The 33 Year Old Intern

Dateline: 1993
Location: Fountain Hills, Arizona

33 year old intern, huh? Yes, I reinvented myself at 33. I find it interesting today, when I'm interviewing someone for a position in my company, FlexibilityPRO, that when I mention that a 30-60 day internship may be required of them, they look at me like I'm from another planet. Some have even asked "sooo....let me get this right, I'm gonna work for you, and you're not gonna pay me?" And I explain to them "nooo, I'm going to teach you something that you couldn't possibly learn anywhere else...and I'm not going to charge you". Which brings us to ... the 33 year old Intern.

In 1993, I was a fireman in Fountain Hills, Arizona. In December of that year, I was involved in one of a fireman's greatest fears going to a call. The infant code. Unfortunately, the infant code was at my house. After unsuccessful CPR, we lost our daughter Taylor. After a short leave, I returned to the firehouse. It just was not the same anymore. My heart jumped every time our tone went off. I found myself laying in my bunk at night, staring at the red light bulb on the wall that would activate when we got a call. I was a mess. This went on for several months and I finally realized I had to go. It was time to find a new career.

I wasn't sure what I wanted to do but I had this very strong, overwhelming feeling that I really wanted to help people. While working my shift one day, I saw an ad in the paper for a Massage Therapy School in Scottsdale, AZ. After several weeks of looking at the same ad, I finally decided to make the call. Please understand, this was not an easy thing for me to do. I came from a tough neighborhood in Brooklyn. Most of my family and friends were either cops or fireman - there were no Massage Therapists. I have always been a bit different, my teen years were consumed with body building. I was pounding protein shakes while my buddies were chugging beers. "Willy's a good guy, just a bit different" they would say. I ignored all of the "yo, what are you friggin' nuts??" and other comments that wouldn't exactly be politically correct these days. I enrolled! Naturally, I didn't exactly BLEND in Massage Therapy School either. "Who's the rough edged Brooklyn dude with the buzz cut?" I could hear them thinking. I fought to stay there even though, while driving there many times I was dying to turn around. I thought to myself "how can I do this?" Find a niche, I thought to myself. This came easily to me as my nickname back home was "OP" (Own Program). If nine people walked to the left, I would most certainly walk to the right. This was no different. During a "moment" after class one day, we all sat on the floor and held hands in a circle. The instructor asked us to let our emotions out and describe what we got out of the class that evening. I was horrified. Disoriented by the smell of patchouli and blinded by the tie dyed shirts and Birkenstocks, I blurted out "I want to be a Therapist in Major League Baseball". Now these people, well-mannered as they were, couldn't help but snicker. I would think about that sometimes while standing in the outfield in Yankee Stadium.

Upon completing Massage Therapy School, I thought to myself "I must get this to athletes." Now keep in mind, this is 1993, there was no such thing as muscle therapy in Major League Baseball. "I WILL BE THE FIRST" I decided. By this time my family and buddies in Brooklyn were scheduling an Intervention, I'm certain! Only by the unwavering support from my wonderful wife Barbara, was I able to continue. "Follow your dream Billy" she would say.

I walked into the Tempe McClintock High School Training room unannounced and ask to speak to the Head Trainer. Out walks Paul Bradley, an affable man. "How can I help you" he asks. "I'd like to apply for an Internship" I mutter. After a moment, he scans my weathered face and asks "How old are you?" "33" I respond. "You're older than me dude" he replies. I start to think this isn't going so well. He asks "How can you help us?" I think to myself "I got nothin here". I nervously scan the room and notice an ice machine. "I can make ice bags" I blurt out. I notice several Gatorade coolers on the floor. "I can make Gatorade coolers and run them out to the players." He remains quiet for a few moments then sternly says "I can't pay you, ya know". "I don't want any money" I said excitedly "I just want to LEARN." "Be here at 7 tomorrow morning" he says wondering what just happened. I broke my ass there for 3 months, cleaning whirlpools, mopping floors, and yes toilets. I wasn't sure where I was going with all this, but I plodded on. Then one day Paul Bradley introduced me to a gentleman "This is Jim Merrick, Pitching Coach for the Milwaukee Brewers Rookie ball team." My stomach churned, "no way", I thought. So this is why I'm here. Turns out Jim Merrick had a painful hip. "What do you do" asked Jim. Before I could respond, the trainer blurts out "he's a rub guy." I got Jim on the table and treated him for about 30 minutes. It was at this moment that I knew I wasn't just a rub guy. I wasn't going to massage him, I was going to release his hip muscles. He gets off the table and walks across the Training Room to test out his "new hip". He turns around, looks at me and says "Would you mind working on some of our players?"

Somehow, all those snickers faded away...

So when a prospective employee sits in my office, questioning a short internship, it just makes me smile. I spent 14 months in the Minor Leagues, working for no pay. When times were good I would be rewarded with soggy Subway sandwiches and team T-shirts. I knew I was destroying my family's financial stability, but I simply could not stop now. My wife would ask "Any chance of a paycheck soon?" my answer... "Soon I think." I drove up to Helena Montana on my own dime and spent the summer in a damp basement of a host family while my bank account drained. It didn't matter though, I was learning. I shadowed the Trainers incessantly, almost stalking them. I became a human sponge, I soaked up every bit of information I possibly could and kissed everyone's ass - from the groundskeeper to the scoreboard guy. You can do anything you want to me right now, it doesn't matter. I'm gonna be in the Big Leagues one day.

It's never too late to start over...... said the 33 year old Intern.

And So It Begins.....

Standing in Center Field With a Latte .... What the Hell Does That Mean?
Dateline: Friday, May 23, 2003
Location: Miller Park, Milwaukee, Wisconsin
We just flew in from playing the Rockies @ home in Dodger Stadium. Team Hotel is the Hyatt Regency in Downtown Milwaukee. Quite a change from when I was in the American League with the Angels. We stayed at the Hotel Pfister circa 1893. This is a true landmark. A property filled with gold gilded ceilings, straight out of "The Shining". You could easily see creepy little kids on tricycles if you let your mind wander. Lots of players wouldn't stay here, particularly our Latin players because of the hotel's reputation for being haunted. I think about this every time we come to play the Brewers, glad to be at the Hyatt tonight.
I wake up at 6:30am, not having remembered that we traveled after last night's game and I realize this is not my bedroom in Coto de Caza CA. I amble over to the door to check what city I'm in. Ahhhh, Milwaukee. My gluttonous thoughts immediately kick in. Brats!! Shower up and wander down West Kilbourn Avenue in search of a Starbucks. Found one. Nice. As I sit over my quad Americana I notice the familiar ache in my hands and wrists. Gonna need some help getting through work today... More on this later.
Training staff shows up in the hotel lobby on the road at 12 noon for a 7pm game this evening. We pile into a taxi and make our way to the park. The visiting clubhouse in Milwaukee is a great one, every player likes coming here. Big Training Room...and did I mention Brats?? One detractor however, unlike most stadiums, there is no runway from the Clubhouse to the Dugout. Whoever is unlucky enough to have the corner locker (usually a rookie) is literally about 6 feet away from the dugout. Ha, change quick!
We get to the park about 12:30pm and begin the load in. Rows and rows of our training room equipment awaits us, ready to be unpacked. I'm lucky enough to be part of a great training staff. Stan Johnston (Head Trainer), Matty Wilson (Assistant Trainer) Pat Screnar (Physical Therapist), Todd Claussen (Strength and Conditioning Coach), myself (Muscle Therapist), and Hideyuki Fukazawa (Japanese intern). We are all proud of working under the direction of Medical icon and "Tommy John" surgery pioneer Dr. Frank Jobe. First order of business for the load in...Matty Wilson plugs in our stereo and BLASTS "Black Betty". Now we know the day will be OK. We lay out every possible thing our players will need today, from band aids to ice packs to the docs injectibles - we're the Dodgers, we don't miss a thing. The visiting clubbies marvel at the size of our training staff. Once the load in is complete, it's now "our" time for about an hour. Time to remember that you're a husband, dad, and human being. My mind wanders to my "other" life. My beautiful wife Barbara and great 13 yr old son Will. This is where my ritual begins. It's only 2 hours into the work day and I already need my "me" time. I like to call it my "FU" time. It's now 1:45pm. Our Disabled List guys are starting to filter in and some of the rookies have figured out that getting treatment later in the day when the "Big Boys" are in is not a good idea. I'm due on the field at 2:30pm for "early hitting". This is the time when rookies and DL guys and guys who just haven't had a lot of at bats get extra hitting. This is also the time when I get to hit. I have been blessed to take batting practice, take infield throws at first base and shag batting practice in every National League and American League Stadium. 36 in all if I can remember correctly....more on that later.
In every stadium we go to, I grab a cup of coffee and my cell phone and walk the field. This is a special time for me, probably because I never thought I would ever be able to experience this. It is an incredibly surreal feeling. I stand in the outfield, looking towards home plate at a completely empty stadium. This is Baseball, I am reminded. The smell of the grass, the thought that in 5 hours this place will be rocking. But right now, not so much. I can hear the birds chirping sitting on the seats behind me. I am enjoying this moment immensely. It is a healing moment. A cathartic moment. A "me" moment.

I am awakened from this reverie by my cell phone. I answer it. It's my wife Barbara calling from work back home in CA. She says "I didn't check the schedule yesterday, where are you?"

My answer of course is.... "STANDING IN CENTER FIELD WITH A LATTE."

Thanks for Visiting

Thanks for visiting "Standing in Center Field With a Latte" . A bit of a different title, and of course I'll explain how it came about in the near future. This is a story about a kid who grew up in Brooklyn, N.Y. , sitting in the bleachers of Yankee Stadium with his Dad and brother. (from now on will only be referred to as "The Stadium"). At some point in his life, he finds himself playing catch with his son in centerfield of The Stadium, numb and emotional from the experience. These are stories you have never heard before, and will never hear again. These are true stories... hilarious stories, sad stories, my stories.

I have had so many people tell me that they wished I would put my career into a book.

I thought a blog might be nicer. These are true accounts of my 12 years in a Major League Baseball Training Room. They won't always be easy to write, or to read.

These are stories of the high life, terrible lows, death and addiction.

This blog will make you laugh a lot, cry a bit, and show you some of the dark side you may never have thought about.