The 33-Year-Old Rookie

Chapter 1 Spring Training 2006 SPRING training did not get off to a promising start. And this was even before I so much as strapped on my shin guards. I arrived in Clearwater, Florida, in February 2006 with the rest of the pitchers and catchers for my second spring with the Phillies. My only hope to put myself on the club's radar, as in each of the other four spring camps I'd attended, was to prove that I could catch at the major-league level. Going in, I knew that Philadelphia had its two catchers in Mike Lieberthal and Sal Fasano, and there was nothing I could do to take either one's spot on the twenty-Five-man roster for opening day. The most that a player in my position could hope for was to make enough of a positive impression that if someone went down during the season, I might get called up. After pulling into the parking lot of the Hampton Inn in our rental car, Marcia, Casey, and I got out and began unpacking the car. I went straight to the trunk for the heavy bags and was dubiously greeted by one of the small Florida birds. I felt something soft and wet hit my head and couldn't believe what had just happened. "Mommy!" yelled Casey with exhilarating laughter in her voice. "Did you see that? A birdie just ew by and pooped on Daddy's head!" My sixyear-old daughter could barely contain her laughter at seeing her big and strong daddy getting pooped on the head by a tiny bird. Marcia didn't know whether to laugh or not because she was unsure how I would react. I normally have a good sense of humor, but to have a bird poop on your head certainly is not a pleasant experience. Fortunately, seeing the joy and laughter on Casey's face made me instantly realize that it was funny. You have got to be kidding me,I thought to myself. My First instinct was that a bird pooping on my head was not a good way to begin spring training. No sooner had we settled into our hotel room than I received a phone call from Steve Noworyta, the Phillies' director of minor-league operations. Simply put, he's like the general manager of the organization's minor-league teams and oversees all of its minor-league players. "Hi, Chris," he said in a concerned tone. "Are you in Clearwater already?" "Yes."Why wouldn't I be?I thought. "Oh . . ." He sighed an ominous sigh. "Well, I guess we had a bit of a miscommunication. We didn't want you to show up with the pitchers and catchers, we wanted you to show up next week with the position players. As of right now, it looks like you will play mostly First or third base in triple-A. But since you are already here, I guess you can show up tomorrow and help catch some bullpens and stuff like that." To put it mildly, I was pissed off. I had hoped to prove to anyone who would pay attention that I was a good catcher. I knew it, my teammates knew it, and virtually every pitcher who'd ever thrown to me always had great comments regarding my catching ability. By no means was I another Johnny Bench, but they always praised my game calling, my soft hands, my ability to catch the low pitch for a strike, and how I always gave a great target. Over the years, many pitchers had remarked, "Chris, I stare in at your glove, and it's like I can't help but throw a perfect strike into it!" In fact, many of my batterymates had gone to the manager and requested that I catch them in their next start. All catching instructors preach the importance of earning the pitchers' conFidence. "A catcher may be able to hit great, block every ball, and throw every guy out trying to steal,Coste, Chris is the author of 'The 33-Year-Old Rookie', published 2008 under ISBN 9781400066865 and ISBN 1400066867.