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'Field of Dreams' Ends on an Emotional Note for Lawyer-Catcher

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. This is the final segment of his report.

CELEBRATION, Fla.-Day Four: As the sun struck my bleary eyes, I awoke with memories of an evening prior, which will remain with me for the rest of my days.

I'd invited the Braves coaches to join me for dinner at a steak house within walking distance of our hotel. All but a few coaches joined me although Steve "Bedrock" Bedrosian disputes to this day that I ever invited him!

The night was magical. I spent three hours basking in the aura of men whom I'd always felt were beyond mere mortals.

The stories these legends shared overwhelmed me. I felt a camaraderie with them that makes this sport called baseball so unique, so palpably pure.

The reservation was for nine people but the table grew by the minute. But as the evening went on, our corner of the table became more intimate as legends Ken Oberkfell, Ralph Garr and Pat Corrales joined fellow Atlantan Charlie McDaniel from Swift Currie McGhee & Hiers and I to discuss the foibles, faults and future of baseball.

The conversation moved from humorous to nostalgic, entertaining to insightful. Here sat athletes past their prime who found it a privilege to stay close to the game as coaches, instructors or scouts.

I pitched a question: How did these legends perceive today's elite players compared to those of their generation?

The mood instantly grew somber. The consensus was that many current players lack appreciation or gratitude for the sacrifices that players of earlier eras made and from which today's players benefit.

When we decided it was time to head back to our hotel, I asked for the check. I was overwhelmed to learn that the other nine people who had linked their tables to our gathering had advised the waitress that I was picking up the tab for all 18 people. Of course, when it came time for me to settle the account, they had long departed. The liquor bill alone was stifling.

Corrales was kind enough to walk back to the hotel with me, which gave me with just enough time to take a peek into the interesting life of a man who, for the past 10 years, I thought had the sole responsibility of holding the batting gloves of Braves players who successfully made it to first base. Pat, now the bench coach, essentially is second-in-command in the hierarchy of field warlords.

Pat's family emigrated from Mexico to Fresno, Calif. (the birthplace of my beloved father-in-law Gaither). He was recruited heavily while playing high school baseball and spent the next 40 years in professional baseball.

Pat was warm, friendly, personable and immensely kind. Little did I know that my immediate and immense respect for this giant would prove short-lived.

'Tournament Day'
The next morning was "tournament day." Our team was in third place with a good shot at winning the trophy for best-fielded team. Since I'd not yet acquired a hit, I got to the stadium early to take batting practice in an attempt to return to Atlanta with my dignity intact.

After taking about 30 pitches (missing all but three), I ran toward the bleachers to spend 30 quality minutes with everyone in camp.

As had been the custom each day, we prepared for the events ahead by gathering to acquire knowledge and inspiration from our guru, "Commissioner" Clint Hurdle.

Testosterone was heavy in the air as I made my way past all the coaches who were engaging in demonstrations of bravado and machismo, each taunting the others about which of their teams was going to finish the day "A-Number-One, Top-of-the-List, King-of-the-Hill, Top-of-the-Heap."

Suddenly, a colossal, prodigious fist enshrouded my upper arm, completely constricting the effusion of blood to the rest of my right upper extremity.

I looked over my right shoulder and followed the mammoth appendage until I saw a hulk towering above my head with a piercing set of coal black eyes. It was Bedrock-and he wasn't happy.

For those of you who have never been fortuitous enough to hear Bedrosian speak, he has one volume setting (10), one tone (abrasive, rasping) and one inflection (flat).

"Clax! I hear you invited the coaches to dinner at Charlie's last night! Why didn't you invite me? Something wrong with me? You don't like me or something? Is that it?"

Bedrock lives on a farm in Senoia, Ga., living out the second of his lifelong dreams. His first was playing professional baseball. He excelled so brilliantly that he won the Cy Young award in 1987. His second incarnation is as a Coweta County Deputy Sheriff. Standing next to this massive human, I can see that he is probably incredibly intimidating and successful in that role as well.

I advised Steve that I'd actually extended an invitation to him two evenings earlier in the hotel lounge, but, to this day, he disputes the conversation took place.

During the meeting, Hurdle dispensed his usual fines. One involved Mark Van Spix, an Atlanta sports and entertainment lawyer with Spix, Knupp & Reece. There had been a mistake when Spix ordered his uniform and his name was spelled "PIX" on both his white home jersey and blue travel jersey.

A player had called Hurdle's room late one evening pretending to be Spix's father. He woke Hurdle and angrily complained that his "son" had been cheated. When Spix arrived the next morning, the error had been corrected. The player who called was awarded one dollar from Hurdle for his inventiveness.

The last day of regular play began with our team challenging the dreaded "Ringer Team" from Kansas City. A rumor had circulated that they had played together in an "Over Thirty" League. (Keep in mind, many of us there would have played in an "Over Forty" league-if we were good enough to play-and some of us could have played in the "Octogenarian League" had there been one.) The Kansas team arrived together with the goal of taking the first place trophy from the Braves, the previous winners.

Conspiracy theorists believe the two Kansas City coaches agreed beforehand to let one of them "draft" the ringers together. I emphasize and embellish the story because we lost that game, 15-0.

The score would have been higher but there is a "euthanasia" rule, which prevents games from turning into blowouts and ends the game automatically when one team leads by 15 runs.

Sadly, this happened to us in the fifth inning. We fell to 2-2 in the standings. Our chance of winning the tournament became mathematically impossible. And, once more, I went hitless.

Cheerleader Gathering
Another bizarre thing happened during lunch. By coincidence, we shared the sports complex that weekend with about 500 high school cheerleaders competing in the National Cheer and Dance competition being taped by ESPN for broadcast in March.

They congregated everywhere between our two games that day. Every time I got near one of these well-intentioned but way-too-perky competitors they asked: Where's Chipper Jones? I played along, never revealing that Chipper was not due in camp for another two weeks. I said he was in the training room.

Although disappointed, if they couldn't get Chipper's autograph, mine would do.

I must have signed the uniforms of more than 40 cheerleaders before I got writer's cramp. In hindsight, I wonder: Will their moms be upset when they get home with an unknown man's autograph permanently marked on their uniforms? Will the girls be disappointed when they watch an entire Braves game for the first time in their lives just so they can see the player who autographed their uniform, and then Claxton never trots onto the field?

The final "regular" game of the tournament was even more humiliating, not for the team as a whole, but for me.

How the Screw Turns
We played Pat Corrales' team. This was the same man with whom I'd spent three hours the evening before and came to admire even more when he shared with me his Horatio Algeresque story on our walk back to the hotel.

Oh how quickly the screw turns.

My defining moment came in my final at-bat. There were two outs when I came to the plate. Apparently, word had gotten out that I was the only player in camp who had not gotten a hit all week.

I stood at the plate and noticed Corrales standing with Oberkfell in the third base coach's box. Corrales called out, "Claxton Shift!" On command, the entire defense got down on the ground and actually laid on their backs during the entire time I was at bat, so confident were they that I would continue my hapless trend of no hits.

To my dismay, even Obie, my beloved coach, laid on his back in the third base coaches box. To his credit, Spix, who was catching that game for Corrales, never got on the ground. For that reason alone, I will always defend his honor.

The same could not be said of the opposing pitcher. He actually sat down on the pitcher's mound to throw one pitch, which incredibly was in the strike zone. I could not pass up the opportunity to swing, with everyone in the field on the ground.

I now know how Mighty Casey felt after his legendary at-bat. I know now why there was no joy in Mudville on that day. The Weakly Clax had struck out.

The Awards Banquet
That night, we attended the awards banquet. My teammate and law colleague from Atlanta, Charlie McDaniel, was up for MVP honors. (He didn't win).

Among the joviality and laughter that evening was a very special moment. Jeff Treadway rose to announce the "Bob Uecker Award" for the person who'd made camp more fun for the rest of the attendees.

I was sitting at a table near the front when Treadway looked down at me and said "Clax, I bet you thought you were going to win this award, didn't you?" However, I was thrilled when Jeff announced that the award went to Joe Phillips, the 82-year-old gentleman from Mableton. He deservedly received a standing ovation when he came forward to accept.

An Emotional Rollercoaster
Day 5: A day filled with sweet sorrow and mixed emotion. It was the final day of camp. But it was finally our chance to play the pros. It also was my last chance to achieve two goals I had set for myself that week: Get a hit and make a defensive play.

In the final inning, there were two men on base and Ralph Garr (who is slightly taller than Mary Lou Retton) came to the plate. Charlie McDaniel was on the mound. On the first pitch, Garr popped up a pitch at least 50 feet in the air, but only 10 feet from me. I failed to follow the first rule of catching, which is rip off your mask anytime the ball is popped up behind you.

I didn't locate the ball until the last moment and although I made a valiant lunge, it hit the tip of my mitt and fell to the ground.

Garr mocked me: "I gave you a chance to get me out-now I'm gonna to have to knock it outta here!"

On the next pitch, Garr almost did just that. He hit McDaniel's wicked curve ball I had called for so hard that it traveled all the way out to the top of the wall in right center field.

Unfortunately, one of our players ran past the ball as she headed toward the wall, and it headed back into the field. Garr was motoring around the bags. My heart was in my throat. I actually had a chance, with a good throw, to tag Garr out at the plate because it was obvious that his heart was set on an inside-the-park homerun.

I stood at the plate ready to apply the tag. McDaniel was backing me up. But the throw from the outfield dribbled into the infield and came to a rolling stop 20 feet from home plate. I sprinted to retrieve the ball, skidded on my shin guards and, in one swift motion, not only barehanded the ball (wearing both of my batting gloves, as was my custom) but turned 180 degrees and flipped the ball underhanded to McDaniel, who applied the tag to Garr only six inches from the plate.

I finally got my hit, on my last at-bat against Pete LaCock, that afternoon.

I could go home satisfied-or could I?

Returning to Game I Love
For a week after my return, I was overcome with incredible emotion. I could not comprehend what had happened to me while I was down in Orlando.

Part of what I felt resulted from returning to a game I loved as child. Not since I was a teen-ager had I experienced the thrill of suiting up with gear and trying to catch a ball hurling toward me at the speed of an automobile. In a split second, that ball not only could change speed and direction, but it also was swung at with a piece of wood that could kill you.

The other part of my emotion came from realizing that, as we travel through different stages of our lives, we are always moving forward, assuming more responsibility, more commitments and obligations, and are being held accountable for even the slightest, most insignificant decisions we make.

We are never permitted to travel back, even briefly. In less than two months, my wife and I will have our third child. Two years ago, I took a leap into the unknown and started a new law firm. I now have the responsibility of a law office where seven people count on me for their ability to make a living and support their families.

But for five incredible days, I was given the gift of returning to childhood.

To play all day long. To be with people who share my love for this ultimate of all games. I had no responsibilities, no commitments, and no obligations. Just the sheer exhilaration of being a baseball catcher. It resulted in an emotional overload.

To my wife, Leslie, I want to say in print what I find so hard to tell you each day we spend together: I love you. Thank you so very much for giving me this trip, one of the most wonderful gifts of my entire life.

I phoned 82-year-old Joe Phillips last week while traveling to meet my wife and children for our Wednesday night church services. Joe was getting ready to walk out the door to do the same. We spoke for about 15 minutes.

Joe told me that his family had given the gift of Fantasy Camp to him for Christmas and that he traveled to Orlando alone on the airplane, a first for him.

He told of his wife and daughter who surprised him in Florida by arriving, by car, just before the awards banquet that Saturday night. They were there to share what he called the most thrilling moment of his 82 years.

He also proudly told me how he had faced Bedrosian the following day and had actually gotten a hit. The team gave him that ball as the game ball. Bedrosian even signed it for him... "To Joe Phillips From Steve Bedrosian 1987 NL Cy Young Award Winner."

Joe also told me something I didn't know while at camp: He has only one leg. Doctors had amputated his right leg, from his thigh down, because of bone cancer 38 years ago. Incredible.

Joe and I agreed to keep in touch. The last thing Joe said as we ended our conversation was that he can't wait to get back to Dream Week next year.

Later that night, I called my brother Steve, who spent seven years on the same childhood baseball team with me. I told him about my experience at Dream Week and asked if he would join me, next year, as my guest.

As wonderful as it was to play baseball this year, I can't even imagine what it will be like to play on the same team with my brother again.

As Joe said: He can't wait to return to Dream Week. Neither can I. [end]

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