This story was excerpted from Bryan Hoch’s Yankees Beat newsletter. To read the full newsletter, click here. And subscribe to get it regularly in your inbox.
TAMPA, Fla. -- Dressed in pinstriped pants and a coach’s top, Orlando Hernandez strode purposefully across the infield grass, eyeing a gaggle of men tossing baseballs in front of the third-base dugout of a Yankees practice field. Calling the group to attention, “El Duque” was swiftly ringed by an attentive half-circle.
“Hit. Catch. Run. That’s it,” Hernandez announced to the group of 13 players who would now be his team. “It’s baseball. Enjoy.”
So began our week-long experience at Yankees Fantasy Camp, where autumn rolls back for the boys of summer, with each dime benefiting the New York Yankees Foundation. Six rosters were filled by players of varying ages and skill levels, drawn to the team’s spring facility by the allure of a chance to put on the pinstripes and reside among the greats.
Each player was assigned a locker in the clubhouse, traveling from as far as Australia for the chance to live this dream. Their list of occupations ran the gamut: There were attorneys, CPAs, data strategists, police officers, warehouse supervisors -- and, yes, one MLB.com beat reporter.
But real life was left at the door marked “Player Entrance:” Inside those walls, each camper was treated as though they were Aaron Judge or Gerrit Cole.
“Everybody wants to be a Yankee,” said David DiMaio, a tax accountant from Cranston, R.I., who has attended more than 30 camps since 2002. “It’s a fantasy, but it turns into family. Initially, you’re enamored; you chase them like a little kid wanting an autograph. Then you realize they’re people, the same as you; they just have a skill to play baseball.”
We’d all get a taste of that. The schedule called for four consecutive doubleheaders from Tuesday through Friday, 72 innings, save a mercy rule here or there. There were at-bats galore, and if your dream was to play catcher, shortstop or pitch, there would be opportunities to do it all.
As the start of Game 1 approached, I stood down the right-field line on that field, feeling like a pro as assistant athletic trainer Greg Spratt led us through stretches and lunges. Advising us to “start slowly and taper off from there,” Spratt and his team offered the stabilizing bandage wraps and rubs with orange warming goo necessary to make it to Saturday’s “Dream Game.”
He eyed me, surely having noticed how closely I’d been following along.
“Zip your fly,” Spratt said, drawing laughter from the entire team.
When the final scores of those games were in the books, camp director AmySue Manzione kept the fun going. Delicious meals were served in the bullpen club down the right-field line at George M. Steinbrenner Field, with mouth-watering offerings like ahi tuna wraps, empanadas, burgers and chicken. One night, a cigar social was held.
Homer Bush, who played seven years in the big leagues, said that he has made “a ton of new friends” by participating in the camp.
“We actually hang out with one another during the year as well,” Bush said, “so this is kind of like a vacation for us. Plus, I mean, we’re playing baseball.”
With help from a few cold brews, the stories began to flow, the big league alums spinning yarns about the glory days. There were also hearty debates about the merits of analytics, launch angle and replay in the modern game. Not surprisingly, most in this group tilted toward a preference for the old ways; as Charlie Hayes noted: “The game hasn’t changed: see ball, hit ball, run.”
At dawn the following day, we discovered that the coaches had been watching closely: There would be both trash talk absorbed and modest fines to pay (most about $10) in Kangaroo Court. The Honorable Mickey Rivers presided over infractions like players’ bat-throwing, forgetting to pick up balls in the cage and one team batting out of order.
“Let me ask you something,” Brian Boehringer announced, calling one camper to the front of the clubhouse for his penalty. “Are you allowed to play in the field without a hat? Ever?”
Photographers and videographers roamed the fields, aiming to capture a souvenir of each player at a highlight-reel moment -- or whatever could plausibly pass as one (hey, the folks at home won’t be able to tell by your Facebook profile picture).
“I tell all the rookie campers, if you say you hit a bomb, no one is going to know the story except for you,” DiMaio said. “You can tell ‘em whatever you want.”
The week’s highlight was Saturday, when each team faced the retired Yankees in a two-inning contest. In our game, I stood on the mound and eyed Bush, the leadoff hitter. He winked. I nodded at the sign for a fastball, rearing back to pump some heat through the strike zone.
“Breaking ball, outside,” came the call from Paul Olden, the Yankee Stadium public address announcer, lending play-by-play commentary for the crowd. Olden later explained that he thought I was “trying to be crafty, as all lefties are.”
Bush flared a single and I handed over the pitching to camper Kevin Tuller, a Las Vegas, Nev., native who wanted to face Ronald Torreyes. We cheered as Tuller got Torreyes to fly out. I returned to the mound and faced Mike Gallego, who swung and missed at a pitch (grabbing his back in mock discomfort) before chopping a grounder that started an inning-ending double play.
With that, I slapped my fist into my glove like a kid -- the weak popups and grounders, the achy legs that felt like cement blocks, they were all instantly forgotten. We had our moment.
“I don’t think I’ll ever take another vacation again,” said Chris Moe, a retired police detective from Superior, Wis., who is already pondering a return visit. “I can lay out in the sun at home. But I can’t do this.”