D-1 dreams

With a full-count and bases loaded I stared intently at the catcher's signals. He was calling for a fastball, so I relaxed, wound up and let one go. The snap of the catcher's mitt was high-right and the pitch would have been called a ball.

It's a good thing that it was all a hypothetical situation given to me during the baseball team's open tryout by pitching coach and former major leaguer Joe Hesketh, otherwise I would have let the team down.

Though I knew from the start I didn't have much of a chance at making a roster that was already three or four players over, I still had the macho obligation of being competitive among fellow men of a similar age.

However, from the moment I arrived I knew that even looking respectable next to all the phenomenal ball players at the tryout, and on the team, was going to be tough.

As I sat on the bleachers next to my friend who had come to take pictures, I suddenly started to feel subconscious about my wind pants, tennis shoes, and the hand-me-down ball glove from my roommate. The team was on the field doing various drills, and my fellow "try-outers" were at the opposite bleachers suiting up in special baseball pants and cleats, and they had those special baseball bags designed to hold the bats, all things I lacked.

My friend looked at me smirking knowing the potential humiliation that awaited me. "I like where this is going," he chuckled.

Moments later I decided to stop putting it off and I went and made friends. We all gathered around new Buffalo head coach, Ron Torgalski. He explained to us that they were already carrying three or four too many players, but we all still had a shot.

After making friends I realized that there wasn't much for me to be anxious about anymore, so I might as well enjoy myself. My reporter side kicked in, and I began asking everyone how they felt.

The general consensus was tension. Surprisingly everyone was nervous. I asked one potential outfielder how old he was and when he graduated high school.

"I'm eighteen, graduated last June," he said. "What about you?"

At this point I was mildly apprehensive, "Uh, I'm 23, graduated when you were in middle school," I laughed.

After standing in the outfield picking up balls until batting practice was over, it came time for those of us who wanted to be pitchers to show our stuff.

When I say "stuff," let's just say I didn't have much.

I strained my memory to remember my last pitching experience almost a decade before. I was playing for my local senior league team, the Fillmore A's, and I had a strong arsenal of a fastball, a curveball that didn't really curve, but spun pretty fast, and a change-up that was basically me just throwing the ball slower.

I sat down in the bull pen and watched as a few other pitching candidates showed their skills.

They were all throwing faster than the speed limit on the expressway, which made me nervous, and the pitching coach would stand-in occasionally like a batter.

This presented sheer terror to me.

What if he did that when I got up there?

Past little league nightmares flashed before me; there is nothing worse than hitting someone with a pitch.

Ignoring those thoughts, I tried my best to listen to what the pitching coach was saying about pitching. With him having played in the majors, I knew I better listen up because he knew what he was talking about. I tried my best to remember every word he said.

"Bend over and work when you throw, standing up is lazy and I don't like lazy," he said. "See that rhythm; see how relaxed his body is when he throws? He's never off-balance."

I was simply amazed he was taking his time teaching all of us, when in reality most of us didn't have a shot at making the team.

"Hey, you next?" he finally asked me. "Run out and get your arm ready."

I looked at the catcher who seemed to me to be one of the best players I'd seen in the tryouts and told him the truth.

"Hey man, I'm not really a pitcher, I'm a reporter," I said mid-curveball. "But did that curve at all?"

Amazingly he let me know that it had actually curved. Suddenly I started to feel confident. "I can do this," I thought.

I stepped onto the mound, and for the next 15 minutes I learned more about pitching than I had my whole life. I felt like I was eleven again, pitching with my dad in the yard, working up to the then life altering Little League game.

When my time on the mound was over, I walked out of the bullpen and shook the hands of Coach Hesketh and Coach Torgalski, then thanked them for having me, even though I was just a reporter. They both smiled warmly and told me it was no problem, that they were glad to have me.

There was one thing left for me to ask, and I had to know.

"Hey coach, how fast was that? 90 to 95 miles per hour?" I laughed.

"Oh at least," Hesketh joked. "No but seriously, I would say mid to upper seventies. Nice job."

I was elated. True or not, over 70 miles an hour was respectable enough for me. Feeling like a happy ball player again took me back. As I got in my truck, I realized I still had my mitt on my hand just like I used to do when I got into my parents van after a game. I smiled and felt like that innocent 12-year-old little leaguer again, without a care in the world.