EVEN AT 50, SOME THINGS JUST REMAIN THE SAME
Before the age of 12, I lived in a suburban neighborhood in upstate New York that had a lot of boys around my age. Several times a week, we met at the same place — the friend with the largest backyard and the fewest windows to potentially break.
The yard also had a hedge row on the far side of the property — about 200 feet away — that served as a natural home run fence. Those were the days.
Our schedule of summer sandlot baseball games rivaled the major leagues; I could not get enough baseball.
I made my way up the Little League system, starting in the minors and advancing to the majors. The natural progression was senior league baseball for ages 13 to 15.
After a hitless 13-year-old season, there was nowhere to go but up. Yes, the batting average went up as a 14-year-old, maybe to .150.
It was a harsh dose of reality: I loved baseball, but I stunk. I traded in my bat and glove for golf clubs and never really looked back.
I had not attended a “real” baseball practice in over 30 years (adult recreational softball does not count) until Saturday morning when I — now 50 years old — stepped into the batter’s box, ran the bases, and participated in fielding and
throwing drills at the Albuquerque Isotopes’ junior baseball clinic at Isotopes Park.
For 2½ hours, I saw a reflection of my youth in the 150 young boys and girls ages 5-15 attending the clinic.
They were wide-eyed and enthusiastic. Waiting for the drills to start, I sat in the stands next to 12-year-old Lucas Montoya of Taos. His Little League allstar team didn’t make it out of district, he said, but he came to the clinic in full baseball regalia and was ready to sharpen his tools.
Before jumping into the drills along with the kids, longtime Isotopes general manager John Traub gave an introductory speech to the largest number of clinic participants in his tenure.
“And we’ve probably done 40 clinics,” Traub said.
After Traub, Isotopes hitting coach Darin Everson lathered up the crowd, and introduced the ’Topes players that were serving as volunteers at each of the eight scheduled stations.
The groups were called down one by one, and sent off with their group leader — an Isotopes staff member the equivalent of a troupe leader.
At last, my group — number eight — was called. Walking down the steps to the field, I said out loud to no one in particular: “Just need to know, where is the coffee, and where is the ibuprofen?”
I think Traub heard part of that, and I believe the response was, “Good luck with that.”
Turns out, group eight was leading off with the marquee station: The indoor batting cages in the air-conditioned clubhouse.
There were two sides of the batting cage in use, one for hitting off the tee, and the other to hit incoming soft tosses.
On my side, a young lad wearing Boy Scout gear was the first to the tee. He pounded a few into the far netting, and gave way to the next person.
Insert long delay.
Despite volunteers and players imploring a next batter, no one on my side proceeded to the batting tee. I gave a young lady a look of expectation, and she just backed away giving a hard ‘no’ expression.
It appeared some leadership was in order. I marched up to the plate ready to smash, with the ball already waiting on the cone.
“Hey, you need a bat,” was the call I heard from outside the batting cage.
I returned to the cone with an aluminum bat, and boy did I give it a smash.
Not the ball, the actual cone itself. Totally missed the ball, again and again.
At last, I made some solid contact, and finished with a tepid line drive.
“Way to finish strong,” said an Isotopes volunteer.
It could only get better, right?
At another station, Isotopes pitcher Zach Jemiola led us through some strength and conditioning drills, which led to my strongest showing as it did not involve any baseball skills whatsoever.
Throughout the morning, I tried as hard as I could. No way I was mailing in this athletic outing, and I was hoping I might impress … someone.
Perhaps the highlight (read: lowlight) of the morning was my faux ejection from the proceedings.
At the outfield station with Pacific Coast League all-star Noel Cuevas and veteran pitcher Thad Weber, we were fielding ground balls and throwing one-hoppers into a bucket that served as home plate.
The goal was to field the ball cleanly with the proper form, and fire a low bullet into the bucket.
When it was my turn, Weber hit a soft grounder, I approached it and fielded the ball with the correct foot forward.
The throw came with velocity — and high-right inaccuracy.
Weber, who was at least 10 feet to the right of the bucket, was sent scrambling. He gave me the well-known umpire sign, “you’re out of here.”
I never had a strong arm, but it least I knew where the ball was going. When did I become ‘wild thing?’ ”
“It gives you an appreciation for the years of practice these guys have put in,” Traub said of the professional players. “They make it look easy.”
No, it definitely was not easy.