No joy in Mudville, but a lot of fun at Angel Stadium

I was in the shower when the boss phoned. Knowing I’m a big baseball fan, he thought it would be the “opportunity of a lifetime” to go to Angel Stadium on Friday and walk the same ground that major-leaguers do. “You can actually take a couple swings in the batter’s box,” he said, excitedly.

Hmm, let’s see. I last swung at a baseball from a live pitcher somewhere in the early or mid-1990s, and that was a one-day affair. Since then, one trip to a batting cage with a friend, probably 10 years ago. Haven’t even played softball in the last decade.

And now that I’m older than two John Lackeys and slower than two Bengie Molinas, I replied, “Uh, yeah, sounds like fun.”

To get ready, I put away a slice of toast with peanut butter and a glass of orange juice. Donned a long-sleeved shirt and a hat monogrammed with my favorite team, the Pittsburgh Pirates. Pulled the ol’ ball glove from the closet.

The event was the Angels’ fourth food drive with Second Harvest Food Bank, and it continues today and Sunday. For a chance to tread where Angels and Giants have trod, you only need bring two or more canned items. I brought soup and green beans, because they were the only two cans left in the cupboard.

You sign a waiver before going on the field. “In case you get beaned or pull a hamstring shagging flies,” a food bank worker said.

Inside the stadium, which sprawls at ground level like a national park, I moseyed over behind home plate and met head groundskeeper Barney Lopas. He said that season-ticket holders might have seats for 20 years without setting foot on the field. “Then they come down on the field for something like this and you can see the joy in them,” he said.

He spit. “Did you just spit some tobacco?” I asked. He gave me a knowing look.

There was no mistaking. I was in “The Show.”

Knowing the main event would be in the batter’s box, I wanted to loosen up muscles that probably don’t still exist. I found three guys on the warning track in left field. They were friendly -- at least until I made one of them keep chasing my errant throws.

Two of my warmup buddies were Robert Mancebo of Irvine and Doug Schwartz of Laguna Niguel. “How many times do you get to be on a major-league field?” Mancebo said. “It’s a dream come true.”

For Mancebo, part of that dream later included trying to flag down a pitch from Schwartz, who decided for some reason to slip into submarine mode. The ball skipped past Mancebo.

“I can’t throw that pitch anymore, bro,” Schwartz, 41, lamented. “Apparently not,” the 42-year-old Mancebo replied, giving chase.

I drifted over to the right-field corner where Vladimir Guerrero works. But on this day, a couple guys named Manny and Marc were shagging flies from a machine operated by a grounds crew member near the infield.

It was my turn.

The first ball in my direction looked like the Columbia Shuttle in orbit, and I flubbed it, but I blamed it on my sunglasses. I draped them over the railing near the former bullpen gate and, rid of them, later made several catches, just like Vladdy.

OK, if you insist, I’ll tell you about one of them. It was a high, arcing drive. Recognizing that immediately, I got a bead on it and drifted back. And back. A moment later, body met wall in a serious crash, but reaching up, I made the catch over the wall, thereby robbing the machine of a home run.

The only casualty was my sunglasses, because I’d put them right where I hit the wall and a lens popped out as I gave up my body to make the play. Remembering nothing afterward, I asked Manny and Marc to describe the play and to leave nothing out.

“You were full extension,” Manny Jaquez of Costa Mesa said. That’s why I’m putting his name in the paper.

Later in the morning, I wandered down to third base while other guys were hitting. Someone hit a routine roller to me, and halfway there, I heard a voice saying, “Turn two!”

It sounded like someone yelling at me from Tustin, but it turned out to be the second baseman, wanting me to start a 5-4-3 double play. I fielded the grounder cleanly and looked toward second base, which seemed to shrink in the distance. I bounced a throw over there, no doubt irritating the second-sacker.

There was nothing left but to take my hacks in the cage. All the bats felt heavy, so someone gave me one belonging to an 8-year-old. I should have used the one offered to me by 35-year-old Cory Vessells of Mission Viejo. He went before me and rocketed shots all over the park.

They made me wear a helmet, which if you must know, severely affected my center of gravity. Still, I felt OK in the box and was confident. Groundskeeper Kevin Karlin said the machine was set for 70-75 mph, which didn’t seem overpoweringly fast, even to my tired eyes and reflexes.

They gave me a half-dozen hacks. Was I thinking that Barry Bonds or Reggie Jackson once stood there? Was I conjuring up memories of Bill Mazeroski when he won the 1960 World Series for the Pirates with a 9th-inning home run?

Nah. I was thinking, I hope my helmet doesn’t fall off.

Not to disappoint a generation of young readers, but I whiffed on five and fouled off a sixth. I rationalized that six pitches weren’t quite enough to summon timing that last existed 40 years ago. I trudged out of the box, as so many major-leaguers have before. Hey, even Joe DiMaggio struck out 369 times.

I had no trouble picking up the ball from the machine, but it looked like it had some fuzz around it. Karlin said the eyes begin to go in your 40s, and I felt like crying.

Was it exhilarating to be on the field? I wouldn’t go that far, but it was a lot of fun, muted only by playing Casey at the Bat. The failure brought back some long-buried memories I wish had stayed buried.

Still, I have the circus catch in right field now secured in the memory bank, even if only Manny and Marc saw it.

Wait till next year?

Sure, why not. It’ll probably be a lot easier then, right?

Dana Parsons can be reached at (714) 966-7821 or at dana.parsons@latimes.com. An archive of his recent columns is at www.latimes.com/parsons.