SIGNIFICANT CASES

Lawyer Learns Not to Argue When the Judge Is an Ump

William P. Claxton, a partner with the Atlanta firm Claxton & Claxton, LLC recently spent five days at the Atlanta Braves' "Dream Week" fantasy camp near Walt Disney World.

Claxton is chronicling his "baseball career" in a special series of articles for the Daily Report.

Idle Times with Idols
DAY ONE: Celebration, Fla.-This is it. The day has arrived. As I take my seat on the plane, I meet a married couple from Thomaston also attending Braves' fantasy camp. The wife will be playing ball thanks to a gift from her husband.

It turns out she'll be one of four women participating and that the Kansas City Royals, who train just minutes from the Braves, will be holding their fantasy camps with ours.

I also meet other "teammates" flying from Atlanta. An orthodontist from Alpharetta is attending his third camp. A Smyrna school teacher-still in a state of disbelief-is seeing his childhood dream come true thanks to his extended family, who pooled their money to pay the considerable cost. And Joe Phillips from Mableton, an 82-year-old retiree who always dreamed of playing professional baseball, decided now was as good as time as any.

Once in Florida, we board our bus and prepare for the short trip to Celebration. Just before we depart, the driver says two latecomers will join us. A few seconds pass and, without any fanfare or warning, Jeff Treadway, former Braves second basemen and a cornerstone of the Braves' 1991 miracle season, enters the bus and sits across the aisle from me.

He is followed by Rick Mahler, a longtime Braves pitcher who had played on the team from the late '70s through most of the '80s before being traded to the Cincinnati Reds, just in time to enjoy playing on a world championship team in 1990.

On his right ring finger, Mahler is sporting the only World Series ring I've ever seen up close. He cheerfully lets me admire this beautiful and historically significant piece of jewelry.

The 20-minute bus ride from the Orlando airport to Celebration is magical. Treadway, who lives in Griffin, is head coach of the Macon Braves. Mahler is now pitching coach for the Kansas City Royals. Both were amicable, congenial and imminently approachable.

I had a thousand questions for each. How had the Braves chosen Mahler to start every opening day for five years in the mid-80s? Rick chuckled and said that the first time it happened, Phil Neikro had been given the nod to start but took a line drive hit to the chest right before opening day and broke several ribs. This event meant Mahler was elected by default to assume the starting pitcher role that year. It became a tradition for him to assume that role the following four years.

Treadway has a soothing personality that reflects his Middle Georgia roots. He is polite, friendly and doesn't mind answering questions. He is the consummate professional athlete, a genuine role model. I find myself wishing that cynical, disillusioned professional sports fans could spend time with Treadway.

As we approach team headquarters, I ask Mahler and Treadway if they ever tire of people asking them about their careers or talking baseball. Mahler said, "We can never grow tired of it; it is our passion." Both shared a smirk, showing their common appreciation for a game that they knew I could never fully understand.

The bus ride alone would have made the journey worthwhile. I could have returned to Atlanta at that moment and felt satisfied.

'You're Outta Here!'
DAY TWO: We break into groups and take the field, playing the positions we think we want to play for fielding practice. For 30 minutes, I take hard-hit balls from Jeff Treadway.

I want to make a good impression. Legends Rick Mahler, Ralph Garr, Steve Bedrosian and Pat Corrales are circling us like cheetahs around a herd of antelope. They're determining who are the weakest and the strongest, to decide which teams we'll be drafted into.

As I take my second grounder from Treadway, I notice Garr ("Gator" to his teammates and "Road Runner" to longtime Braves fans) standing 15 feet away evaluating my fielding skills.

Treadway hits a hard grounder right at me and, to show Garr I am a hustler, I charge the ball as hard as I can. I wind up face first in the infield; the only thing scooped-up is the red clay in my mouth.

During our lunch break, we are assigned to teams. I'm "drafted" by "Myrtle Beach," coached by Ken Oberkfell. I am ecstatic. I also learn that one of my teammates is Charlie McDaniels, a partner at Swift Currie McGhee & Hiers. We've been friends for years.

Soon we're ready to play the "Macon" team coached by Treadway. Charlie is picked to pitch and since no one else wants to catch, I volunteer against my better judgment.

Our team has two women players. As our first woman batter walks up to the plate, I call timeout from the bench and stroll onto the field with Obie staring at me in disbelief. He has no idea what the hell I'm doing since he is manager and should be the only one calling timeout.

I get halfway to the batter's box and ask our umpire, David, who is an actual umpire in the minor leagues, if Mary can hit from the "red tee" so she can have a little advantage over male players.

Our umpire politely declines my suggestion. Obie and Treadway shake their heads in disbelief.

During the game, I notice our team lacks the enthusiasm that creates winners. I decide to assume the role of team cheerleader. Unfortunately, the week before, I had started taking Dexedrine to treat attention deficit disorder, an illness that went undiagnosed until a week earlier.

My doctor and I were still trying to determine the correct dosage. Unfortunately, if the dosage is too high, the side effect is that I become hyper-verbal and excitable. In the rush of lunch and the excitement of being drafted, I lose track of when I had taken my last dose and probably take too many.

After my endless chatter for about three innings, Treadway walks over, puts his arm around me and says, "You are one of the most unique individuals I have ever met in my entire life...and I mean that in a good way. "

He then walks back to his dugout.

During the second inning, I learn a valuable lesson. While batting, don't say anything to the umpire. I had a 3-1 count and the pitcher threw a ball which our umpire called ball four.

I stupidly ask, "Are you sure?" to which he replies, "Now that you brought it to me attention, no, I am not sure. Strike two!"

Fortunately, the next pitch is a ball and I walk to first base without saying a word.

Now it is the top of the seventh. We are leading 9-2 and bases are empty. I don't want to take off all my catcher's gear because there were two outs and three hitters ahead of me. Odds are one of them would get out. All get on base.

So I take off most of my equipment and walk into the batter's box, ready to realize my lifelong dream of hitting a grand slam.

Instead, I live out the prediction of one of my law associates, Jim Taylor. Just as Jim guessed, the pitcher-a very nice gentlemen named Phil-threw three consecutive fast balls right at my head. Apparently, members of the Macon team found less humor in my comments than I had suspected. (Jim, knowing my personality, knew that would happen in the first game.)

I was able to avoid a pre-frontal lobotomy by dropping to the ground like a sack of 215-pound potatoes each time.

Still, all I had to do is take one more ball. The next pitch was clearly a ball, being in the dirt and six feet outside the plate. I start to trot down to first base but our eagle-eyed umpire yells, "STEEEEERIKE!!!"

I stare in disbelief. I return to home plate and say to our umpire, "David, let me demonstrate something to you."

I take hold of the large barrel of the bat and point the small end toward the pitcher.

"There is the pitcher," I say. "Here's the path the pitch took and it ended up way over here." To emphasize just how far the pitch was thrown outside the plate, I demonstrate my point by taking the small end of the bat and drawing a line in the sand, which precisely tracks the path of the last pitch.

The only thing I remember afterward was a loud, screeching noise from our umpire, accompanied by a wildly exaggerated gesture wherein his entire body gyrated to the right, his right arm and hand reached almost to his left knee, and in one swift motion, he simultaneously raised his arm while gyrating wildly to the left, pointing to the planet Jupiter and shouting in a deafening explosion: "Yoooooourrrrrre outttttttaaaaaa heeeeeeeere!"

I was tossed from the game and called out, ending an inning and canceling what would have been a run.

My beloved coach and idol Ken Oberkfell was dumbfounded. He came charging to me at the plate before I could even move and said, "Are you outta of your f--- mind? You never draw a line in the sand before an umpire. Besides that, the count was just three and one and you surely would have walked in a run!"

Nonetheless, our team wins the game 9-2.

That evening, almost all 80 players gathered in the bar at our hotel. I was standing at the corner of the bar, talking with Pat Corrales and Oberkfell.

We were soon joined by all of the other coaches. For the next 45 minutes, Treadway and Obie shared with them things I did during the game. They promised that they'd have something special for me.

Not Quite MVP Honors
DAY THREE: We start the day with a meeting with Commissioner Clint Hurdle, formerly with the Kansas City Royals and now hitting coach for the Colorado Rockies. He is our spiritual leader and one of the most entertaining and hilarious people I have met.

He begins by assessing numerous fines for violations, which he determined in his discretion.

Hurdle advises us that the fines will to go a worthy cause-the Ashley Hurdle College Scholarship Fund, because his 14-year-old daughter dreams of attending Vassar.

Someone is fined for playing with his back pockets turned out. The Commissioner thought that meant the player intended to use them as airbags while sliding. An entire team is fined for running off the field after the second out, thinking three outs had been made.

Two awards are also given that morning: The Golden Rope award for outstanding play went to two pitchers who combined for a no-hitter. The Brown Rope award went to the player who'd engaged in the most egregious conduct of the day.

That award was announced by my coach, Oberkfell, and given to me for conduct unbecoming a baseball player. Such conducted included:

• Calling timeout from the dugout when Mary was at bat.
• Wearing batting gloves not only while batting, but at all other times.
• Wearing shin guards while batting.
• Calling for an appeal from the dugout on a runner who was called out at first, even after the first baseman dropped the ball. (In my own defense, Obie did not bother to do this and, in fact, based on my appeal the home plate umpire reversed the first base umpire and called our runner safe.)
• Drawing that line for the umpire.
• Being ejected.

The pitcher got a shutout. We fell to 2-1. And I still had not gotten a hit with time running out quickly.

Copyright© 2000 Fulton County Daily Report 2000. Reprinted with permission.

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