The Oil Can Cometh?

Seems our friend Oil Can caught a little bug at Red Sox Fantasy Camp. Check this out from the Boston Globe:

"
At 49, Boyd wants to turn fantasy into reality

Dennis "Oil Can" Boyd has long felt the game of baseball was taken away from him far too soon. He was 31 years old when he threw his last pitch for the Texas Rangers in 1991.

But now, at age 49, Boyd believes his shoulder is stronger than ever. He says his velocity is up in the low 90s and the 12-6 curveball and changeup have returned. He wants a chance to show a major league team he can still pitch.

"I have nothing to lose, and all a major league team has to lose is 15 minutes," said Boyd. "Give me 15 minutes and I'll show I can still pitch. That's all I want."

It's always been Boyd's dream to carry on the legacy of Satchel Paige and pitch into his 60s. Two weeks ago, at the Red Sox fantasy camp, Boyd started throwing in earnest again and was pleased with the results.

"After surgery in '87, it took me 10 years to feel good," he said. "I wasn't on the field, started gaining weight. All of a sudden, my arm has healed. The arm strength is there and it's there consistently. The more I throw, the better it feels."

Former Red Sox catcher Mike Stanley, who caught Boyd at the camp, said, "He looks no different to me now than when I caught him in Texas. He still has the same passion. I don't know if he was getting to 90 because we didn't have a gun, but he still had the same stuff. The same tight slider, curve, fastball."

"Satchel being my idol and knowing he didn't come into the game until he was in his early 40s, that's always been in the back of my mind," said Boyd. "Now, I've been given back the fastball I once had. I want to play.

"I spoke to some people about it. If I was given an opportunity, I'd love to work my way back. I think it would be good for the game. It shows me baseball is a forgiving game."

[End Excerpt]


Oil Can loves to talk and clearly it's a slow news day when the Globe decides to run a story about this, but I can hardly blame a reporter for being sucked in by the vacuum of Oil Can's mouth.

One day during Red Sox Fantasy Camp, Adam and I were walking into the hotel lobby after a long day at the ballpark and saw Oil Can just standing around near the door of the hotel bar, seemingly waiting for someone. Turned out, he was waiting for us. Or rather, anyone. I can't remember what we asked him, but it hardly mattered. What followed was over an hour of stories about his childhood as the son of a logger in a small town in Mississippi, with anywhere between 18 and 24 siblings, depending on either the father or the time of day, his career in the majors, the injury that derailed his career, and the barnstorming tour he began after his retirement, each story laced with lots of "muthafuckas" and "shits" for a heavy hand of color.

Clearly, he is a man who lives by his own credo for better or worse, and I'm not surprised he doesn't listen to naysayers tell him he's too old to come back, the same way he brushed off the racism he experienced as a ballplayer, especially in Boston. I'm particularly interested in his barnstorming tour, which takes the style and flair of Negro League baseball and pits them against a Washington Generals-esque white baseball team in exhibitions at minor league parks around the country. Unfortunately, the link to his tour's Web site doesn't reveal anything recent, which is pretty consistent with the amount of hot air that comes out of his mouth. I do hope that it gets organized because I would love to see them play, especially as I have been writing a play about a Negro League baseball player in the 1930's.

One thing that Oil Can lamented about today's game is that there are not enough characters, begetting nicknames, to keep baseball entertaining. That I can agree with. "The Big Unit" might be a funny nickname, but it's not a character. It's not a man who speaks his mind no matter who is listening and will tell stories that probably aren't true, and tell it all with an intoxicating, unpredictable flair. It's not Oil Can Boyd.

More Award Banquet Pics

Me, Adam and former Sox manager Butch Hobson, who, when Adam told him it was thrill to meet him, responded: "Me, too." Glad that we were able to fulfill Butch's lifelong dream of meeting Adam Weiner.

Spaceman couldn't stop getting a kick out of two Weiners and two Nathans being on a team together coached by a Johnson.

Adam Takes Home The Prize

To the shock of virtually no one, Adam scored the not-so-coveted Trainer's Award for his diligent time and effort in the trainer's room getting his various muscle and blister ailments treated. Actually, the biggest shock was when Joe Castiglione mistakenly called my name as the winner. The right man went up to the podium, however.
Savoring the sweetness of victory. Only 10 men out of 120 took home trophies. Congrats to Adam!

The guy who threw a complete game shutout at us won the Cy Young award. Adam got a hit off of him. The batting champ hit .800, so my .363 average doesn't look quite as good as it might have seemed.

Adam and trainer Paul, who kept Adam on the field and helped him feel better as the week went along.

Awards Banquet

Me, Adam and banquet emcee Joe Castiglione, the voice of the Red Sox radio network.

Joe not only emceed the banquet, but also called the games against the pros earlier in the day, even singling out Adam's backhanded stab at third base.

Pros and Campers Line Up For Post-Game Handshakes

More Pics From Pro Day

Johnson's Jackals manager Ron Johnson takes a bite out of a sandwich in the dugout during a game.

Johnson's Jackals coach UL Washington warms up in the on-deck circle.

Legendary Sox pitcher Luis Tiant inexplicably takes an at-bat. He grounded into a double play.
Rick Wise, the pitcher I faced in the game against the pros. Lucky bastard caught my line drive. Curses!

Me and Adam during Pro Day

Behind the pros' dugout.

Top step during our game against the pros.

Me and former Sox manager Joe Morgan, author of Morgan's Magic in '86, and the pride of Walpole, Mass.

Spaceman on Pro Day

The Spaceman gives signs to our player Tommy (Nick L.'s doppelganger?), who got to catch a couple of innings for the pros side in relief of Mike Stanley. Spaceman gave Tommy the signs for the pitches he planned to call from the mound. "Just catch it, kid."

Spaceman having fun. The old man can rake- from both sides of the plate, too.

Adam shows off his mastery of photography timing in these two separate at-bats by Spaceman.

Oil Can Boyd Plays For The Pros

Oil Can pitched a few games against the campers in the morning during Saturday's marathon. The pros played 30 innings and Oil Can and Spaceman played all 30.

Oil Can has a smoke between innings.

Adam's Scoreless Inning of Relief

On Friday afternoon, Adam recorded one scoreless inning of relief, as well as one inning of relief that was not recorded-- on video at least. Here's the youtube footage:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bysWdSN9tcs

Last Day of Red Sox Fantasy Camp

Just back from a fantastic day at City of Palms Park, watching the pros take on all 10 teams in 3-inning games. No camp teams beat the pros, and only two runs were scored by camp teams-- which is actually an improvement over last year.

First, we were bused over to the training complex in the morning where we cleared out our lockers. Very sad, like were all being demoted to Reality, Mass. We tipped out the clubbies and the trainers and then boarded a van to City of Palms Park, where games were already in progress. We had the 6th out of 10 games, so we didn't have to play until 12:30 or so. We got there early and watched some games, cheered on our fellow campers, and chatted up the pros in their dugout. Pictures of that later.

In our game, we began by being introduced by Red Sox radio man Joe Castiglione, which was very cool, though he announced me as "Number 12, Craig Winer," despite already correctly pronouncing Adam's last name. He corrected the name and the number, but the moment was gone. It was still pretty cool to hop out of the dugout to a smattering of applause from campers and their families who had come to visit, and then go down the line, high-fiving teammates.

As the visiting team, we batted first, starting from the top of the order. Fortunately, everyone was guaranteed at least one at-bat, so my spot in the number 11 hole was safe. As expected, we went down 1-2-3 against former Sox pitcher Rick Wise, who won 188 games in the majors and once threw a no-hitter. In the field, I managed to distinguish myself by ruining a great backhanded stab by Adam at third when I dropped his throw to the bag at second. I somehow lost sight of the ball while trying to get to the bag and just stuck my hand out where I thought the throw would be. The ball hit the webbing of my glove perfectly, but just popped out. My bad, bro. Fortunately, it didn't cost us a run, not that it mattered. We lost 4-0. In my only at-bat, I was way out in front of a fastball from Wise, who I had somehow assumed would be pitching faster even though he's 63 years old. I adjusted a little bit on my second swing and hit a line drive up the middle that Wise snared on the fly. Maybe it would have gone into center field for a single if he hadn't stuck his glove out, but he did, and an out is an out. I was, quite frankly, glad to hit a fair ball, so that's good at least. In fact, I somehow managed to not strike out swinging once the entire week, which is fairly miraculous. I did take one third strike early on and vowed that it wouldn't happen again. I was here to be aggressive, not work a walk.

In any case, after the game, we hung out more in the stands, had some lunch, drank a few beers and watched more games. Great day. Tonight is the award banquet, which ought to be fun. Sad to take off my uniform for the last time, but I get to keep it so maybe I'll start waking around New York in it, just for kicks.

Adam Takes Hill

I'll post video from his scoreless inning of relief later. Off to ballpark!

The Clubhouse

The endless line for the trainer's room is in the back...

Adam's Gator bag rests on a chair in front of his locker

Rare Morning Post

It's 8:15 a.m. and I'm still in my hotel room for a change. After waking up before 6:00 a.m. for the past few days, this is a much-needed break, although it means the beginning of the end of Red Sox Fantasy Camp. We have one 3-inning game against the pros today at 12:30 p.m. at City of Palms Park, which should be a blast. We'll spend most of the day hanging around the ballpark watching the other 3-inning games before and after ours. At 7:00 p.m. tonight is the awards banquet at the hotel.

Last night we took our coaches out for dinner at a Mexican restaurant close to the hotel. We were split up into two tables, one with RJ and one with UL. We sat with UL and listened to his stories, including him being on base when George Brett hit his famous Pine Tar homer against the Yankees in 1983. UL had singled to center with two outs and the Royals down by one in the top on the ninth inning, with Brett on deck. Here's the clip:

http://mlb.mlb.com/news/article.jsp?ymd=20080723&content_id=3181787&vkey=news_mlb&fext=.jsp&c_id=mlb#

Trotting Home During the Friday Afternoon Game

Infield Dirt

Luis Tiant doesn't mind giving campers a ride from the complex to the hotel, as long as the campers don't mind that he smokes a cigar in his rental car the entire drive.

One camper was fined during the morning meeting for "cockblocking" Oil Can Boyd at the bar last night. The OCB was not pleased.

One of our better players struck out swinging in his last at-bat and promptly broke his bat over his knee, the shards of which UL Washington then used as a toothpick.

UL Washington sometimes gets mistaken for the three other black coaches, so when he's approached for an autograph by someone who thinks he's Al Bumbry or Felix Maldonado, he signs their names, but misspells them. He thinks this is hilarious.

Frank Malzone spends all day being driven around in a golf cart to each field, but still feels the need to make his presence known in the shower.

There are a few father-son pairs in camp, but one has a twist. The father and son have been estranged for 5 years and coincidentally both signed up for Red Sox Fantasy Camp. Apparently, the father asked the son if they could talk, but the son refused. Awkward.

Last year, a camper showed up, took his locker-room swag on the first day and promptly left to go to Hawaii with his girlfriend. No word on whether his wife found out.

Spaceman harbors deep resentment toward Arthur Miller for writing "The Crucible." He seems to think this "book" is responsible for stunting his exploitation of the sexual freedom of women everywhere.

I suffered what can only be described as a dislocated testicle while getting off the bench to high-five a teammate. Don't worry, I found it.

I finished the camp season batting .363 with three walks. If you take out my abysmal 1-for-8 start from right side, I batted .500 lefty with two doubles and those three aforementioned walks.

I Am Not A Good Pitcher

If Red Sox Fantasy Camp has proven one thing to me, it's that I can put to rest any fantasies of ever having had a chance to be a major league pitcher. What a burden lifted from my sucky shoulder, elbow and hand.

In the morning game, we were able to beat up on poor Butch Hobson's team, who saved their only win for the last game of camp in the afternoon. I went 1-for-4 with a single and a run scored. The coaches pitched in the morning games this time so that the campers could pitch in the "postseason" round in the afternoon. We finally scored our first victory over our coaches, which is fairly ridiculous since they're just throwing batting practice fastballs. I played a pretty uneventful second base.

In the second game, I started for our team, which essentially cost us a victory. After scoring a run in the top of the first, I took the hill in the bottom of the inning and proceeded to issue free passes to anyone who wanted them. I think I even walked an opponent's wife who was in the stands. My final line was 2/3 IP, 1 strikeout, 2 hits, 9,000 walks, 6 runs, 4 of them earned. I was only saved by the 6-run mercy rule, though I did induce a pop-up that would have ended the inning after 4 runs had scored, but alas, it was dropped by our 58 year-old second baseman. I did much better at the plate, however, going 2-for-2 with three walks, a run scored and an RBI. Adam, however, did a much better job pitching two innings of relief, including one scoreless inning. We mounted a furious comeback in the bottom of the 7th, but fell a couple of runs short.

The championship game was played at City of Palms Park, but by the time we had showered and gotten ready it was too late to check it out. I'm sure we'll hear all about it tonight. The team is taking our coaches out for dinner tonight, so that should be fun. Mike Stanley showed up yesterday and became our bench/first base coach, even though I think he was supposed to coach with Spaceman. Stanley was a catcher for the Sox and a former Gator, so that's a good combination to have on our side.

Right now, I'm dog tired, so I'm going to post a few little tidbits while I can still remember them and catch a little nap before dinner.

RJ Sings Craig's Praises

RJ holds court at the morning meeting. He likes to refer to me as "Big Weiner" and Adam as "Little Weiny." He's also extremely pumped about his plan to have us show him around New York if we visit his place in Tennessee.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WZRtaeQHsdE

Thursday's Pics

Me and Youk.

Me, Adam and Luis Tiant at the Reserve Cigar and Wine Bar. El Tiante's left hand is gently resting upon by left buttock.

Me, Adam and Kinda Cousin Mike's Kinda Cousin Charlie, who is the southern version of Mike E. in virtually every way. It's scary.

Jackals Split

Just back from an organized social event at a cigar and wine bar where Luis Tiant put his hand on my ass. Our van driver also described Venezuelan minor league players as more intelligent than Dominican players, who were "savages." Good times.

This morning, Adam and I waited an interminable amount of time to get into the hot tub at the training facility to warm up our aching muscles, which caused us to abandon our plan of taking extra batting practice in the cages. The morning meeting went well, especially when our manager referred to my hitting as similar to Ted Williams'. I'm fairly certain he was exaggerating.

We won the morning game, and I went 2-for-3 with a run scored, but the one out I made was the best contact I made the entire camp. Hit it right on the screws to right-center, but the center fielder made a nice catch. I had never experienced this before, but the feeling of hitting a ball "perfectly" is when you don't even feel the ball hit the bat. It just makes a beautiful hollow sound as it jumps off the bat. I didn't even care that it wasn't a base hit. UL Washington still can't get over me hitting from the left side of plate after my abysmal start as a righty. After one of my hits this morning, he high-fived me at first base and yelled "You could've been somebody!"

We lost the second game, but not before rallying for two runs in the bottom of the 7th (last) inning to tie it and force extra innings. I was able to make an aggressive base-running play to make it to second on a hit with a runner on first, and then scored the tying run on a single. Unfortunately, we lost 9-8 in nine innings. Our record is now 2-4, but spirits are high. I'm now batting a fairly respectable .312 for the camp, with decent enough fielding, not that I've had many non-routine chances to handle.

Other highlights from today include another Youkilis sighting (with a signed bat), as well as seeing Jon Lester and Manny Delcarmen warm up while we were stretching in the morning. Mike Greenwell was the featured guest during lunch today and was very nice and chatty with people while signing autographs.

I'm pitching tomorrow, which is bound to be disastrous since I haven't pitched in 20 years, so I better get some rest.