Apr 08 2019 07:25 PM
I'm Dave Racaniello, and I've been doing this a long time. I was the classic walk-on. Way back in 1997, my dad and I went to a Mets game, and through a mutual connection, we got to meet Bobby Valentine. I mentioned to BV that I was an amateur catcher and had caught Eric Bedard, and as fate would have it, the regular bullpen catcher called in sick shortly after, and Bobby invited me into the dream world.
I caught most of the rest of the season, but I was a kid. A baby. A nineteen-year-old fish out of water. So at the end of the season, I went back to my life. My REAL LIFE.
The fantasy should have gotten out of my system. But no, sir, it didn't. When I finished college, Valentine invited me back. That was 2001. And ... I've been there ever since. Hundreds of players have come and gone. Dozens of coaches. Already dim memories. (Chris Chambliss, anybody? Vern Ruhle?)
And damn, it's been cool. Hanging around the world's best athletes (and Jeff D'Amico), being in the club. First I was like their little brother. Then I was like one of the guys. Now I'm sort of like an older brother.
I love it, but it's grown sad. I'm like an elf, befriending the men of Middle Earth, but then their lifetimes come and go, and mine persists. I was David Wright's best man! Not Daniel Murphy. Not José Reyes. Not Curtis Granderson. ME! Fuck it, Cliff Floyd was giving me shit at the wedding, but for that one great moment, no one could have belonged more than me.
But I turn 40 this year. Wright is gone. I'm not sure where. I mean, I've still got his cell phone number and we text, but I rise early and he sleeps in. I throw BP and he plays badminton with those little girls of his.
Maybe this life is over for me. Maybe they're kind of pointing at me behind my back. I'm college-educated and turn 40, and I'm fetching their towels. The goddamn GM is barely older than I am.
Job security is great. But maybe I should look into other opportunities in the organization. I'm a fitness buff and it probably wouldn't take long for me to get training certifications. I could coach, I could scout, I could liase. But those positions are all filled with guys prone to getting fired, and here in the Mets bullpen, I never do.
So I do the safe thing. I strap 'em on and report for hump duty every spring.
In The Artist's Way, Julia Cameron writes about what she calls "The Shadow Artist" — the would-be actress who is afraid to aggressively pursue where her heart drives her, so she gets a job in the box office of the local bullshit theater company. Maybe she moves up to marketing in a few years. But the hunger never goes away, and she gets older but the ingenues stay the same age. And they all look past her shoulder at cocktail parties the same way, year after year, trying to catch the eye of somebody who matters.
Maybe your heart says to paint and sculpt, but fear and compromise lead you to instead work in a gallery. Maybe you get to curate a few shows. But God dammit, you come to hate what you love. One of these days, you swear you're going to take a box-cutter to this shit that people are calling art, but you know it would only go up in value.
Is that me? Am I shadow baseball player? I might be. I've cycled all the way from New York to camp in St. Lucie with R.A. Dickey. But I'm not Dickey. I've stood up for David Wright. But I'm not Wright. I've broken Dmitri Young's record for cheesesteaks consumed in the Philadelphia Phillies' visiting clubhouse. But I sure ain't Dmitri Young. I've run a few marathons, climbed Mount Kilimanjaro, and then ... reported back to St. Lucie in February. I tell people, "You know, not just anybody can do this!" and then I look at Eric Langill, and, um ... well ... .
So here I am. It's 2019. I'm doing it again. But I have a few questions about what lies ahead. Maybe you can help me.