PORT ST. LUCIE, Fla.—The sun-drenched fields of Southern Florida are a welcome change from the dreary grey skies of the District of Columbia. While many of you are enjoying warm, vacation spots during Spring Break, I have traveled south not for rest and relaxation, but for a chance to realize my second and third-grade dream: to be a professional baseball player. The story of how I ended up here amongst the myriad minor league hopefuls and aging veterans begins last summer on the softball fields of New York City.
I had signed up to play for my firm’s softball team on the first day of work, but could barely complete a simple throw from short to first, so I was banished to the outfield. I soon won over the manager with my impressive pop-up catching ability and willingness to lean in to every pitch, rising up to seventh in the batting order. Then one game, it all came together. Due either to my excellent hit placement or the terrible infield defense of the other team, I managed a triple, raising my slugging percentage an amazing .500 points. The next inning, as I was fielding a line drive out in left field, I noticed the runner on second was trying to leg out a run. “Not so fast, my friend!” I yelled. With deadly accuracy, I fired the ball home, and, after one hop, the catcher scooped it up and tagged the surprised runner for the third out.
A Mets scout approached me after the game and told me that the team would be interested in inviting me to Spring Training if Moises Alou somehow got hurt again. One Alou-hernia later, and I found myself on a plane to Florida in pursuit of a dream long thought lost. When I arrived at Mets camp, I was surprised to find that I was not the only former softball player invited to try out. Taking a page from Billy Beane in identifying baseball player market inefficiencies, Mets GM Omar Minaya has determined that the market had undervalued summer softball league players. The resumes of those invited to this grand new experiment (and hopefully the subject of a new Michael Lewis book) read like a sampling of America. There was the young investment banker, the grizzled NYPD detective, the struggling waiter/Broadway actor, the Russian mob wannabe, and the bike messenger.
As we size each other up, Minaya leads us into a conference room where he goes over the details of our tryout. First up is Celebratory Handshakes to test our chemistry with potential teammates. We are each given 30 seconds to develop a routine with Endy Chavez, but some people find this more difficult than others. After Endy slaps our Russian friend on the back, he punches Endy in the face and is promptly escorted off the premises. I had a feeling the rest of the day would play out like Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, except without the blueberry gum. Next up is a filming session for Jose Reyes’s Spanish Academy. These promos are shown during home games, where Reyes tries to teach the crowd a new Spanish word. Today’s segment is the Spanish word for ice cream, helado. I knew from my previous viewings of these videos that they want the players to mispronounce the word so that they can cut to a clip of Reyes rolling his eyes at our stupidity, so I purposefully butcher my pronunciation. When we finally make out way to the field, only the investment banker and I are left from the original group. He mentions something about hitting a grand slam to win a game last summer, but he shuts up after I tell him I turned an unassisted triple play from the outfield. Clearly he has not honed the art of softball bullshitting.
Out in left field, we are told to alternate fielding balls hit by a double-A kid the team cut earlier that day. The young man’s anger from not making the team is manifested in each of his first 20 hits, which sail over the left field fence. Minaya, having recognized his mistake, sends the greenhorn back to rejoin the team and calls out third base coach Sandy Alomar Sr. to replace him in the batter’s box. The first hit off Senior’s bat rockets towards us and Mr. I-Banker decides he’s going to make a flashy grab. Unfortunately for his face, he has not accounted for the added speed of a baseball, and as he writhes on the grass clutching his bloody face in pain, I motion for a stretcher. Minaya does not seem content to let me join the team by default, so he puts forth the final challenge: I have ten pitches to get a hit off of Johan Santana. Luckily I know a lot about Santana; he is left-handed, he has a changeup, and he is from Venezuela. I take the first three pitches just to see if I can pick up anything from Santana’s windup. No such luck. Having watched three straight fastballs blaze by me, I guess (correctly) that Santana will offer up his famous changeup next. However, his major-league changeup is still a tad faster than the windmill lobs I’m used to, and I swing way too late.
After another six whiffs, I walk off the field dejected after coming so close to achieving my dream. Minaya thanks me for coming to the tryout and told me I would not be going away empty-handed. Hoping for a signed jersey, he instead hands me a Ryan Church bobblehead doll and a Mets metal street sign that says “Miracle Mets Ave.” As I walk over to a nearby garbage can to dispose of my parting gifts, I see a small boy leaning over the fence, baseball and pen in hand. I walk over and sign the ball for the confused tyke, who has no idea who I am. Some day he will.
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