Week 8 is underway

A nonstop Delta flight yesterday morning and a drive down the east coast of the Sunshine State found me in the city which is home to what I refer to "a little heaven on earth", Port St. Lucie. Back when I was a resident of this state I had the opportunity to attend New York Mets spring training games when they played their home games in St. Petersburg. But during the mid-80s there was talk that the team may move their spring headquarters away from there. It only made sense. The ballpark was past its prime and the team was still sharing the Al Lang Field facility with the St. Louis Cardinals, who had trained there since 1946. 

When I heard this I was none too pleased because it had been so convenient to see them in March. There were games against the Pirates in Bradenton, the Tigers in Lakeland the Reds in Tampa and the Orioles in Sarasota. But when official work came that they would be picking up stakes and going to PSL I was saddened. Port St. Lucie? Where the heck is THAT? It became a city in 1961, but it had no "residents" because the city omitted the developed land from its charter. As far as I knew it was just undeveloped swamp land. And, Port St. Lucie.......has no "port" to speak of. 

The Mets moved to PSL in the spring of 1988, and I moved out of state in October of that same year. But that was then and this is now. 

My eighth week of Fantasy Camp started this morning as I awoke in the hotel and made my way to the check-in location at the Hilton Garden Inn with our fearless leader, Doug Dickey. Those of you who know me know that I am much like the Sawyer character on the tv show "Lost" in that I give nicknames to a wide range of friends and acquaintances. On the plane yesterday. I decided to give Doug his own nickname- "Magic". Because so much of what he does for all of us in this family/brotherhood/club seems like magic at times. We all owe him a debt of gratitude for how me puts everything together and makes us feel important. 

I then went over to the minor league complex for the first time. I had the same mild butterflies that I always do on Day 1 every year. This year is a little different in that I'm visiting as a widower for the first time after my wife Bryn's passing 7 months ago this week. So many of my MFC brothers and sisters reached out to me to offer their condolences. Especially those who met and knew her from the four camps she attended with me. She was the catalyst who told me to take the first $5,000 from my Major League Baseball pension to go to camp a mere 2 weeks after I got the check from MLB. She loved going as she so enjoyed meeting my teammates and making friends whom with whom she had things in common as she lived for many years on West 72nd Street in the city. Her bestie being Stacey Wiener, with whom she became close after her husband Lee and I were teammates on the team which won the MFC championship in 2014. 

I knew that there were two of my brothers whom it would be hardest to see for the first time and the first one came without a chance for me to prepare. Greg Cockrell, who was one of the first people I contacted after Bryn's passing was coming out of the clubhouse door just as I was opening it. We hugged for a moment and I told him how much I appreciated his support over the last three years. Same for one Phil Forman, whom I did NOT know until a few hours ago, had been elected to the MFC Hall of Fame. Such a deserving person and I cannot wait to congratulate him in the morning. 

I found my locker with my grey#12 jersey hanging in it. I've decided to wear #12 this year in Bryn's honor as that was her favorite number. Phil said he saw it before I had arrived and he knew exactly why my number wasn't the usual 11 this year. 

We hit the field for evaluations today in a new format for the coaches to work with prior to their drafting of players. One cool thing today was the number of players, some of them rookie, asked me if I was the author of the blog from MFC weeks of the past and I was proud to tell that I was indeed the person behind them. They all said they enjoyed reading them and looked forward to reading more. I felt like I should look into writing the book about my sports fandom over the years as so many people have suggested. I am so flattered. My English teachers in high school would never have picked me to be a good writer, I don't believe. I try to play it off on osmosis from having been married to a 17-time published author for over 30 years. She wouldn't take any credit for it though. Someone introduced me to a rookie today as the "poet laureate" of Mets Fantasy Camp. I took that as a huge compliment, given what MFC means to me. 

After evaluations I went to the clubhouse and handed out free advice to some of the rookies on things like the laundry loop and how it works. (Sorry, no time to explain that here. Watch for it when I get around to writing the book as I'll have more pages with which to fill). I went back to the hotel and then made my way to the opening dinner. 

The rosters and team names were announced tonight. There was a fair amount of commotion in the room so even though we were all introduced, some of us are probably not sure who both of our coaches are and what the team name might be. I'm not saying that I'm part of this group, but.......

The rookies were asked to each stand and state their names, where they were from, how they got here and their favorite Met memory. The topper of the night had to be the young man (age 35. I have CLOTHING older than him) who told us that this camp was a gift from his ex-girlfriend. The room roared at hearing this and my buddy Greg next to me says, "I guess HE won THAT breakup." True. So true.

We acknowledged the passing of some greats in the MFC family. Pitcher Jeff Innis who left us only weeks after last year's event. Joe Pignatano who kept us on the edges of our clubhouse stools as he told us tales from his days with the Brooklyn Dodgers and the early Mets along with Gil Hodges and the "Ol' Professor", Casey Stengel. And of course our former camp commissioner, John "Bad Dude" Stearns, whom we lost in September not long after his appearance at Old Timer's Day. We each received a uniform patch with his number 12 on it as part of our gifts. I actually have brought along my autographed jersey from home which Bryn had signed a few years ago. It's hanging in my locker next to her Rockets (my softball team back home in Minnesota) jersey which hung in our dugout each game this season. 

I do know that one of my coaches this week is Nelson Figueroa, Jr. I had the chance to play for Figgy a few years ago and I look forward to the opportunity again. His father Nelson Sr. was on that team and "Senior" could certainly play. I need to at least play better defensively than I did that week because I couldn't catch a cold back then. We even discussed the glove I used back then while standing in the food line. I told him that I had replaced that glove with a custom Rawlings model which should be much better in performance. Our team name? I have no bloody idea. But I shall find out tomorrow for sure. First game is at 10am. 

The happy reunions will continue tomorrow as I greet more of the guys whom I did not run into today. Along with those reunions will be that moment when my brain cannot come up with the name of the guy in front of me. That's the moment when I fall back on generic terms like "bud", "pal", "bruh", "kid", "big man", fella", "big pimpin'", "my man", "home slice", "dude" and the ever-popular "home skillet".

Day 2 of my week of fun is tomorrow. No signs of the horrible weather the week 1 guys had last week. Low 80s for the highs and mid 60s for the lows. Almost ideal. I look forward to reconnecting with guys I've played with and against over seven of the last nine years. But if I call you "dawg" then your name is not only lost in my memory bank, my memory bank account is most certainly overdrawn. 

As I overheard a rookie say to another this morning while we were warming up out arms, talking about being on the field in the beautiful sun, "This sure beats working". How right he is. How right he is.

See you tomorrow! Let's Go Mets!