The Rookie At Age 36

By Scott McClain, Sarasota, Florida

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My whole life I’ve had this dream, a dream so real I could almost reach out and touch it: a packed big-league ballpark, fans on their feet screaming, me at the plate, the pitcher winding up. There’s the indescribable crack of wood on horsehide. I run hard for first, then slow to a jog. Far away, the ball has sailed in a tremendous arc over the left-field wall. My first major-league home run!

For 19 years my dream was just that…a minor-league fantasy. I’ve played professional ball in towns across the country, from Bluefield, West Virginia, to Fresno, California, to Geneva, Illinois. I’ve even played in Japan. But except for a few scattered games, I’d never made it to the big stage. Never hit that first big-league home run of my dreams.

I’m 36 years old now, way too old to be considered a prospect. The people who care about me—my wife, Jennifer, my family, my friends—have wondered for years when I’ll finally quit. But I still believe in dreams.

Growing up in Simi Valley, California, I played every sport. Yet there was something about hitting a baseball. One day in sixth grade I announced in class, “I’m going to be a major-league ballplayer.” I never wanted to be anything else.

Baseball wasn’t even my best sport. The University of Southern California offered me a full scholarship—to play quarterback. “Lots of guys who do well at USC go to the NFL,” Dad said. But when the Baltimore Orioles drafted me, I told Dad I wanted to go. “I know I’m a little bit of a long shot,” I said. “The Orioles didn’t pick me until the twenty-second round. That’s different than being the starting quarterback at USC. But I’ve waited my whole life for this.”

The next day I left for Bluefield, West Virginia. It was A-ball, the bottom rung in the Orioles’ minor-league system. I won the starting job at third. I was on my way. Except I didn’t tear up the league. In high school I’d been a feared slugger, but the pitchers were a lot tougher in the pros, even the minors. The next season I was reassigned to the same A-ball team. Did I make a mistake? I wondered.

That fall I returned home and ran into my old high school football coach. “Plenty of colleges can use a good quarterback,” he said. “Just say the word and I’ll find you a scholarship.” That night I asked for guidance. Should I take the scholarship? Will I beat myself up the rest of my life for having given up my dream? I tossed and turned half the night till I made a decision. How could I turn my back on the dream I’d been given?

I worked even harder. Trained like crazy. Took batting practice till my hands blistered. My play improved, but more slowly than I’d hoped. Back home, my old buddies had graduated into good jobs. Some had steady girls. Soon they’d be starting families.

By 1997, my seventh season in the minor leagues, I still seemed to be headed nowhere. That spring the Orioles traded me to the New York Mets. At the end of the 1997 season, the Mets gave up on me too. For several nerve-racking months I wondered if any team wanted me.

Finally one team called: the Tampa Bay Devil Rays, then the worst team in all the majors. But I didn’t care. It was the majors. “This is my chance,” I told Jennifer. “They’re looking for somebody, anybody, to step up and prove that he can play.” I reported to spring training full of hope. But when they broke camp, the Devil Rays shipped me back to the minors.

I refused to let it bring me down. About a month into the season something clicked. All those years of practice and training began to pay off.