“Oh great,” was the instantaneous thought that raced through my mind. “Here, on the perfectly manicured field, this ground ball has to find the one pebble and take a bad hop.”

This field was part of the Detroit Tigers Spring Training complex in Lakeland, Florida, and I was there in February of 1995 for an open tryout in the wake of the Major League Baseball players strike that had canceled the 1994 World Series.

I had been a devoted Cubs fan my whole life, but more than that, my lifelong dream had been to have a chance to play Major League Baseball, for any team that gave me that opportunity.

After a solid high school career, I played a pair of nondescript seasons at two Division III colleges, but by this time had been settled into three seasons of rec league, community softball.

But when the strike hit, and kept going through the fall, I started to see this as perhaps my moment.

Rumors started coming out, as autumn turned to winter, that with no end to the strike in sight, that teams would be holding tryouts for anyone who wanted to give it a go.

It was now January of ‘95 and I spent a day and night calling information in various major league cities, got the number of those teams’ front offices and called to inquire about any tryouts they might have.

Quite a few teams were, in fact, going to have open tryouts, and the first one coming up would be for the Tigers just a few weeks away.

Hurried arrangements were made to get a flight and hotel room, and I flew down the day before the tryout.

Watching the news from my hotel room that night, Tiger manager Sparky Anderson declared he would not coach any team of “replacement players” as was the nickname given to all of us hopefuls.

Then again, bearing witness to most of those hopefuls the next morning, the term “player” might have been a bit too generous as the vast majority of the more than 300 people who showed up, didn’t exactly look like ball players.

And while Anderson wouldn’t be at the tryout, the rest of the Tigers’ coaches, including Bill Russell and Lance Parrish, would be a part of it.

I had no idea what a tryout for a pro team entailed, but was anxious to hit.

At every level I had played – from Little League to high school, from high school to college – hitting always worried me the most, but always wound up being my biggest strength.

In the field, I played every position at one time or another, and while I was capable at all positions, I wasn’t exceptional at any.

A Major League tryout, I soon discovered, was a 60-yard dash and three balls hit to you.

That was it, as far as the bulk of the tryout, as a way to winnow out most of the throng.

The dash came up first, and while I had always been fast over short distances, and was currently in the process of losing some weight, I was still probably 10 pounds over my playing weight.

Then I found out a baseball lesson that I had had wrong all these years.

When leading off a base, as we would simulate to start this dash, I had always stepped first with my leading foot. After a couple practice starts, two guys I met stopped me and explained that my start only consisted of a half step. If my first move was to pivot and take that first step with my trailing foot, it would be a full-step start.

A quick couple of practice starts with their method felt too uncomfortable, and they said to just go with what I was used to.

The three of us were soon up and, at the start with our varying methods, they were quickly out in front of me.

Now in full stride, I soon passed one guy and was on the verge of passing the other around the 50-yard mark.

But those 10 extra pounds came back to haunt me as I never quite caught up, with each of us missing the target time by a few hundredths of a second.

From there, my decision was which fielding position should I take the three balls hit to me from?

I decided on second base, which is what I had been playing on my rec softball team, and even though we were now on a larger field, I felt I could still make solid throws to first.

The outfielders went first, and while they were fielding balls hit to them and throwing to second, third and home, I found another twist in the tryout process.

First basemen, in major league eyes, were first basemen, but the rest of the infielders were all shortstops.

Shortstops that didn’t quite have the range, then became third basemen, those who didn’t quite have the arm, then became second basemen, but they all start out as shortstops.

The throw from second base on this larger field than I had played on for the last three years was one thing, but now they were expecting this softball second baseman to make the throw from short?

While the coaches said to hold your position and not move in too much, since they wanted to judge our arms from the true shortstop position, I joked among those around me, “I’ll run into the pitchers mound if I have to, to make this throw.”

As it turned out, nobody was able to make those throws, and the first basemen were taking a beating, until my turn finally arrived.

And that was when the first ball hit to me found that one little pebble and took a bad hop.

I shuffled to center it and had my glove low, but it was careening on a path to carry it over my right shoulder – but what happened next was a blur.

My hands instinctually moved to snare the ball, I stepped toward first and threw a perfect strike, the first of the day.

Everything seemed to stop for a second and silence fell.

I resumed my position even as I was asking myself, “how did you just do that?”

The next two grounders held true, I gloved them and gunned over two more perfect strikes, causing Parrish, who had been observing, to step up and have a few words with Russell, who had been hitting the grounders.

The rest of the group of infielders soon swarmed me in congratulations before the last few grounders were hit and the tryout ended.

As it turned out, only the hopefuls who had beaten the target time for the 60-yard dash were asked to stay and hit, which was six players out of the 300 plus.

I was still flying high from what I had just done, but felt a sting of disappointment that I wouldn’t be able to do the thing I knew I’d excel at.

That sting was soon washed away, however, as while I was leaving the field, a grizzled old Tigers fan, among the dozens who had come to watch the tryouts, came up to me seeming real excited.

“Are you one of the ones they picked to stay?”

“No, it was just the guys who got the time in the run.”

“Oh, that’s too bad, you looked like you belonged out there.”

That was it, that was all I needed.

The dream had always been to have the opportunity to play in front of professional coaches.

When I finally did, I came through and even got two of those coaches talking.

Having a fan come up and tell me that, well that just took the cake.

I didn’t even change clothes and just went to the airport and flew back home.

As it turned out, an Associated Press photographer was on hand and got a picture of a throng of us walking onto the field for the tryout, with me dead center in the middle, and it ran in the next day’s Chicago Tribune.

None of my friends had known about my venture, but one called to tell me about the photo and ask how it went.

After describing the events, he expressed his condolences, but pushed for me to go to more tryouts, suggesting I’d do better now that I knew what to expect.

But for me, it was done.

I had my moment to shine, and that was all I needed.

As it turned out, the dream wasn’t necessarily to make it through and become a major leaguer.

It was to have the chance and do the best I could.

I wound up doing better than I had imagined I would, and some people in the know took notice.

That dream had been fulfilled.