CAMPING OUT WITH THE ORANGE COUNTY Dodgers : Boys of Summer Hit, Hit With Power, Run, Field and Throw--All Painfully--to Fulfill Fantasies With Bubble Gum Heroes

Cary Sarnoff, a court reporter by trade, had just put on his baseball shoes when Duke Snider, the greatest Dodger ever to play center field, walked right by him.

“Good morning, Duke,” said the court reporter, casual as can be.

“Morning,” said The Duke, matter of factly.

After a moment, it had sunk in.

There stood Sarnoff, his mouth gaping in awe, his head shaking in disbelief, his voice trembling as he exclaimed, “I can’t believe I just said good morning to Duke Snider!”

Dressed like a kid in a real Los Angeles Dodger uniform, Sarnoff, 40, was in an actual Dodger locker room, preparing to play baseball on a genuine Dodger ball field.

Should he need a tip on swinging the old bat or throwing the ball, all he need do was ask The Duke. Or Ernie Banks. Or Warren Spahn. Or Don Drysdale.

In fact, there were 13 of Sarnoff’s baseball heroes on hand. We’re not talking mere run-of-the-mill baseball heroes. We’re talking Hall of Famers whose likenesses hang right with Babe Ruth’s and Ty Cobb’s in the game’s hallowed halls in Cooperstown, N.Y.

(For the two or three culturally deprived readers who have been on the moon since birth, let us explain that those enshrined in the Hall of Fame are baseball’s Michelangelos and Albert Einsteins. They are, of course, larger than life, greater than great and can walk on water. With one foot tied behind their back.)

So, there stood Sarnoff. And there stood The Duke. Sarnoff called it a dream come true.

The Dodgers call it “Baseball Heaven.”

One week each February, the Dodgers conduct a Hall of Fame Fantasy Camp at Dodgertown, their spring training facility in Vero Beach, Fla. There, for a $4,195 fee, produce salesmen, doctors, lawyers, meatpackers, insurance brokers (and this year the creator of the Ginsu knife) play and talk baseball with The Duke and Ernie and all the rest.

They put on their uniforms in the same locker room. They lounge in the same lounge. They dine at the same dining room tables. (“Please pass the salt, Duke.”)

To give you an idea of how important this is, consider that it rained the night before camp began. The rain stopped by morning. For five days, 96 fantasy campers and the Hall of Famers romped around Dodgertown’s ball fields. They played 16 games. It didn’t rain the entire time.

“It wouldn’t dare rain on our parade,” one camper put it.

An hour after the final game, it rained cats and dogs. Now, that’s clout.

Among the campers in Vero Beach with Sarnoff, a Newport Beach resident, were Fred Jacobson, 45, of Tustin, Ralph Rollins, 39, of Costa Mesa and Dan Tsujioka, 38, of Newport Beach.

Call them the Orange County Dodgers.

In this age of anti-heroes and rampant cynicism, what draws grown men to such a place?

Sarnoff, who last played organized baseball in high school, said it’s “a what-if feeling.” He hoped to glimpse “what it would have been like if I’d stayed in the batting cages two or three hours a day” as a teen-ager.

From Feb. 11 to 16, Sarnoff got an eyeful.

The Florida rain may have been chased away by Mr. Sunshine himself, the forever young Banks, who trod daily upon the manicured Dodgertown fields of play.

“I feel like a Texas millionaire!” the 57-year-old former Chicago Cubs shortstop announced to everyone and no one in particular. Then he wanted to know: “How do you feel?”

Banks’ infectious chant became a watchword. Wherever he appeared, he was greeted with, “How do you feel, Ernie?” He always felt great.

Cary Sarnoff felt great the first day too. He expected so much fun that he telephoned his wife to tease: “There’s a one-in-three chance I’m not coming home.”

But at Sarnoff’s age, wasn’t there at least a one-in-three chance of overdoing it?

“The only thing that gets hurt here is egos,” Sarnoff assured.

Remember those words.

Campers began with half an hour of stretching exercises, then a couple of hours of infield, outfield, catching, pitching and batting practice. The campers were divided into six teams, with Hall of Famers as managers and coaches.

At 1:30 p.m., umpires yelled, “Play ball!”

Sarnoff was an immediate standout and the first Orange County camper to score a run. On the bench, teammate and stockbroker Ralph Rollins squinted into the sun and yelled.

“Joonwhaddayasaynah!” slurred Rollins at the top of his lungs, just like they do in the big leagues.

(For those unfamiliar with baseball-ese, Rollins was imploring Junior Marques, a motel operator from South Yarmouth, Me., to do well at bat.)

The first-day skies were angry gray, and gusty winds lashed the playing fields, blowing fly balls beyond the reach of sloth-footed fielders and sapping the strength of the less-than-fit.

“This is opening day, and on opening day you run into a little turbulence,” said Banks, coach of the San Antonio Dodgers, who were beaten 11-7 by the Albuquerque Dodgers, managed by Lou Brock, the great outfielder for the St. Louis Cardinals and Chicago Cubs.

Tsujioka was on Banks’ team. Rollins, Sarnoff and Jacobson were on Brock’s.

In the dining hall that night Brock announced that his club’s outstanding player had been Sarnoff, whose prowess called to mind, if ever so faintly, none other than The Duke of Flatbush, Edwin Donald Snider.

In after-dinner ceremonies, Brock presented Sarnoff the revered Mr. Potato Head award. That’s right. Mr. Potato Head, the plastic kid’s toy. It was inscribed with marking pen. What do you expect for $4,195?

The Orange County players’ Day One statistics were: Jacobson, 1 hit in 3 at bats; Rollins, 1 for 4; Sarnoff, 1 for 2, and Tsujioka, 2 for 3.

When Day Two arrived it was increasingly apparent that campers ranged in age from 23 to 63. In the locker room everyone pulled his socks on the same way, one foot at a time. But not everyone’s socks were going on as effortlessly as they had the day before.

Rollins drew “oohs” and “ahs.” Two serious-looking, huge bandages hid his cheek and chin. Had he been plunked with a Don Drysdale fastball?

Not quite so glamorous, Rollins confessed. He had slashed himself shaving.

This day the Albuquerque Dodgers faced a team managed by Warren Spahn, who in 21 years with the Braves won more major-league games than any left-hander in history.

Spahn’s craggy face, beach-ball belly and constant cigarette smoking were not his only distinctions. His team won every game, making him the most booed Hall of Famer in camp.

He introduced himself this way: “I’m Warren Spahn from Oklahoma, and I hated the damn Dodgers until they brought me here and paid me.”

Someone joked that Spahn, who quit playing a quarter-century ago at age 44, was so old he pitched to Abraham Lincoln. Without hesitation, Spahn said Lincoln was a low-ball hitter.

Rollins, attending his second fantasy camp, said he wanted to pitch: “Last year I thought I wasn’t as good as any of these pitchers. I played the outfield and embarrassed myself.”

He got his chance in the second inning. He walked one guy, then another. Soon the bases were loaded, then a batter knocked Rollins’ pitch over the center fielder’s head.

“He hit a good pitch, the only one I threw,” Rollins said.

This type of thing continued for some time. Trailing 16-to-something, manager Brock slowly walked to the mound to take Rollins out of the game.

“I’ve been waiting for you. Where have you been?” an exasperated Rollins wanted to know.

Meanwhile, catcher Jacobson, an exporter-importer in real life, survived a crushing collision with a runner intent on scoring. The runner stomped on Jacobson’s instep with his cleats. “Safe!” yelled the ump. Jacobson insisted he had not dropped the ball.

At dinner, Ernie Banks and former Dodger catcher Roy Campanella, whose brilliant career ended when he was paralyzed in a 1958 automobile crash, spoke on how “Baseball Can Be Fun.”

Clearly campers were becoming more at ease in the presense of the Hall of Famers. Nevertheless, the look in their eyes was still that of little kids ogling their heroes.

When Campanella spoke, the same look was in the eyes of Hall of Famers such as the Chicago Cubs’ Billy Williams. Even heroes have heroes.

Day Three broke with the clearest weather yet. Gulls dotted the playing fields as campers awoke to discover new sore spots all over their bodies.

Tsujioka, at age 38 financially comfortable enough to be retired, pitched this day for Banks’ team. After one inning, Banks told his players: “Don’t panic. When we wake up, we’ll be all right.” The other team already had 9 runs.

Tsujioka’s pitching adventure ended shortly thereafter.

As if to redeem himself, Tsujioka swung the bat with a mighty vengeance, socking an inside-the-park home run. In all he had three hits. But Spahn’s invincibles won the game.

On another of the Dodgertown baseball diamonds, the team with the other three Orange County campers entered the last inning needing 30 runs to tie. They lost 31-1. In two days they had lost two games by a cumulative score of 60-6.

That night Banks gave his team’s Potato Head award to Tsujioka, despite his pitching misadventures. After dinner, the greatest percentage of players to date limped off to their rooms, rather than to the lounge.

Day Four. A smattering of tourists clustered behind the backstops and in the stands to watch the campers. A young boy asked Tsujioka for an autograph.

The wind had died as the blustery weather was running out of steam, as were the campers.

In the locker room, the jarring odor of Ben Gay was pervasive. Sarnoff and Jacobson spent extra time getting their legs wrapped tightly in tape.

Sarnoff speculated that maybe one or two campers actually hoped Dodger scouts would discover them. “There’s a certain fanaticism,” he observed.

As for himself: “I still like my wife and kids. I’m not ready to give them up.”

After one inning, Sarnoff was running like an old woman, prompting him to complain: “I feel like an old woman out there.”

“I don’t think you’re alone in that,” Rollins responded.

Manager Brock took Sarnoff out of the game.

An inning later, Sarnoff begged to return (yes, special rules).

“I didn’t come here to put ice on my groin!” he protested.

Brock relented and Sarnoff went back to left field, caught a fly ball and his team won a squeaker, 7-6.

“This is what fantasy is all about--right down to the wire,” manager Brock beamed.

Day Five arrived--the final inning, as it were. The most popular place in camp was the trainer’s room.

“You should see the line in there!” said a startled Chris Carter, a 30-year-old supermarket produce manager from Kelso, Wash., who won his trip to camp in a national contest for creating the best sales display of peanuts.

The last morning’s games were slugfests. Each Orange County man collected two hits.

In the last inning, Sarnoff needed a hit to move into the lead for the prestigious, albeit mythical, Orange County Batting Championship--the concoction of a newspaper writer. Sarnoff’s limp was bad, despite extra tape applied to his leg.

“I got in the whirlpool this morning, and they taped it all up, and now my leg feels like you can fry an egg on it, it’s so hot,” he said.

Sarnoff didn’t get his hit, drawing a walk instead. He had one more chance.

After the morning games, the campers formed one 96-man squad to play against the Hall of Famers. Tickets were on sale all week for the finale held in the Dodgers’ Holman Stadium.

A three-way battle loomed for the mythical batting title. Jacobson and Sarnoff both were batting .500--7 hits in 14 at bats. Tsujioka was hitting .500 too--8 for 16.

But let’s cut to the chase. Brock and Williams hit tremendous home runs for the Hall of Famers, who won the game 15-3.

The real drama was the competition for the Orange County Batting Championship.

Each of the 96 campers got one at bat in the game. Tsujioka could have cinched the title with a hit, but Hall of Famer Robin Roberts struck him out--with a curve ball.

Sarnoff, a fantasy camp rookie, stepped up. Strike one went by without a swing. He swatted at the next pitch and looped it over Ernie Banks’ head, a clean single.

It all came down to the veteran Jacobson, obviously weary from the week’s work. Hall of Famer Hoyt Wilhelm served up a fat one. Jacobson mustered up all he had left. Ball and bat met like old friends and Jacobson dashed off to first base. The ball found a place to fall in center field where no one was standing.

The prestigious Orange County Batting Championship ended in a tie, Sarnoff and Jacobson hitting for identically impressive .533 averages.

Wait till next year.