1/14/2014
In Major League Baseball's never-ending quest to discover new talent, baseball scouts use every tool at their disposal to find players. As numerous as the scouts are, they can't watch every high school or college game every year. So there is the terrifying possibility that the next Willie Mays might slip through the cracks. One of the methods they use to prevent this from happening is the tryout camp. This is a one-day (most of the time) camp held at minor league parks nationwide, in which young players are invited to showcase their skills in front of scouts and coaches.
In 1992, the local nine was a Cubs affiliate. The Cubs held a tryout camp that summer at Ernie Shore Field, open to players ages 16 to 22. I was 16, and I saw the camp as my golden opportunity to start my journey to the Majors.
Let me say at the outset that I was an exceptionally mediocre ballplayer. And I say that as a sort of boast. I was not blessed with very much size or strength or speed or coordination. So to rise to the level of mediocrity was a great achievement for me. I worked extremely hard to become a so-so player. So I was not expecting the Cubs' scouts to come running to me, contract in hand, begging me to sign. At least not that day. My goal was to get my name out there, impress them with my hustle, so that they might be interested in me when I turned 18 and was old enough to sign. That was the plan, anyway.
I got to the park early (by design; again, to show my eagerness). I signed in at the registration table and was given a piece of cardboard with a rope around it and a number printed on the back (43). I was to tie that number around my waist so the scouts could identify me. I would be known as Forty-Three for the rest of the day.
There must have been 200 players there, and I was easily the smallest (and from what I could tell, one of very few 16-year-olds). I was intimidated and almost embarrassed to be trying out with so many bigger, stronger, more advanced players, but I reminded myself that I didn't need to make the Cubs' roster that day; this was just the first step in a long journey that would find its culmination in Cooperstown. Besides, if a diminutive adolescent could hold his own with high school seniors and small college players, that would impress their socks off, right?
The first thing they had us do was run. They had set up two cones in right field, forty yards apart, and had us form two lines beside one of them. The scout keeping the stopwatch emphasized that, although we were running in twos, it was not a race. It was simply a time-saving measure, running two at a time instead of everyone individually. Still, no one wants to be outrun. I was near the front of my line and my turn came early. The guy I wasn't racing against (but really was) was much faster than me and would have beaten me handily (if it was a race, which it wasn't; but it really was), but about two-thirds of the way to the finish he stumbled and fell so I won (but it wasn't a race). I don't remember my time but it wasn't spectacular. The other guy got to run again.
Next they sent the pitchers and catchers to the bullpen, the outfielders to the warning track in centerfield, and the infielders to third base. One of the coaches stood in centerfield and hit a fly ball and a ground ball to each outfielder and had them throw the ball to third base. This allowed the outfielders to show off their ability to catch a fly ball, charge a ground ball, and throw the ball a long way. The infielders, of which I was one, had the chance to demonstrate their ability to catch thrown ball from a hundred yards away. I passed that test with flying colors.
Next they divided out the first basemen and positioned all the other infielders at shortstop. Each infielder would get three ground balls and would throw across to first base. I was not near the front of the line this time, so I got to watch all the others, all bigger, stronger, more advanced, field their grounders and throw bullets across the infield. I was fairly intimidated when my turn came. Now, I was never an Ozzie Smith, but I was average. I could field a ground ball. Unless, of course, there were scouts and coaches from the Chicago Cubs watching. I was so nervous that I dropped all three grounders hit to me. I picked them up and made three decent throws to first base, but that was irrelevant. My fate was sealed. I wasn't going to be a Cub.
Once everyone had completed their fielding and throwing, the coaches had us all take a break for a few minutes while they conferred and decided who would get a second look and who would get to go home. Finally one of the coaches announced that he was going to call out a list of numbers; those whose numbers were called would stay on the field, while the others would report to the batting cage. Forty-Three was omitted, so I hiked up the hill along the right field line, where one of the coaches had five batting tees set up in the cage. He instructed us to pair up, hit five balls each off the tee into the next, put our cardboard numbers in this box, and thanks for coming. After five non-descript swings (at that point, what difference does it make how descript they are?), I dropped my 43 in the box and headed toward the exit. My goal had been to put my name out there, but the Cubs' scouting corps had probably already forgotten my name before I got to my car.
I played out the rest of my exceptionally mediocre high school baseball career and received nary a phone call. Not from any colleges or pro scouts, or even the Cubs. Not surprising, but disheartening nonetheless. I didn't exactly root against the Cubs after that, but I did get a sort of satisfaction whenever one of their infielders made an error. I could do that, I thought, and for a lot less money.
I would work up the gumption to try out for my college team a couple of years later, but that's another story for another time.
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