Firm News

Forget about Chipper Jones’ Diary; We’ve got Claxton

William P. Claxton, a partner in the Atlanta firm Claxton & Claxton LLC, is spending Wednesday to Sunday at the Atlanta Braves' "Dream Week" fantasy camp at the team's spring training headquarters at Walt Disney World.
He wrote this story before leaving for Orlando. Assuming he survives his week with baseball's heroes, Claxton will chronicle his experience in a future edition of the Daily Report.

Atlanta attorney Bill Claxton, a former high school catcher, prepares for a week of sun and baseball fun, playing with former Atlanta Braves stars at the team’s spring training headquarters.

Over 40 Fantasy: Wife Gives Lawyer Trip to the Majors, and You Are There

It all started innocently enough one November evening during an anniversary dinner at the Sundial restaurant atop the Westin Peachtree Hotel.

My wife and law partner (that is one person, not two) and I were celebrating 21 years of wedlock and, as has been our custom, did so by enjoying a nice dinner and exchanging gifts early into the meal.

I made the correct choice and selected a very nice piece of jewelry, which I have found is rarely rejected or the subject of complaint.

When presented with the neatly wrapped small box that screamed "JEWELRY," she promptly opened it and responded with appropriate "oohs and ahhhs" as well as a kiss.

Next came my wife’s turn to present her gift. It landed on the table with an audible "plop." An envelope.

"Oh hell," I thought. Gifts presented in envelopes mean one thing: gift certificates. A gift certificate has always meant to me that the person presenting it didn’t care enough to spend 30 minutes at the mall or 10 minutes shopping online to buy a "real" gift.

The moment the paper hit the linen, I thought I’d be disappointed. I reluctantly picked up the envelope and opened it.

It was a letter. A letter to me from the Atlanta Braves. A letter to me from Pat Corrales, first base coach, telling me "Happy Anniversary!" and let me "be the first to let you know how much you are appreciated by your wife Leslie."

Pat told me that Leslie had made arrangements with the Braves for me to spend a week in Orlando prior to spring training playing baseball with the Braves.

The Atlanta Braves’ spring training facility at the Walt Disney World Wide World of Sports complex will be the locale fr the "Dream week" fantasy baseball camp.

I had never been given such a gift, nor had I ever mentioned to Leslie that I would want such a gift.

About a month before our anniversary dinner, we received a mailing from the Braves with information about "Dream Week" and how someone actually could practice and play baseball with Braves greats such as Phil Niekro, Rico Carty, Steve Bedrosian, Jeff Treadway, Glen Hubbard and Ken Oberkfell-who is one of only four pro baseball players in history ever to hit four homeruns in one game.

My first thought was, "Who has that kind of money to spend playing baseball athlete?" I use the term "athlete" loosely.

That mailing was addressed to my wife, but I did not give it a second thought and had no idea she had managed to get me on the team with 14 other lucky "wannabes."

The Game Plan

As reality sank in, I began to formulate a game plan.

I would not embarrass myself on the field of athletic competition, as I had done on so many previous occasions. I had played four years of varsity basketball in high school and never scored a point!

I had entered the Peachtree Road Race for the first time and laughed at an overweight female "runner" in her late 40s who had managed to stuff her entire body, from head to toe, into pink Spandex (who wears something that hot to run in during a race in July in Atlanta?) only to see her pass me at the entrance to Piedmont Park, fresh as the day is long, while I was gasping for breath and wondering if a coronary was coming on.

No, this was my chance to redeem myself. It would not be wasted. Sure, I thought, I am in my early 40s and slightly out of shape. But I have three months to get ready. I’ll get out and run, first a mile each day, then work up to three-no, five, by the time the chartered jet takes off for Orlando. I’ll skip lunch, stop drinking so much Coke, and snacks will be a thing of the past. I’ll go to the batting cage at least three or four times a week. Sure I’ll start slow, but then I’ll turn up the speed of the pitching machine to match the speed of the pitches that the major leaguers would hurl at me.

Before the Atlanta Braves take the field for their spring training, "wannabe" baseball players at Dream Week camp will get a chance to play on this field of dreams.

Unfortunately, ambition and reality rarely intersect.

I got a phone call the following week from a Dream Week representative to obtain important information. The first: What position did I want to play?

I immediately said I wanted to relive the days of my youth and play the only position I’d ever played in baseball-catcher.

The representative said, "Uh, yeah right." Then came the "persuasive counseling." How old was I when I last played catcher?, the representative wanted to know. I said maybe 16 or 17.

"Oh, high school," came the response, as if something is terribly wrong with the entire high school baseball program as it exists in the United States.

"Mr. Claxton, do you know how fast the best high school pitcher can throw a baseball? Try 55 mph. Steve Bedrosian can throw a 90-mph fast ball and a sinker that you could not possibly handle. All I can say is, if you insist on playing catcher, you’d better pack a titanium cup!"

Indeed, I had reconsidered my earlier choice of positions and would happily play first base.

"You’d be safe packing a plastic cup if you are playing first," I was told.

Next came a series of questions to make sure that my Braves uniform, with my name sewn on the back, would be a proper fit.

What was my height and weight? Since I had three months to get into shape, I gave my correct height. But vanity set in and I gave a weight which was about 35 pounds less than I really weighed. I thought this would motivate me to lose those pounds I so hated to see in photographs and that seemed to exaggerate so badly around my face and neck.

It’s now weeks later and I’m preparing to board the flight with my teammates to Orlando and the Braves $28 million spring training facility at Walt Disney World. I did lose some of the weight but I hope that I either become severely dehydrated overnight or the uniform I’m issued expands as much as the pink Spandex on the runner who passed me on 14th Street eight years ago.

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

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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.

Atlanta lawyer Bill Claxton wore catcher’s gear even when he was batting--which heleped him earn the dubious Brown Rope Award at the Braves fantasy camp last week, held at the club’s training facility.

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.

Sporting sunglasses and a few more pounts than he weighted as a high school catcher, Bill Claxton still looks good as he barehands a baseball and prepares to throw.

"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.

What fantasy camp is all about: Bill Claxton surveys his domain for a week--Braves’s spring training stadium at Celebration, Fla., near Disney World.

"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.

Braves Coach Pat Corrales, left, moves from Bill Claxton, right, and the fantasy camp, to the reality of another major league baseball season.

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.

Our second game was with a team from the Kansas City Royals’ camp, a farm team from one of those square states out west. The Royals are coached by legendary Pete La Cock, who had played for the Royals until just a few years ago.

These guys showed up to play. Their pitching was awesome and their bats were hot. They quickly jumped on a 2-0 lead, due in part to a shaky start by our new pitcher, Murray Kramer.

However, our bats came alive. Charlie McDaniels, my fellow barrister from Atlanta, showed his prowess at bat as well as on the mound by smoking several pitches deep in the outfield. We had three players who consistently hit over .500 in probably every game. We tied the Royals, only to have them immediately take the lead.

The game actually turned on a unique tactic of mine. I took the umpire aside and asked him how he was defining the strike zone. I believe there is actually a phrase in the New Testament that best describes what I did, but I couldn’t find a concordance to locate the book and verse.

Once the zone was defined, we got several runners on base by walks and our pitcher helped himself by taking an inside pitch to his left (non-pitching) elbow. Miraculously, we came on strong and brought runners on base in to take a 5-4 victory.

As in all previous games, I went hitless, but our team was undefeated and on top.

But, oh, how the mighty fall.

In the afternoon game against Ralph Garr’s team, we felt victory was assured. His team was 0-2.

Sadly, there isn’t much to say about this game. Our bats were left in the fieldhouse. Garr’s team got two hits, one by the pitcher, who hit a double, and then scored the only run in the game when a teammate brought him in literally by sticking his bat out, hoping McDaniels' pitch would happen to hit his stick, which it did.

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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"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.

Front to back: Atlanta lawyers William P. Claxton, Charles M. McDaniel, J. and Mark V. Spix enjoyed a week as baseball players.

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?

Former Atlanta ballplayer Ralph Garr almost hit and inside-the-park homer, but a relay from Atlanta lawyer Bill Claxton to fellow Atlanta lawyer Charlie McDaniel stopped Garr just inches short of the plate, then McDaniel applied the tag.

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]

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

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