One might logically expect the defining moment of a Giants Fantasy Camp to transpire on the field of play, during some significant dugout expression of solidarity, or perhaps in the clubhouse -- where a former pro might pass along some technical tip or motivating comment that might be later be used to turn an inning or game around. At last January's Camp, however, the iconic moment occurred on the cement floor of a Scottsdale gymnasium, as Camp Commissioner Mike "The Sheik" Sadek presided over the morning Kangaroo Court. Having dealt with a few typical low-grade cases of camper transgression (failing to run out a pop-up, heading to the plate without a helmet, a rookie wearing "rookie sleeves" on a shirt that by definition has rookie sleeves if a rookie happens to be wearing it, etc.), Sadek assumed a more serious, indeed disgusted air in calling up former catcher Hobie Landrith. During the previous evening's postgame shower, the revolted Sadek snarled at Landrith, "I picked up a bar of soap you left covered with pubes. The goddamned thing looked like a poodle." After a weak protest of innocence from Landrith, Sadek doubled the dollar fine -- citing such condemning evidence as "I saw you put it up on the ledge just before I grabbed it. Besides, they were your color." He then passed on to what was to be the most important case of the morning -- and the week itself.

"Tuna!" Sadek bellowed, looking amidst the 100 or so gathered people for the voluminous form of former pitcher Dave Heaverlo. "Get up here!"

From the rear of the room, Heaverlo's shaved head was soon seen advancing towards the center of group -- an early morning wad of chew already bulging the side of a face set in the expression of indignation and outrage of someone who knows he's done nothing to merit any accusation whatever, and will therefore take vindictive delight in proving any charge against him as both baseless and idiotic.

"What?" bellowed the dead-serious Tuna. "What the hell is all this about?"

Having cited the camper's name who had lodged the charge, Sadek seemed to read the accusation twice before daring to speak it aloud. "You're being brought up for peeing in the shampoo bottles. The guy says he saw you...."

Heaverlo's reddened face froze in apparent disbelief as absolute quiet filled the room. His mouth parted slightly, and Tuna then roared "Fuck. Yeah. Guilty," before turning on his heel and stomping to the back of the gym amidst a rising tsunami of laughter.

Although perhaps typical of the kind of juvenile behavior grown men are capable of -- and perhaps genetically condemned to -- in spending too much time together in large groups, the moment was nevertheless reflective a lot of what make both the San Francisco Giants Fantasy Camp and baseball important and unique to those who appreciate them. Both are by their very nature nonessential activities, and that very optionality ends up making them significant and cherished for those who chose to participate. Meanwhile, both involve a certain passion that allows and indeed requires participants to hold tight to some of the childhood (and childish) associations that are part and parcel of the activity. It'd be a tough search to find many places outside of a baseball clubhouse where a grown man surreptitiously urinating into a collectively-used hygienic product would arouse such unadulterated delight and approval. As a prank, the act was especially appropriate in targeting a group of San Francisco Giant fans: What other body of people, after all, could be expected to good-naturedly view such treatment as similar to the one their team submits them to over the space of some 162 games each season?

Whether it was Heaverlo's mischievous Hoss Cartwright humor, Mark Davis' penchant for repeatedly shouting "What?" from the back of any crowd listening to instruction, Vida Blue's unique ability to use the word "fuck" in nearly every sentence -- repeatedly -- or Sadek's heat-seeking wit that could make Don Rickles in a foul mood look like an overly affectionate TeleTubby, it is the interaction with the former pros that makes the Giants Fantasy Camp such a unique and memorable place. Far from being a prostituted vicarious fame suck -- where thoroughly anonymous admirers pay for the right to hang around their sports idols for a week, then run home and recount fabricated stories about their Hall-of-Famer "buds" -- the Giant camp and its singular focus creates a parallel, self-contained sphere of reality to the everyday world surrounding it, in what is probably to closest approximation to a professional baseball lifestyle that any camper could hope to experience. It also allows participants to work and play along with their former-pro coaches, and in the process discover that these great athletes happen to be very funny, and often thoughtful people as well. In addition to the glimpse of the versatile and quick senses of humor often involved, the Giant camp also provides a different sort of insight into players that most people never think of as much more of than just this kind of animated human sports commodity of, well, "players." There were a few Fantasy Campers, for example, who admitted they'd forgotten participating coach Rich Murray was once the Giants' first baseman, and many other didn't know he is the brother of probable Hall of Famer Eddie Murray. But there isn't one of the 90-odd campers who got to know Murray last January who'll ever forget his participation, nor his remarkable kindness, and rare willingness to give the same kind of time to aging and often talent-lite solicitors of advice that you'd expect him to offer minor league hopefuls. Likewise, few will ever look at Jim Ray Hart -- or, indeed, baseball -- in quite the same after hearing the painfully shy former third baseman describe the day when he was signed a pro contract for $500 -- within just hours of Randy Hundley signing for $100,000. There was no bitterness or accusation in Hart's voice at recounting this tale of unfair remuneration for ability, but the significance of the story is no less clear because of that -- and Hart's lack of rancor or anger says as much about the man as it does the state of America and its past time at that period.

In an opposite manner, meanwhile, the rare flashes of anger seen in other former pros offered a glimpse into their personalities as well. For example, prior to Kangaroo Court adjourning one morning, Sadek found himself being shouted down by former Giant pitcher Mark Grant, whose typical baby face smile had given way to a look of unmistakable wrath as he marched into the gym from the adjoining clubhouse. With traces of shaving cream still visible on his anger-reddened face, Grant's minimalist attire of a jock, socks, and shower shoes reflected his apparent sense of urgency to speak his peace and clear an apparently befouled air. Stopping about five yards before the crowd and demanding the floor, Grant noted through gritted teeth: "Look, this is really important. We're all here to have fun, but there really are fucking limits to things -- whether it's in a pro clubhouse, in a college or high school team, or at a fantasy camp.

"Problems and conflicts are inevitable if people don't respect one another, and I prefer to address this issue now than let it worsen and create a real ugly problem. Okay, as is probably obvious, I'm pretty angry right now, and I'm going to tell you why. Someone has been fucking around with my personal belongings. I don't know who it was, but I don't want it to happen again. Just before you all came in here, I left my stuff by the sinks and went to shower, then came back to shave and brush my teeth. Now, I don't want to come off sounding like a baby, but I've looked everywhere for my goddamned toothbrush. Everything else was in my bag except my toothbrush, and I know it was there before I went into the showers. Okay, fine, someone was trying to have a little fun, and probably wanted to play a little joke, but I just don't think this kind of thing is funny -- especially when we're talking about something used for basic hygiene. Whoever took the toothbrush -- keep it: I don't want to know who took it, or what the joke was supposed to be. We'll leave it there. But what I do want everyone to know is that if this happens again, there are going to be real problems, okay?"

Although only a handful at most of the 100 or so present people could have any idea of where Grant's toothbrush could have gone, the entire group was enveloped in a collective silence of guilt as Grant fixed a last, searing gaze as it. He then wheeled around and strode back towards the clubhouse... amidst an explosion of relief and laughter as the brush end of his toothbrush was then seen vibrating from between his butt cheeks.

Not all stories campers will retell came first hand, however. As frequently noted during broadcasts by Mike Krukow and Duane Kuiper -- the latter a regular coach at Camp -- the history of baseball in many ways remains a verbally transmitted one, and there is no replacement for hearing stories and anecdotes from the former pros who saw them unfold. Cy Young winner Mike McCormick, for example, will tell of being signed by New York as a 17-year-old wunderkind, but having to scramble to gain access to the Polo Grounds when attendants guarding the players' entry refused to believe the adolescent's story that he was the Giants' starting pitcher that night. Then, once inside, McCormick discovered his New York teammates had irretrievably nailed his spikes to the locker room floor.

McCormick also remembers the infamous game in which New York Giants pitcher Ruben Gomez drilled Joe Adcock of the Milwaukee Braves with a pitch, then taunted the hit-batsman into charging the mound... which he then used as an excuse to fire another ball at him from a mere eight feet away. As many baseball fans have heard over the years, Gomez proceeded to race off the mound, through the dugout, and into the Giants' locker room -- something that many have come to interpret as probably the most cowardly example of beanball pitching ever. What most people don't know, McCormick notes, is that Gomez was tackled by Giants coaches trying to regain the field in search of Adcock, having only taken to the clubhouse in the first place to procure an ice pick.

Former Giant southpaw Gary Lavelle recalls a different kind of chase that he witnessed shortly after his arrival with the Giants' AAA club. Lavelle says his first series in the Giants' system was a three-game stand against the Dodger affiliate -- an encounter that Lavelle's new manager warned inevitably resulted in a brawl. The only rule, the skipper told the team on the eve of the series, was that no player go after any of the opposing coaches. These, he said, were specially reserved for the Giants staff.

"And sure enough, we get into the series, and a big old fight breaks out and the benches start clearing," Lavelle remembers. "I start out of the dugout towards the action, and suddenly I see (his manager) racing past me, heading right towards the Dodger dugout with blood in his eye. It was about then I see the Dodger manager dart out of his dugout and take off right down the left field line, into the bull pen, and out of the stadium, with my skipper in hot pursuit. That was the first time I ever remember laying eyes on Tommy Lasorda, and I don't think I'll ever forget the image of him hightailing it down the left field line."

Tales about former teammates, of course, are recounted both as fond memory and as a kind of entertainment at the (usually absent) subject's expense. Lavelle, for example, tells of getting to Candlestick early one morning to find Greg Minton wandering the outfield, completely naked. It appeared that the Moon Man had left one of his notoriously eccentric amorous encounters without having bothered to get dressed, and then figured that rather than return to wake the woman -- presumably a relative stranger -- he'd just get the yard early. Wendell Kim -- himself not known for being entirely disinterested in what some might consider the more colorful aspects of eroticism -- recalls rooming with the Moon Man, and being awoken as Minton ushered one of his paramours into their room.

"I look over at the door," says Kim giving an example of Minton's "special" tastes, "and this woman is so fat she just blocks out all the light from the hall. She's just huge."

Kim goes on to report that -- try as he did -- it was impossible to sleep due to all the noise emanating from the other bed. Then, when he threw the pillow off his head to complain, Kim recalls his face being immediately re-covered with the fleshy posteriorial expanse of Minton's guest. The next morning, Kim says, he arranged for a new roommate assignment. "Nice guy," Kim explains, "but just impossible to live with."

A decidedly fonder memory is recalled by Robby Thompson, speaking about his years playing with Mike Krukow. As a new arrival, Thompson remembers being taken by Krukow under his veteran wing, and sticking up for him when things got tough. By way of example, Robby recounts one of his early games with the Giants against Montreal, where Krukow vowed to avenge his second baseman after a wicked fastball got Thompson on the wrist and forced him to have X-rays taken.

"Kruk came over and said 'Don't you go anywhere. I want you to stay here and see this,'" Thompson recalls. "So I stay in the dugout, my wrist aching badly, and I watch Kruk take the mound and start throwing at guys. Problem is, he's throwing behind them, in the dirt, over their heads -- everywhere but at them. So I stay there for awhile, trying to hang in there like he told me to, but it starts hurting bad enough that I eventually go into the clubhouse to get it taken care of. In there, I'm watching the game on the TV set, and see Kruk still out there trying to nail batters, but just not getting any of them. I think he finally got one eventually, but I'd already headed out to the hospital, and didn't see it."

Less amicable was the story recounted by former American and National League MVP Vida Blue, who remembers late A's owner Charles O. Finley's efforts to get his pitcher to legally change his name to "True Blue" -- something Vida declined on the logic that "This is the name my daddy decided to give me, so this is the name I'm sticking with. Fuck that other shit." Later, Blue recalls Finley attempting to pay his pitcher's incentive bonuses not in cash, but in the form of a Cadillac. "Shit," Blue now marvels, "I'm surprised he didn't try to sweeten the deal with a promise of fucking trunk filled with watermelon...."

Former second baseman and current Giant announcer Duane Kuiper, meanwhile, offered a tale of how making the switch from insouciant player to highly exposed commentator could be difficult at times. During one attention lapse in the booth, Kuiper remembers realizing he'd begun discussing "quick-cock throws" with the abbreviated "cocks." Seeking to erase any possible confusion the viewer might have about the subject matter, Kuiper says he tried to find a clearly identifiable example of what he was talking about, only to come up with, "And of course Will Clark has probably the fastest and biggest cock in the game today."

But while tales of a former pro's past -- or present -- is always a valuable verbal relic heard first hand, the most cherished stories campers will go on to tell are the ones they figure in themselves. Indeed, given the imposing price of entry -- nearly $4,000 for a week of baseball -- such camper-pro memories are the raw material that produce the fantasy into Fantasy Camp. Such moment came the day after one rookie camper was introduced to former pitcher Bill Laskey -- an introduction involving approximately four of five sentences, albeit about a topic that both men were very interested in. Less than 12 hours later, the two saw each other again -- this time as the rookie stood on second after hitting off Laskey's pitcher, and breaking open what had been a tight game till then. Walking slowly to the mound with his characteristic hang-dog expression, Laskey paused just a second before pulling his pitcher and shouted toward second with hurt in his voice, "Whaddja do that for? I thought we were tight!"

Veteran campers recalled a spicier quip the previous year, when Bob Brenly watched an opposing player come up with the decisive knock in a close game. The camper recalled watching somewhat nervously as Brenly glared at him from the opposing dugout -- that enigmatic, pinched smile made up of one part mirth, three parts murder. Brenly continued his stare as the next batter made out, and as the offending batter retreated to his dugout, got his glove, and trotted toward left field. As he did so, Brenly took his position in the third base coaching box, glaring still, then broke the quiet of the mid-inning exchange with the memorable salute of, "Hey! Nice hit... dick!"

A final example of what makes camp worth it for those who can scrape up the funds represents a convergence of experiences -- both former players', as a camper, and as an ordinary Giants fan. Any attentive Giants lover who follows the unfolding of seasons with the verbal assistance of Kuip and Kruk has repeatedly heard the stories of naive batboys being sent on baseball snipe chases in search of "the key to the batter's box." Indeed, the ruse has been recounted so many times that the yarn becomes the mental equivalent of bus rides in the minors, or descriptions of clubhouse antics: things the listener knows takes place, but something the listener has and probably will never see for his or herself. Imagine the satisfaction, then, of standing behind Kuip as his team contested the Fantasy Camp championship match, and seeing a local kid who'd been hanging around all week walk up and ask for "Gwayne," who Gary Lavelle had assured would have the key to the batter's box. Prior to that, Rich Murray had suggested Lavelle might have the key; and before that, Mark Grant had reckoned Murray had it. Now, the boy was told, it was almost a sure thing that that big bald man, "Mister Tuna" up yonder, would have it, but as the child set out in determination to hunt down the key, the usually merciless Sadek took pity on the kid, and explained the entire gag -- leaving him forever invulnerable to the ploy again, and at once baptizing him into the larger family of Giants, and baseball. Someone then made the observation that the prank had been heard described by Kuip on the air a variety of times, so it was rather rewarding to witness it -- on the last day of Fantasy Camp -- materialize on its own. But even that was as rewarding still as the same person noting, "The only thing missing was seeing the kid walk up with a bubble gum bubble stuck to his cap" -- then seeing Sadek shift his eyes, flex his jaw muscles, then remove his cap in spite of himself to make sure there was no bubble on his.

None of this, of course, is the stuff that'll radically alter a life, or magically turn it around by bestowing some kind of transforming insight or meaning. At nearly four grand a pop, the Giants camp may to some seem a startlingly expensive session of Wanna Be aided by a few handfuls of Once Weres. But for those who consider the Giants an important part of their lives, the camp does offer that rare -- indeed unique -- chance to take just one step beyond the status of hardcore fan, and get closer to the feel of Big League Life, with the help of players who at one time were Big League Life. The closed circle that the pros inhabit may remain well out of reach, but thanks to the Giants Fantasy Camp organization and staffing, participants get a better feel of what goes on in that hallowed circle -- which becomes a more precious and palpable focus of their attention once the season kicks off. No camper leaves hoping he or she will be able to call a Barry Bonds or Rich Aurilia "my teammate," but all come away with the privilege of being able to refer to Mark Davis or Gary Matthews as "my coach" -- and in some cases, even "my pal." And all go home feeling more than ever that the Giants are indeed "my team," and its past and present players "my guys" in a special and irreplaceable way.

"Woody" is the pseudonym used by first-time EEEEEE! contributor Twandy Higsplorth-Guthnillitude, which is also a pseudonym made up just now. The truth is, nobody knows who "Woody" is, though inside sources describe him as a Paris-based journalist for a magazine read worldwide, and much of his work can be found on the Web, if you know what name to include in your search. (By way of a hint, EEEEEE! initially planned to employ an anagram, but we couldn't come up with an interesting one, which pretty much says it all. Every letter in Woody's actual first and last names, however, is included in this paragraph. Go to it, sleuths!) Woody's chief contribution to humankind is this article.

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