Sunday, February 1, 2009
Fantasy Madness Begins
Just back from the preliminary events of Red Sox Fantasy Camp. Quite an affair, as they rented out a huge ballroom in the hotel for an open bar meet-and-greet, with introductions of the coaches, followed by a Super Bowl party. They had the World Series trophy, along with championship rings from 2004 and 2007, which Adam and I are wearing above (forgive the horrible picture quality).
We met many Red Sox greats such as Luis Tiant, who informed us that he would be selling his brand of cigars in the dugout during games. Nice. The highlight of the meet-and-greet was Bill "Spaceman" Lee, who definitely lives up to his nickname. Adam and I got pictures with him and he had heard about us because we are a "package deal" when it comes to picking teams. He sized us up, admired our physiques (even telling Adam that he had a "nice body") and told us to "shit the bed tomorrow" during tryouts, so that he could pick us in a lower round. We told him it would be no problem for us to pretend to suck. One of the other campers who had been to fantasy camp before said there's a lot of wagering going on amongst the managers and coaches, so it gets very competitive for them. I hope we get picked by the Spaceman, though we are bound to disappoint him. We also met his wife Diana, who is a lovely lady and also attested to the Spaceman's competitiveness. I think we were able to persuade her to get Bill to draft us tomorrow night.
After a long night of being plied with free drinks, and watching the incredible Super Bowl finish, I'm off to bed with a little bit of headache and a 6:00 a.m. wakeup call. Good luck to me.
Red Sox Memories
Day Two in Ft. Myers so far seems a lot warmer than Day One. We spent last night trolling around Ft. Myers Beach, about a 10 mile drive from our hotel. Typical Florida beach town, not much terribly exciting. We did encounter a friendly cafe owner and her one-toothed patron/friend/local beach bum. Delightful. Afterwards, we headed to a bar closer to our hotel and watched the debacle that was the Florida-Tennessee basketball game.
Today is when the pre-camp festivities beging: registration, meet-and-greet cocktail hour, and a Super Bowl watching party. We're so ready to get this camp started. Anything somewhat officially Red Sox related is grounds for excitement and the fact that I'm participating is off the charts.
I'm often asked why I'm a Red Sox fan, since what most people know about me is that I grew up in Florida and live in New York, but my Red Sox roots grow deep. Yes, I was born in Malden, Mass., in the same hospital as my mother and grandmother, but that isn't what qualifies me to be a Red Sox fan. The credit for the shaping of my fandom has to go to my grandmother Ethel, who I called Nanny. She lived in the Boston area her entire life and ever since I can remember, whenever I would go to visit her during baseball season, she would be listening to Sox games on the radio. Or later on as technology caught up to her, she would watch the game on TV, shut it off in disgust, usually with the flourish of mispronouncing some player's name, and then promptly lie down on her bed to go to sleep. Invariably, five minutes later the radio could be heard from her bedroom, with the tragedy of the ballgame carrying out its final inevitable conclusion. These were the ingolorious days of the '80s and '90s, of course, where the Sox would flirt with ending the Curse, only to drive the stake deeper into our hearts. Nanny was only 4 years old the last time the Sox had won the Series, so she had a lot more water under the bridge than I had, for sure, and it ate at her just as deeply as it did me.
I have a couple of fun memories of going to ballgames at Fenway Park with Nanny and it always makes me smile when I think of them:
1) In the summer of 1995, I was a counselor at Camp Ramah in Palmer, Mass. and was able to take a weekend off to go visit Nanny in Boston, about an hour and a half away. She took me to a game against the Detroit Tigers. I remember sitting in the grandstands along the right field line, shaded by the deck above. All I remember about the game itself is that Mo Vaughn hit two home runs. The feeling of having the team's slugger come up to bat, with the entire stadium demanding him to hit a home run, and him delivering not once, but twice, was euphoric. As I look at the box score from that game, I see that the Sox went on to win 12-11 in the bottom of the ninth, but all I remember is the Mo Vaughn home run show.
2) In 2000, I moved to Boston after graduate school, in part to be closer to the city I always loved and in part to spend more time with Nanny. Soon after I moved there, we went to a game against Tampa Bay. It was an unseasonably cold August night and we were sitting in the bleachers. The ninth inning came around and the score was tied and I noticed that Nanny, though excited about the game, was starting to get tired. I wondered how much longer I could reasonably ask her to stand out in the cold of a game that could go on for a few more innings, at least. "Let's stay through the bottom of the ninth," I said, "and then we can listen to the rest in the car on the way home." After a scoreless top of the ninth, the Red Sox quickly got two outs with a man on base and it didn't look good for sticking around for the end of the game. Then, the Devil Rays intentionally walked two batters to load the bases so that they could face Rico Brogna, a veteran on the last legs of a modest career. With the crowd properly revved-up for a bases-loaded, two out, bottom of the ninth situation, Rico Brogna not only delivered the game winning hit, he sent it soaring over the right field fence for a walk-off grand slam. I just remember jumping up and down in the stands, and Nanny jumping up and down with me. It was the last game Nanny and I went to, just the two of us. She never did get to see the Sox win another World Series; she died in 2003. The first person I thought of when the Red Sox finally won it all the next year, as I gathered with a small group of friends in my Pittsburgh apartment, was Nanny. I know she kept her radio on for that one.
Today is when the pre-camp festivities beging: registration, meet-and-greet cocktail hour, and a Super Bowl watching party. We're so ready to get this camp started. Anything somewhat officially Red Sox related is grounds for excitement and the fact that I'm participating is off the charts.
I'm often asked why I'm a Red Sox fan, since what most people know about me is that I grew up in Florida and live in New York, but my Red Sox roots grow deep. Yes, I was born in Malden, Mass., in the same hospital as my mother and grandmother, but that isn't what qualifies me to be a Red Sox fan. The credit for the shaping of my fandom has to go to my grandmother Ethel, who I called Nanny. She lived in the Boston area her entire life and ever since I can remember, whenever I would go to visit her during baseball season, she would be listening to Sox games on the radio. Or later on as technology caught up to her, she would watch the game on TV, shut it off in disgust, usually with the flourish of mispronouncing some player's name, and then promptly lie down on her bed to go to sleep. Invariably, five minutes later the radio could be heard from her bedroom, with the tragedy of the ballgame carrying out its final inevitable conclusion. These were the ingolorious days of the '80s and '90s, of course, where the Sox would flirt with ending the Curse, only to drive the stake deeper into our hearts. Nanny was only 4 years old the last time the Sox had won the Series, so she had a lot more water under the bridge than I had, for sure, and it ate at her just as deeply as it did me.
I have a couple of fun memories of going to ballgames at Fenway Park with Nanny and it always makes me smile when I think of them:
1) In the summer of 1995, I was a counselor at Camp Ramah in Palmer, Mass. and was able to take a weekend off to go visit Nanny in Boston, about an hour and a half away. She took me to a game against the Detroit Tigers. I remember sitting in the grandstands along the right field line, shaded by the deck above. All I remember about the game itself is that Mo Vaughn hit two home runs. The feeling of having the team's slugger come up to bat, with the entire stadium demanding him to hit a home run, and him delivering not once, but twice, was euphoric. As I look at the box score from that game, I see that the Sox went on to win 12-11 in the bottom of the ninth, but all I remember is the Mo Vaughn home run show.
2) In 2000, I moved to Boston after graduate school, in part to be closer to the city I always loved and in part to spend more time with Nanny. Soon after I moved there, we went to a game against Tampa Bay. It was an unseasonably cold August night and we were sitting in the bleachers. The ninth inning came around and the score was tied and I noticed that Nanny, though excited about the game, was starting to get tired. I wondered how much longer I could reasonably ask her to stand out in the cold of a game that could go on for a few more innings, at least. "Let's stay through the bottom of the ninth," I said, "and then we can listen to the rest in the car on the way home." After a scoreless top of the ninth, the Red Sox quickly got two outs with a man on base and it didn't look good for sticking around for the end of the game. Then, the Devil Rays intentionally walked two batters to load the bases so that they could face Rico Brogna, a veteran on the last legs of a modest career. With the crowd properly revved-up for a bases-loaded, two out, bottom of the ninth situation, Rico Brogna not only delivered the game winning hit, he sent it soaring over the right field fence for a walk-off grand slam. I just remember jumping up and down in the stands, and Nanny jumping up and down with me. It was the last game Nanny and I went to, just the two of us. She never did get to see the Sox win another World Series; she died in 2003. The first person I thought of when the Red Sox finally won it all the next year, as I gathered with a small group of friends in my Pittsburgh apartment, was Nanny. I know she kept her radio on for that one.
Saturday, January 31, 2009
Greetings From Ft. Myers
After an early morning flight from Newark, we landed in Ft. Myers to find a bright, blue sky awaiting us. Unfortunately, it's also a tad chilly, with temperatures in the low to mid 60s. That's not too bad when we'll be playing, but it puts the screws on any beach action. We might do a little running (or not) and then watch the Florida-Tennessee basketball game tonight.
As I look ahead to the week of baseball coming up, I can't help but think back to my brief baseball career as a youth. I played one year of organized baseball in my life, sometime in middle school for a City League team, which was a rival of the local Babe Ruth League. Gainesville didn't have a Little League then. In any case, I have 4 distinct memories of playing baseball:
1) Pitching in one game, likely in middle relief because I begged to pitch so much that I probably annoyed my coaches, I remember throwing what can only be described as the most perfect curve ball ever thrown. Never mind that I did not (and still do not) know how to throw a curve ball, this pitch came over the plate in a perfect 12-6 motion, starting up near the hitter's eyes and then completely falling off the table into the lower half of the strike zone. The poor kid didn't know what hit him and quite frankly, neither did I. On the next pitch, he grounded weakly to me and I tossed over to the first baseman to get out of the inning. It is the only memory I have of pitching, though it's quite likely that I was an otherwise horrible pitcher, or else I would've been summoned to break off the old Uncle Charlie more often, no?
2) The only at-bat I remember is an opposite field double that bounced once and hit the right-field fence. I must have closed my eyes when I swung, or done some other ridiculous action, because when I got to second base, the opposing team was laughing at me. I couldn't hear what they were saying to me, so I just shrugged and pretended that they had never seen a ball hit so far in their lives and thus they could only throw their hands up and laugh in despair when facing such an imposing hitter and that I must have been called upon to be their God.
3) In my senior year of high school, I tried out for the baseball team. I had been on the varsity soccer team my sophomore and junior years, but I knew I wasn't going to get an opportunity to start and I had just been elected North Florida Council Vice President of my youth group (BBYO), so I didn't have time to play soccer in the winter anyway. But as spring rolled around, I got the baseball jones. By this time, I hadn't played baseball in 5 years and was competing with varsity and junior varsity players for a roster spot. Of that experience, I only remember two moments: 1) been yelled at for sitting down when proper protocol was to "take a knee" and 2) hitting an inside-the-park home run to deep center field (whatever that means). Needless to say, that fleeting display of power and speed were not enough to overcome my inexperience and my instinct to plant my ass in the grass when told to relax.
4) Perhaps my most traumatic experience as a baseball player didn't even take place on a field. When I was in middle school, my parents found a gift certificate to a local bookstore, on which I had crossed out my own name and written in the name of our 17 year-old neighbor Chris across the street. Of course, my mother thought that it must've had something to do with drugs, and my refusal to tell her that I had in fact hoped that he would buy me some dirty magazines did not serve to assuage her fears. I had a baseball game that night and she threatened to keep me home if I didn't tell her the truth. Here I was, a lonely and woman-obsessed thirteen year-old faced with a choice of missing out on a baseball game or suffering the humiliation of telling my mother that I not only wanted dirty magazines, but that I also wanted to implicate the neighbor (who had already refused the mission) in my filthy conspiracy. Finally, we hit upon a solution in which I would call my brother at college and tell him what I was up to and then he would judiciously give my mom the Yay or Nay as to whether I should be burned at the stake for my crimes. Not that telling my big brother that I was some kind of pervert was my idea of a compromise, but I was left with no choice if I had any hope of playing baseball that night. So, I told him I had wanted Chris to buy me the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit issue. In my adolescent mind, I felt that this represented enough of a version of the truth, while still maintaining my dignity in my taste for pictures of scantily-clad women. I then suffered an awkward (how much more awkward it must have been for Adam!) lecture about how "women aren't everything" and that I should "focus on other things in life." With all parties satisfied that I was not a juvenile threat to society of my family's honor, I did make it onto the ballfield that night. I was the one with the bright red face.
As I look ahead to the week of baseball coming up, I can't help but think back to my brief baseball career as a youth. I played one year of organized baseball in my life, sometime in middle school for a City League team, which was a rival of the local Babe Ruth League. Gainesville didn't have a Little League then. In any case, I have 4 distinct memories of playing baseball:
1) Pitching in one game, likely in middle relief because I begged to pitch so much that I probably annoyed my coaches, I remember throwing what can only be described as the most perfect curve ball ever thrown. Never mind that I did not (and still do not) know how to throw a curve ball, this pitch came over the plate in a perfect 12-6 motion, starting up near the hitter's eyes and then completely falling off the table into the lower half of the strike zone. The poor kid didn't know what hit him and quite frankly, neither did I. On the next pitch, he grounded weakly to me and I tossed over to the first baseman to get out of the inning. It is the only memory I have of pitching, though it's quite likely that I was an otherwise horrible pitcher, or else I would've been summoned to break off the old Uncle Charlie more often, no?
2) The only at-bat I remember is an opposite field double that bounced once and hit the right-field fence. I must have closed my eyes when I swung, or done some other ridiculous action, because when I got to second base, the opposing team was laughing at me. I couldn't hear what they were saying to me, so I just shrugged and pretended that they had never seen a ball hit so far in their lives and thus they could only throw their hands up and laugh in despair when facing such an imposing hitter and that I must have been called upon to be their God.
3) In my senior year of high school, I tried out for the baseball team. I had been on the varsity soccer team my sophomore and junior years, but I knew I wasn't going to get an opportunity to start and I had just been elected North Florida Council Vice President of my youth group (BBYO), so I didn't have time to play soccer in the winter anyway. But as spring rolled around, I got the baseball jones. By this time, I hadn't played baseball in 5 years and was competing with varsity and junior varsity players for a roster spot. Of that experience, I only remember two moments: 1) been yelled at for sitting down when proper protocol was to "take a knee" and 2) hitting an inside-the-park home run to deep center field (whatever that means). Needless to say, that fleeting display of power and speed were not enough to overcome my inexperience and my instinct to plant my ass in the grass when told to relax.
4) Perhaps my most traumatic experience as a baseball player didn't even take place on a field. When I was in middle school, my parents found a gift certificate to a local bookstore, on which I had crossed out my own name and written in the name of our 17 year-old neighbor Chris across the street. Of course, my mother thought that it must've had something to do with drugs, and my refusal to tell her that I had in fact hoped that he would buy me some dirty magazines did not serve to assuage her fears. I had a baseball game that night and she threatened to keep me home if I didn't tell her the truth. Here I was, a lonely and woman-obsessed thirteen year-old faced with a choice of missing out on a baseball game or suffering the humiliation of telling my mother that I not only wanted dirty magazines, but that I also wanted to implicate the neighbor (who had already refused the mission) in my filthy conspiracy. Finally, we hit upon a solution in which I would call my brother at college and tell him what I was up to and then he would judiciously give my mom the Yay or Nay as to whether I should be burned at the stake for my crimes. Not that telling my big brother that I was some kind of pervert was my idea of a compromise, but I was left with no choice if I had any hope of playing baseball that night. So, I told him I had wanted Chris to buy me the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit issue. In my adolescent mind, I felt that this represented enough of a version of the truth, while still maintaining my dignity in my taste for pictures of scantily-clad women. I then suffered an awkward (how much more awkward it must have been for Adam!) lecture about how "women aren't everything" and that I should "focus on other things in life." With all parties satisfied that I was not a juvenile threat to society of my family's honor, I did make it onto the ballfield that night. I was the one with the bright red face.
Friday, January 30, 2009
Winter Training Ends
Last night completed my semi-rigorous preparations for Red Sox Fantasy Camp. Adam, Mike and I met up at the illustrious Astoria Sports Complex, humbly billed as the "Madison Square Garden of Queens", and did a final round of batting practice in the cages. Predictably, I regressed from the last session. I couldn't get my legs to work in concert with my upper body, just leaving my arms to do all the work, which isn't a recipe for success. The real wild card in this endeavor is what kind of pitching we're going to see at the camp. Will the pitches come in at 55 mph? 75 mph? All fastballs, or will someone break off a curve ball that will either freeze me completely or result in a wrenched back? As Brandt in The Big Lebowski would say: "Well, dude, we just don't know."
After hitting, we drove to the East River Park to meet up with Carl, ostensibly to do some base running, fielding and throwing. Once we saw that most of the field was covered in a sheet of ice, that plan changed to just throwing, which was further complicated by bright stadium lights in our faces. In any case, it was good to practice throwing further than 40 feet and I felt pretty warmed up by the end, with very little soreness today. Coincidentally or not, our session ended after I unwisely decided to kick a wayward baseball into a nearby soccer goal, promptly slipping on the ice and landing on my face. More accurately, it wasn't the goal that caused the fall so much as it was my failed Brazilian celebration. It just a minor spill with a little bit of a turned ankle that feels fine today.
Speaking of soreness, I can't recommend highly enough the heatrub gel Arnica, more commonly found in drug stores under the name Arnicane. I've had it rubbed on my lower back and thighs and woken up the next day good as new. I picked up an extra tube each for me and Adam today. I have a feeling we'll need it.
After hitting, we drove to the East River Park to meet up with Carl, ostensibly to do some base running, fielding and throwing. Once we saw that most of the field was covered in a sheet of ice, that plan changed to just throwing, which was further complicated by bright stadium lights in our faces. In any case, it was good to practice throwing further than 40 feet and I felt pretty warmed up by the end, with very little soreness today. Coincidentally or not, our session ended after I unwisely decided to kick a wayward baseball into a nearby soccer goal, promptly slipping on the ice and landing on my face. More accurately, it wasn't the goal that caused the fall so much as it was my failed Brazilian celebration. It just a minor spill with a little bit of a turned ankle that feels fine today.
Speaking of soreness, I can't recommend highly enough the heatrub gel Arnica, more commonly found in drug stores under the name Arnicane. I've had it rubbed on my lower back and thighs and woken up the next day good as new. I picked up an extra tube each for me and Adam today. I have a feeling we'll need it.
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Preparation For Battle
I have already run the gamut of emotions leading up to Red Sox Fantasy Camp. At first, I was beyond excited, dreaming even of establishing total domination of a camp likely comprised of out of shape 50-somethings who would not be able to hope to compete with my raw power and blinding speed. Then I took a good look in the mirror, examined my excess gut poundage, acknowledged the fact that I have not played baseball in twenty years, and felt complete and utter fear. What if I suck? What if I can't make contact with a pitch, much less put the ball into play? What if my arm makes Johnny Damon look like Willie Mays? What if I generally look like an ass on the field? To take my mind off all of that, I quickly decided that my greatest fear really ought to be for my health. I once sustained a fracture of my tibia rounding third in a softball game. Playing two games a day for 4 days straight leave pretty good odds of something similar happening again. Not to mention being pretty well out of shape; if professional athletes can pull a hamstring and be out for a week, why can't I? So, my goals for the week swung from dreams of camp MVP to "Please, let me not tear a muscle and spend the entire week chewing sunflower seeds in the dugout."
Given all of this, I decided to do a little preparation for the trip. While stepping up my visits to the gym from monthly to weekly surely won't help much, I did manage to get a little running in on my trip to New Orleans to visit my parents last weekend. The main thing I wanted to do was make sure that my leg muscles feel and understand pain before it counts, hopefully allowing for quicker healing during the camp. I also wanted to get used to the distance between bases (this ain't a softball diamond we'll be playing on), as well as the turns my legs will have to make rounding bases (assuming I can get on base).
So, I snuck into the Algiers Babe Ruth baseball stadium in a rather shady neighborhood on the West Bank of New Orleans, not too far from my parents' house. The gates were locked, but I was somehow able to squeeze my fat ass between two gates with a loose chain lock around them. It reminded me of how I used to fetch balls that landed in a gated utility area outside my house in Gainesville. I'd stuff myself in between the gates when I was smaller and then, as I grew, would have to stand on the lock and slip through a bigger opening near the top of the 7-foot high gate. It was a lot of work to get through those gates, but I was dedicated to getting whatever ball I had thrown or hit into there. Now, I am a much bigger kid and I needed to get into that field.
A field of dreams it was not. The clay was wet from an overnight shower and green and brown weeds crawled through the cracks of orange dirt on the infield. Still, I stood in the batter's box, swung an imaginary bat and bolted for first. In my mind, I was Jacoby Ellsbury-fast, but I'm sure I'll discover next week that I am, in fact, averagely-fast. At the very least, I didn't fall down. I spent about 25 minutes running the bases, going first to third, second to home, spending several seconds between dashes to catch my breath. I spent the majority of my time perfecting the home run trot. No one wants to look silly after hitting a 400-foot blast. I went back again the next day, this time adding a lap around the field to my regimen. I really didn't think I would make it past center field without collapsing, but to my surprise, I made it all the way from home plate to the right field foul pole across to the left field foul pole and then home again without stopping. My legs stung a bit, but I was still able to do the full set of drills I had set up for myself.
The hardest part was the following day (yesterday), when I could barely walk at all. My stride was cut in half as I gingerly made my way to, around and from work. I wondered to myself "Is it normal for my ribs to hurt after running?" Today my legs are a little better. In any case, I'm going to have to grind out whatever pain my legs are in, but I most certainly do not aim to be a hero with my speed on the basepaths.
Tomorrow I am making my final visit to the Astoria Sports Complex, where I have been throwing and taking batting practice the last few weeks with Adam, Carl and Mike. The throwing has been okay, but we only really have about 40 feet to work with, so I can't say I'm really stretched out. It's just too cold to throw outsided. My first round of batting was horrid, but after some helpful tips from Mike and a little bit of practice, I've gotten to the point where I have a little bit of confidence going into the camp. Perhaps too much confidence, since I am now considering batting left-handed, despite being a right-handed batter/golfer most of my life. We've cranked up the pitching machine to 65-70 miles an hour with really no idea how fast pitches will come at the camp. Hopefully, not much faster than that, or my original fears will all come flooding back.
Given all of this, I decided to do a little preparation for the trip. While stepping up my visits to the gym from monthly to weekly surely won't help much, I did manage to get a little running in on my trip to New Orleans to visit my parents last weekend. The main thing I wanted to do was make sure that my leg muscles feel and understand pain before it counts, hopefully allowing for quicker healing during the camp. I also wanted to get used to the distance between bases (this ain't a softball diamond we'll be playing on), as well as the turns my legs will have to make rounding bases (assuming I can get on base).
So, I snuck into the Algiers Babe Ruth baseball stadium in a rather shady neighborhood on the West Bank of New Orleans, not too far from my parents' house. The gates were locked, but I was somehow able to squeeze my fat ass between two gates with a loose chain lock around them. It reminded me of how I used to fetch balls that landed in a gated utility area outside my house in Gainesville. I'd stuff myself in between the gates when I was smaller and then, as I grew, would have to stand on the lock and slip through a bigger opening near the top of the 7-foot high gate. It was a lot of work to get through those gates, but I was dedicated to getting whatever ball I had thrown or hit into there. Now, I am a much bigger kid and I needed to get into that field.
A field of dreams it was not. The clay was wet from an overnight shower and green and brown weeds crawled through the cracks of orange dirt on the infield. Still, I stood in the batter's box, swung an imaginary bat and bolted for first. In my mind, I was Jacoby Ellsbury-fast, but I'm sure I'll discover next week that I am, in fact, averagely-fast. At the very least, I didn't fall down. I spent about 25 minutes running the bases, going first to third, second to home, spending several seconds between dashes to catch my breath. I spent the majority of my time perfecting the home run trot. No one wants to look silly after hitting a 400-foot blast. I went back again the next day, this time adding a lap around the field to my regimen. I really didn't think I would make it past center field without collapsing, but to my surprise, I made it all the way from home plate to the right field foul pole across to the left field foul pole and then home again without stopping. My legs stung a bit, but I was still able to do the full set of drills I had set up for myself.
The hardest part was the following day (yesterday), when I could barely walk at all. My stride was cut in half as I gingerly made my way to, around and from work. I wondered to myself "Is it normal for my ribs to hurt after running?" Today my legs are a little better. In any case, I'm going to have to grind out whatever pain my legs are in, but I most certainly do not aim to be a hero with my speed on the basepaths.
Tomorrow I am making my final visit to the Astoria Sports Complex, where I have been throwing and taking batting practice the last few weeks with Adam, Carl and Mike. The throwing has been okay, but we only really have about 40 feet to work with, so I can't say I'm really stretched out. It's just too cold to throw outsided. My first round of batting was horrid, but after some helpful tips from Mike and a little bit of practice, I've gotten to the point where I have a little bit of confidence going into the camp. Perhaps too much confidence, since I am now considering batting left-handed, despite being a right-handed batter/golfer most of my life. We've cranked up the pitching machine to 65-70 miles an hour with really no idea how fast pitches will come at the camp. Hopefully, not much faster than that, or my original fears will all come flooding back.
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
The Anticipation Builds
For those of you who are curious about what exactly Red Sox Fantasy Camp is, here's what I know (though I have a feeling it can't possibly be what I expect):
First of all, the whole set up seems really cool. We're using the Red Sox spring training facility, including the clubhouse where the big leaguers go about their business each year. We'll each have our own locker, with home and away uniforms with our names on them. We'll get to use the same trainers that the pros use (can there possibly be enough trainers for all the out of shape guys who will show up at the camp?), and I'm pretty sure we'll be breaking in the post-game kegs for Big Papi and the like. Radio voice man Joe Castiglione will even call out our names over the PA during one of the games. We're staying at a nearby hotel and get bussed in each day for the games. I've always dreamed of being a professional ballplayer and now I'm going to get the opportunity to live a small microcosm of that life for a week. Unbelievable.
On Sunday afternoon, we congregate for a meet-and-greet with the staff, former ballplayers and other campers, followed by a Super Bowl watching party.
Monday is "drills and evaluation" day. If "drills" consists of anything other than lazy pop ups and weak grounders hit directly at me, I'm in trouble. Monday night is the "draft," in which the managers select players for their 10 teams. My brother and I are guaranteed to be on the same team, so that will be cool (we wouldn't go otherwise), but it's still kind of cool to imagine John Valentin and former Sox manager Butch Hobson arguing over which of them gets the Weiner Brothers. The fantasy has already begun, you see.
Tuesday through Friday is two 7-inning games a day, round robin style, culminating in a championship game Friday afternoon.
Saturday, each team gets to play one 3-inning game against a team of former pros. It will be an honor and a privilege to be struck out by Oil Can Boyd.
The list former pros who will be coaching isn't too shabby:
Bill "Spaceman" Lee
Luis Tiant
Rich Gedman
Lou Merloni
Bob Montgomery
Dick Drago
UL Washington
Then there's the list of greats who will be stopping by for appearances:
Dwight "Dewey" Evans
Jim Rice
Mike "Gator" Greenwell
Frankie "Sweet Music" Viola
Sadly, Yaz isn't well enough to attend this year. Would've been great to see him. He's taken the torch from Teddy Ballgame as the Greatest Living Red Sox player.
In between the games, there's sure to be great social events and excuses to drink beer and get to know all the guys. Should be great!
First of all, the whole set up seems really cool. We're using the Red Sox spring training facility, including the clubhouse where the big leaguers go about their business each year. We'll each have our own locker, with home and away uniforms with our names on them. We'll get to use the same trainers that the pros use (can there possibly be enough trainers for all the out of shape guys who will show up at the camp?), and I'm pretty sure we'll be breaking in the post-game kegs for Big Papi and the like. Radio voice man Joe Castiglione will even call out our names over the PA during one of the games. We're staying at a nearby hotel and get bussed in each day for the games. I've always dreamed of being a professional ballplayer and now I'm going to get the opportunity to live a small microcosm of that life for a week. Unbelievable.
On Sunday afternoon, we congregate for a meet-and-greet with the staff, former ballplayers and other campers, followed by a Super Bowl watching party.
Monday is "drills and evaluation" day. If "drills" consists of anything other than lazy pop ups and weak grounders hit directly at me, I'm in trouble. Monday night is the "draft," in which the managers select players for their 10 teams. My brother and I are guaranteed to be on the same team, so that will be cool (we wouldn't go otherwise), but it's still kind of cool to imagine John Valentin and former Sox manager Butch Hobson arguing over which of them gets the Weiner Brothers. The fantasy has already begun, you see.
Tuesday through Friday is two 7-inning games a day, round robin style, culminating in a championship game Friday afternoon.
Saturday, each team gets to play one 3-inning game against a team of former pros. It will be an honor and a privilege to be struck out by Oil Can Boyd.
The list former pros who will be coaching isn't too shabby:
Bill "Spaceman" Lee
Luis Tiant
Rich Gedman
Lou Merloni
Bob Montgomery
Dick Drago
UL Washington
Then there's the list of greats who will be stopping by for appearances:
Dwight "Dewey" Evans
Jim Rice
Mike "Gator" Greenwell
Frankie "Sweet Music" Viola
Sadly, Yaz isn't well enough to attend this year. Would've been great to see him. He's taken the torch from Teddy Ballgame as the Greatest Living Red Sox player.
In between the games, there's sure to be great social events and excuses to drink beer and get to know all the guys. Should be great!
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