After spending a week at the New York Yankees Fall Fantasy Camp, Roy Berger reflects on his experiences—and his success during the last day. Berger has been attending Fall Fantasy Baseball Camp for the past five years, and has a new appreciation for the sport, comradery between players, and Frank Sinatra. Keep reading to find out how the last day of the most wonderful week went.
This is an end to a great week that just fell one win short of perfect.
Under our fourth straight day of 80 degree temps and riding high from our come-from-behind walk-off win over the six-time defending champions (I can look at that picture all day, by the way), we were improbably tied for first place in the standings and had to win both games Friday to guarantee at least a share of the title in the Yankees non-playoff system.
Flat is the only way to describe it, and dreams die hard as the Bombers lost 7-5 to the Tanyon Sturtze/Al Downing Clippers. With the defending champion Bambinos unlikely to lose again, our fate as runners-up was sealed. We did rebound in the afternoon and beat Oscar Gamble’s Thunder 16-6 after we pasted them 22-1 on Wednesday.
If you are a Yankees fan there is nothing more chilling than the walk from the clubhouse, past the legendary DiMaggio quote, up the tunnel into the Yankee dugout and then onto Steinbrenner Field. Every time I do it, I walk a little bit slower to enjoy it more.
As only Gamble can put it: “I hate playing on fields with a scoreboard.”
So our group of a dozen, who grew closer by the day, finished 6- 2 for second place, one game behind. In two previous Yankees camps, I had won a combined four games, so this camp was a victory bonanza for me.
Our team make-up was interesting, as not one New Yorker was on the club. We had five from North Carolina, two each living in Florida and Ohio, and singles from Virginia, New Jersey, and Sweet Home on the roster showing the broad appeal of the Yankees.
Our average age was just under 50 with three father-son combinations among us, and frankly I am jealous. I still have not been able to achieve that with Jason and Scott, and if I have one more Yankees camp in me next year, it has to be with hopefully both, or at least one.
The relationship between dad and son was a great dynamic to watch on the field this week. In fact, one team in camp had a dad and three of his sons. That is one expensive—but priceless—road trip.
I wanted to play for Bucky Dent, and I’m glad I did. Class personified. My other coach (Marcus Thames) was the diamond in the rough. You won’t find a nicer, more congenial gentleman. Thames is a batting instructor in the Yankees organization, and will be heard from on the coaching staff in the Bronx in the next year or two. He’s only 37 and has a wonderful disposition and hopefully a long future in the game.
A fun final night tradition- team dinner with the coaches. Loads of good baseball stories.
The Friday night private team dinner is always fun, and Bucky entertained us with classic Steinbrenner tales from the day while Marcus recounted his rookie hazing on his second day with the Yankees after homering in his first at-bat off Randy Johnson the night before.
The next day he was escorted out of the Yankee Stadium clubhouse handcuffed, with bomb sniffing dogs at his side, for having explosives in his locker. Tears streaming down his face and crying “But Mr. Torre you know I would never do anything like that,” while the veterans shook their heads and turned their backs and went about their business. It’s those stories that baseball fans can listen to for hours.
I had a much better week than I thought I might—or should—at my age. Off to a slow start the first day—two hits in eight trips, I worked with Thames and all of sudden caught fire, finishing camp with 15 hits in 27 at-bats for a .556 average and eight RBIs. Somehow I also made it around the bases five times with runs. On Friday I was red hot with six hits in seven at-bats which included five hits in a row. However, the walk-off on Thursday in the ninth will undoubtedly be the biggest one I ever get.
Defensively, I also surprised myself. A steady diet of ground balls, line drives, a pop-up or two, and stuff in the dirt got my attention and other than a bobble or two, I was incredibly steady for fading reflexes. Dent told me in the late innings of a game that I was platooning and “it might be time for you to go back to first base.” Not sure at my age or with my lack of mobility, I planned on ever hearing those words from a World Series hero.
Paying a $100 fine in Kangaroo Court. Presiding is the less-than-honorable public defender Oscar Gamble, Judge Mickey Rivers and bailiff Homer Bush.
Once again I avoided any major injury that seems to plague camps like this as each day passes. You won’t see a greater array of bandaged body parts in any hospital trauma center than a fantasy camp clubhouse. I did, however, visit the training room daily for the first time as I got nicked on the index finger just below the nail on the first day, and the bleeding would not stop through the game into the night. The laundry guy was none too thrilled with me either when I turned in my white pants.
I went back every morning to get bandaged, and these guys know what they are doing. Looking around at most of these guys and being on the upper end of the mid-50s average age, I consider myself very fortunate it was nothing more than a finger.
Kangaroo Court was expensive this week. A couple of $5 fines here and there, no big deal, but the Mickey Rivers-Oscar Gamble-Homer Bush court dinged me for $100 for “shameless book promotion and royalties owed Yankees Charities.” Did I mention The Most Wonderful Week of the Year? Ah, never mind.
Other than my mind on my parents’ health struggles during the week, this camp was fantastic. A great group of guys, wonderful organization, and a true major league feeling right down to my walk-off win and the immediate posting of pictures and video on the Yankees camp site.
On Friday afternoon, playing both games on the main stage of Steinbrenner Field, after the second game ended and we were parading off with our sixth win, “New York, New York” starts blaring over the PA. When Sinatra sings in the Bronx, it’s good news for the good guys.
One final look at a lifetime memory from this week.
It’s as real a fantasy as one can get, and if you have the desire, time, and means to follow your dreams, please don’t wait. This has been a tremendous journey for me the past five years.
On Friday afternoon—as Frank was finished crooning—my legs thanked me. The past couple of days I had to lift them to get in and out of the car and bed. They fought me going back onto the field inning by inning. The base paths got longer. Going from first to third was a marathon as each day passed. I tried to find an Uber. I’m not sure what’s further—90 feet or 30 yards—but either way it’s a schlep in your 60’s.
Now my legs feel relieved this journey is done. I don’t have the heart to tell them that Pirates camp begins in 77 days!
By Roy Berger for PeterGreenberg.com
