A Day in the Life of an 80s Kid: The Tryout
Each winter, my baseball bats were kept safe in a corner of my bedroom. My mitt was under my mattress with a baseball firmly planted in the pocket.
“People ask me what I do in winter when there’s no baseball.
I’ll tell you what I do. I stare out the window and wait for spring.”
- Rogers Hornsby
Summer 1980
“There are twenty-five boys here today. Each of you were the All-Stars of your spring league team. You are the best 11 year old players this league has to offer. That’s why I’ve asked you to tryout for this summer league travel team. I’d like to thank you for coming down.”
We all sat around Mr. Ferrara in the infield as he spoke. There was chatter among some of the boys.
“But as I told you boys earlier, I can only carry fifteen players on the team.”
The chattering stopped.
Earlier that morning, Jose Diaz and I took turns at second base during infield drills.
I handled three routine ground balls well.
“Okay, let’s try to turn two,” Mr. Ferrara said.
He smacked a grounder to Matty Webb at third base.
Matty fielded the ball and threw to me at second base. I caught the ball and brushed the base with my foot.
As I tried to throw to first, I bobbled the ball and dropped it.
I pounded my glove.
“That’s alright,” Mr. Ferrara said. “Now pick it up and finish.”
I did.
Donald Jankowski took ground balls at shortstop. Everyone called him DJ. He was one of my best friends. Jose Diaz took his turn.
Then it was my turn again.
I hadn’t hit the ball very well during the tryout. I spent all winter teaching myself to be a switch hitter, pounding an old rolled up mattress with 100 swings, both left handed and right handed.
Every night.
Although I swung well during the spring from both sides of the plate, I didn’t swing well the day of the tryout.
I was starting to get nervous.
I already messed up one throw in the field.
I wasn’t so sure I was going to make the team.
Mr. Ferrara hit a hard grounder to my left that skipped like a pebble thrown across a pond.
I dove at the ball. It popped in and out of my glove and rolled too far away for me to make a quick recovery.
I pounded my glove again.
“Alright,” Mr. Ferrara scratched his head.
Mr. Ferrara was built like a fire hydrant with Popeye forearms.He was the first baseball coach I’d seen who never wore a hat.
He turned away from the field and spoke to the boys on the bench.
Darryl Ridenhour headed towards first base and Joe Drayton went to third. They put on helmets as they ran onto the field.
“Let’s see how you boys handle the double-steal,” Mr. Ferrara was near the pitcher’s mound.
“Andy,” Mr. Ferrara pointed at me. “I want you to take the first throw from Peter.”
If we are going to get outs on both ends of this play, it’s got to be quick…and smooth.”
Petey Curran, who was catching, was my other best friend.
We had practiced this play, along with DJ, in his yard.
We’d never actually done it in a game.
Mr. Ferrara, acting as pitcher, started his motion, came set and checked the runners.
As he threw the ball to Petey, Darryl broke for second base.
Petey caught the pitch, jumped out of his crouch and threw a one-hopper to me.
I was able to tag Darryl before he touched the base.
Out.
I stepped up and threw the ball back to Petey as hard as I could.
Joe was heading to home plate.
He was one of the fastest kids we knew.
Petey caught my throw on the fly at eye level, went down to one knee and tagged Jay.
He showed Mr. Ferrara the ball.
Out.
Mr. Ferrara nodded as he looked at Petey and then back at me.
“Perfect. Nice job, boys.”
I pounded my glove again.
This time I smiled.