As many of you know, I recently started a new job.  Like most people who are "in between opportunities" I took a couple of weeks off to clear my head, rediscover myself, and re-prioritize.  Well, after ONE day home with the kids, I had already had enough.  On to Plan B.

I packed a quick bag and jumped on the next plane to Fort Myers.  See, it so happened that my time off coincided with the opening of Red Sox Spring Training 2001.  How convenient!  Oh, but I didn't go down there to be part of the "blue hair" cult of snowbirds (Naples South) or the maniacal get-a-life rotisserie baseball geeks, or even as a traditional family man that parlayed a Disney Trip into an autograph-seeking “networking” venture.  Nope, I went down to, gulp. try out for the team.  If Garth Brooks could do it, why couldn't the famous walpole.org pen master himself give it a go ???

You could call me a non-rostered non-invitee, but Mr. Duquette didn't shut the gate on me.  I guess my incessant pestering to his personal email account finally paid off.  Credentials you ask ???  college ball- none;  high school ball- none;  1976 Little League All-Star (my mom was friends with the All-Star coach);  limited co-ed softball "experience"...  Impressed yet ???  As far as an honest assessment of my skill set, I'd say...  "very limited in the areas of hitting, throwing, and catching a baseball;  average speed for a fat guy;  potential power IF he ever connected with a pitch"...  Still not sold ???   Check out my intangibles:  "people-person, won't cry if he strikes out, and willing to run out ground balls"...  Finally, my biggest selling point as far as the Duke was concerned:  "willing to work for FREE"...  BINGO, I was in !!!

Now the tough decision:  which position(s) do I try out for ???  I decided to rule out the outfield first.  When I first got there things looked rock solid out there with new right fielder Manny Ramirez, Mr. Everett in center, the Tro Brothers (Troy and Trot) in pre-trade competition for left, and Dee Lew as a superb backup.  Sure, by the end of spring training Million-Dollar Manny said he was more “comfy” in right, then got hurt, Carl the Cupcake forgot how to tell time, and the other 3 guys played themselves INTO a job.  Heck, even if there was room for me in the outfield, I know I’d have issues with someone (Everett) that doesn’t believe in dinosaurs.  What would he do if he saw my BARNEY poster hanging in my locker ???

My next thought was the pitching staff.  (Actually, the first night Rich Garces and I had our own buffet table.  Man, I thought I had a gut on me...)  I figured since they were having a virtual tryout for the starting rotation I may as well throw a hand in.  Between Conie and Sabes making comebacks, Castillo and Nomo looking for a new home, and the young kids Ohka and Crawford- nobody looked like a solid #2 (or #3 through 5 for that matter).  Since the fastest I’d ever thrown was a 71 mph fastball at the Brockton Fair back in the early 80’s, I talked to Wakefield about throwing a knuckler.  I told Tim I wanted to “eat innings, be versatile, and have a rubber arm” like him.  He got excited.  Then I said, “teach me how to be give up 3 run homers, walk people when we have a 7 run lead, and never look or be completely happy.”  He kicked the crap out of me.

Two days later after my shiner healed, I figured the infield was my last shot.  As you may have heard my boy Nomie had come up with a limp wrist.  I could relate.  Here was my chance, my one shiner moment.  The competition looked like milk toast to me:  Nomar’s lover (Sweet Lou Merloni), the bionic six-million dollar man Steve Austin (aka Mike Lansing), and some dude named Craig Grebeck.  Not to brag, but I handled the fielding part of the job quite well compared to the other stiffs.  Then they told me to grab a helmet and jump in Batting Cage 6.  No sweat, I thought.  I squeezed my fat head into a size 8 helmet, adjusted my cup, and entered the cage.  Now I know my eyesight’s not that good (kind of sucks when trying out for the BIGS), but I think I see the number 45 out on the mound, you know, like Pedro Martinez’ number 45.  It couldn’t be.  Must be some AA joker wearing the maestro’s number for the day.  WRONG !!!  It was HIM, as in I AM WHO AM HIM.  Oh, sh--------

Needless to say, I won’t be joining YOUR beloved Red Sox on their opening day roster, but I’m proud to say that I’m happy to be the odd man out/last guy cut/11^th hour decision on this year’s edition of the old town team.  I know Carl Everett won’t believe this (he doesn’t believe that dinosaurs ever walked on the moon), but I swear to God this is true:  I actually TICKED one of the 39 pitches Pedro threw me that day; at least in my mind I heard something.  BE A BELIEVER-  SOX IN 2001 !!!  Godspeed.

You can email Jack at JCooney@challiance.org