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A ticket to the majors? Certainly not

A ticket
The Brooklyn Papers / Greg Mango

There are some things in life that are certain. For instance, if a major league baseball team holds a tryout here in Brooklyn, they’re going to get a huge turnout. And, undoubtedly, if you ask any one of those participants why he packed up his equipment, donned his uniform and braved the August heat to show some scout what he’s got, he’s going to answer, “It’s been my lifelong dream.”

Therein lies the foundation of last Friday’s open tryouts for the New York Mets at Keyspan Park, where more than 400 hopefuls showed off their arms and gloves to the team’s northeastern scout Joe Nigro, an ex-cop who used to live in nearby Gravesend.

And while my dreams of playing first base for the Yankees died the day, when I was 13, that Don Mattingly first put on the pinstripes, I figured that even at 30, I had a good shot at making this club.

I mean, c’mon, it’s the Mets.

Who cares if the last time I played any kind of organized ball I failed to make the junior varsity team of my high school?

Besides, I’ve been the backup backstop on my Sunday softball team for the past five years, and I’ve batted over .400 during that stretch. (Still, some question the integrity of those stats, as I’m the guy who figures them out every week — and I’m battling for that starting spot).

So there I was, dressed in my Sunday best, my Our Lady Star of the Sea softball uniform, and looking sharp — at least compared to fellow columnist Gersh Kuntzman (check him out at the coolest site on the Web, www.gersh.tv), who was wearing a T-shirt with an iron-on of a flying dead chicken.

I began to stretch with the other first basemen, lying next to this big guy from Greenpoint named Mike Soto.

Believe it or not, Mike, 22-years-old and as big as your average lineman, thought he had a shot at making the club even though he was going up against me. I was about to tell him to pack his bags and go home, but I thought better of it. Not that I didn’t want to sound cocky — his uniform was that of a softball team named the “Jokers” — I just figured that any injury I sustained that day should in some way be related to my physical activity, not someone else’s fists.

My first chance at injuring myself came early on, down on the left field warning track where we all had to participate in the 40-yard dash. Speed, I was told, is one of the essential skills of the sport.

“It’s a two-way tool,” Nigro said. “It helps you on offense and defense, so it’s the first thing we look for.”

Thankfully, next to the standing broad jump, the 50-yard-dash was my most successful event during my third-place finish at PS 42’s third-grade field day in 1979.

With scouts laughing (see photo above), I finished the run at an admirable 5.96 seconds — which beat all other reporters trying out for first base, and was a full half-second faster (you read that right) than the aforementioned Gersh.

If speed is the most important aspect in determining a professional-caliber baseball player, the second trait on that list is — based on my assessment of the tryouts — patience.

Of course, Nigro claimed that having a “good arm” — the ability to throw the ball far and hard — was the second prerequisite for pro baseball players.

But those who run the game must see it differently. Apparently, the Lords of Baseball have implemented a system of training to ready players for all those cross-country flights and rain delays in Tampa, and it begins at the tryout.

After the run, 99 percent of the over 400 of us stood on the field watching one outfielder at a time throw a ball from right field to home, where a catcher awaited.

To pass the time, most of us played “Guess the Temperature” about every five minutes. It’s commonly known that most baseball fields are devoid of trees or other shade-providing appliances, and with the sun at full force two hours later at noon, many of the hopefuls where starting to lose it.

It was under this heat-induced state of mind that I suddenly decided it would be a good idea to switch my position from first base to shortstop, despite the fact that I’ve never — never, never, never, never — ever played the position in my life.

At the time, it seemed logical. I was hot, tired and thirsty, and it was becoming clear that my chances of making the team were getting slimmer and slimmer as the day dragged on. It was almost 1 pm, and I had a deadline to meet. If I left to do my real job — which it seemed I would have to keep — they’d never get to see me at first. And hey, the shortstops were trying out right now.

I headed over to the left side of the field and chatted up scout Jose Burgos, who told me that, yes, it was possible for one of these wannabes to at least get invited to another tryout, but, no, he probably wouldn’t be scouting my softball game that Sunday on Staten Island.

After four balls were hit to me, I knew why.

When I bobbled the first one, someone watching from the stands — or, possibly Gersh — wondered aloud, “How the [heck] did this guy get a tryout?”

I fielded the next three batted balls flawlessly, and was able to set and fire the pill across the diamond, when it occurred to me why I’d never played this position.

When I was a kid and my dad was coach of my Little League team, he watched me throw the ball for about 10 minutes before cementing me at first base. His reasons were simple — I was tall, so I was a big target, and I had what he called a “chicken arm.”

And as each one of those tosses — released with all my might — fell short of the first baseman, I finally realized exactly what my father meant — what I should have realized the second I looked at Gersh’s shirt earlier that day.

It’s one of those things in life that is completely certain: Chickens don’t have arms.

(August 13, 2001 Issue)