One game was different, and they had my number. I struck the first guy out and then gave up a double. Then I gave up another double and another double and another double. I think I have the record for pitching consecutive doubles, and before I knew what had happened, I gave up six. When Coach Etchebarren took me out, we were both dumbfounded.
After the game, one of the other players told me I was telegraphing my pitches, which was something I prided myself on picking up, as a hitter. I never even thought about it as a pitcher, because, well, I was not a pitcher. It really goes to show you baseball was a mental sport. That evening, I called my wife to fill her in on my day and to hear about the daily antics of our two children. Since the birth of our lacrosse player, we had another girl, and I was assured she was a softballer. Not that anything was assured, and I wasn’t going to force her, as I had seen overbearing parents and swore, I’d never be one. It was just the look she gave me when I talked about split-fingered fastballs and Connie Mack.
After learning about the kids, I started to talk about my day. Kate was a baseball connoisseur and not only understood the game, but my contributions to it and my skill level. Knowing that, here was our exact exchange,. “So, Etch put me in to pitch today.”
“Did you get your tits ripped?”
Oh my God, how did she know? Upon informing her I was a new record holder for giving up doubles, she just laughed and told me to have fun. Later that evening at the Q-and-A session, I told my coaches about the phone call and they thought it hysterical. I went to fantasy camp, worried about my shoulder, but that was the least of my concern because apparently, I had pitching batting practice down to a science.
The next morning, I thought I might be called up to the front of the room, so I brought my video camera and showed new friend, Jay Vance, how to use it. Sure enough, during the rope ceremony, Etch called my name. He was holding a gold rope, at the time, and I thought maybe he would be kind. I thought wrong. When I sat down, out came the brown rope. Right away, people started laughing, and as I faced the room, I saw lots of anticipation in regards to my embarrassment.
Etch launched into a vaudeville act, which brought the whole room down. He was telling the story about how doubles were happening so fast and with such force, he almost received whiplash for jerking his head from home to center. He even demonstrated how the third base coach, John O’Donoghue, was so bored, he got down on one knee and just kept his arm swinging in a circular motion, while waving runners home. Then Etch stood and said, “When he called his wife to tell her he pitched, she asked him if he got his tits ripped.” A complete outburst of laughter took over the room, and he added, “Even your wife knows you can’t pitch.” It went from embarrassment to hilarity, and I walked back to my seat high-fiving other campers whose wives knew they couldn’t pitch either.
On Friday, we had a new event as they instituted an aAll-sStar game before the game with the pros. I was honored to be voted in by my teammates and made sure I didn’t pitch. The day was perfect and was one of my favorite days ever at fantasy camp. Saturday was the play-offs in the morning and the championship game in the afternoon. We didn’t qualify for either and were scheduled to play an ancillary game with another unqualifying team. Saturdays were always surreal because they were the last days of an experience that we didn’t want to end.
I was in the on-deck circle before my last at bat, when I noticed Brooks Robinson, had walked over and was sitting on our bench. He was the epitome of graciousness and kindness and was just a joy to have met. It was my understanding he hadn’t been drilled yet that year, so he was having a great camp as well.
Everyone wanted to end their camp on something spectacular and I was no different. I was looking for a first-pitch fastball, and when I saw one coming, I jumped on it. The connection was solid and had gapper written all over it. My first thought was triple, however, due to my lack of speed, I had been known to turn many triples into doubles. I took off as fast as I could and halfway down the line, I started to swing out, so I could cut the bag hard and head for second. Out of nowhere, a sniper’s bullet caught my left calf, and, in mid-stride, I immediately hit the ground and stuck like a lawn dart. What was happening? What was that pain? Where was it coming from? I couldn’t move and I didn’t know why. I heard lots of chatter and screaming by the other team and my own teammates were yelling, “Get up! Get up! What are you doing?”
A few seconds later, after relaying the ball to four different fielders, I was tagged out while lying in the baseline. The pain I was experiencing was from a pulled calf muscle. It was like a charley horse but about 100 times worse. I just laid there, looking at the sky as players walked up and leaned into my vision. There were lots of looks of concern and sympathy at my current condition, and some players touched me like I was a racehorse about to be put out of my misery. All of a sudden, Brooks Robinson leaned in to my view. He looked worried and showed his caring side. He was about to say something that I knew I would cherish and talk about for the rest of my life. Then, while everyone was silent, he said, “Just think, son;, you’ll get pre-boarding tomorrow.” He burst out laughing and turned to walk away. Holy cow!, Brooks Robinson just slammed the door in my face. Soon everyone was laughing, including me. Of course, he was right.
Almost instantly, a golf cart rolled up and two of the trainers secured me and headed inside. The only things missing were the blinking red light and the siren. They iced me and wrapped me and gave me a set of crutches. Embarrassment doesn’t even scratch the surface. That night at the final suit-and-tie dinner, awards were handed out. Guys were receiving best- hitter and best- pitcher plaques, and the championship team was recognized. When tTrainer, Dave Walker took the stage and called my name, my teammates congratulated me with excited applause. I had just won The Trainer’s Award. As I hobbled to the stage on crutches, Dave went on to describe some of the camp injuries that year before adding, “Neil Beller wins this award because he came early, and he came often.”
Before we left, we were given a baseball signed by every Oriole in camp, and if that wasn’t enough, we also received an autographed group shot of ourselves with Brooks Robinson, Earl Weaver, Jim Palmer and Boog Powell. Hardly a day goes by when I am not glancing at the wall where that picture hangs. In my baseball room, on the top shelf, you also will see a pyramid of various colored tape rolls topped off with a beautiful fan made of tongue-depressors and the words “2005 Trainer’s Award.” I displayed it proudly.
