bittner, Rick Reuschel (looking way more svelte than back in the days when he was known as "The Whale"), Don Kessinger, Glenn Beckert (with whom Hundley engaged in some serious good-natured shit-giving during the opening proceedings), Ron Coomer, Willie Wilson, Leon Durham, Pete LaCock, Keith Moreland, Bob Dernier, Jody Davis, Jose Cardenal (sans gigantic 'fro, sadly), Carmen Fanzone and several others (including Fergie Jenkins) who will be showing up tomorrow. Maybe most of these names don't mean much to you; but if you're a Cubs fan of a certain age, well, this is pretty fucking awesome. Each of these former players will be coaching a "team" this week, though I won't know which team I'm on until we get to the Cubs' facilities this AM and pick up our uniforms, etc. The one big bummer (for me at least) is that Joe Pepitone couldn't make the scene; I guess he'd promised Randy that he'd come, then bailed at the last minute. "Joe Pepitone can kiss my hillbilly fanny," remarked Hundley. Gotta say I'm with him on that one...

After the initial welcoming ceremonies, it was time to hit the bar and annoy the ex-players with probing questions about their lives and careers. I had a cool chat with Hundley about playing in pain under Leo Durocher during all those day games, in one case specifically because he didn't want to miss the chance to play on national TV. Pete LaCock told me about growing up as the son of Hollywood Squares host Peter Marshall, and all that came with it — including the fact that Sammy Davis Jr. was his godfather. (And did you know that Paul Lynde and Wayland Flowers were lovers for the better part of two decades? You do now.) He also told me about having to ice his feet between innings when he was on the Kansas City Royals, because the field temperature on Kauffman Stadium's artificial turf could get up to 140 degrees.,,

Best of all, I had an absolutely amazing rap with the aforementioned Mr. Dernier about the '84 Cubs, the recreational proclivities of players in those days, and about the prospects in the current Cubs organization. (Yes, I've had a lot to drink, but let's just say that he made a VERY convincing case for a Cubs team that's going to be a powerhouse circa 2012 -- you know, just in time for the end of the world!) Also met some really cool "campers," most of whom share similar Cubs love/damage. I think I'm really gonna like it here...