On The Mound In The Carolina League
A native New Yorker, a few thousand fans and three pitches for $1 million.
How far is the distance between the pitcher’s mound and home plate?
To a baseball fan, it might sound like a silly question. It’s 60 feet, six inches.
If you could find a tape measure long enough, I’m sure you could confirm it. But the one time I stood on a professional baseball mound, no amount of physical evidence could have convinced me that it was anywhere near that close.
When and how did that happen? Just like last week’s entry, we’re firing up the Delorean to travel to the past. Instead of 50 years, this time we’re only turning back the clock 25 years to September 1998.
I was living across the Potomac River from Washington, DC in Arlington, Virginia in a sprawling and soulless development of commercial, retail and residential properties called Crystal City. I lived on the seventh floor of a high rise that could be accurately described as a “filing cabinet for widows and young professionals.”
It’s funny how art can imitate life, isn’t it?
What the neighborhood lacked in charm it more than made it up in terms of convenience, being a 15-minute train ride from my office at 1801 Pennsylvania, Avenue, N.W. That was the headquarters of MCI, the upstart long distance telephone company that used the courts and clever marketing to challenge the giant AT&T.
MCI was a great place to work. My time there was one of the highlights of my career, but by the Summer of 1998 the party was coming to an end.1 MCI management went looking for a merger partner, and after false starts with British Telecom and GTE, the company found one in Jackson, Mississippi-based WorldCom.2 As the calendar flipped to September, colleagues began departing for new jobs, scattering across the country. Though I stayed in the Washington area, I was planning my departure too and would leave the company shortly after the merger officially closed in November.
Things were changing inside my family too. My brother had announced his engagement to his long-time girlfriend and they would be married the following March. My sister was planning her engagement too and her boyfriend wanted to spring it on me in person. So as the days of the Summer began to wane, my mother called to say that she and my father as well as my sister and her boyfriend wanted to visit me over Labor Day Weekend.
In pasting the weekend together, I faced a gap on Saturday night. My future brother-in-law was a tremendous baseball fan, so bringing the family to a game made sense. The Baltimore Orioles, the closest major league franchise, were on the road that weekend, so I purchased five tickets to see the Prince William Cannons, the single A affiliate of the St. Louis Cardinals in the Carolina League.3
The Cannons played at Pfitzner Stadium, about an hour south of Arlington. We walked through the front gate about 15 minutes before game time to discover that the evening’s promotion was “Million Dollar Pitch Night.”
The proposition was simple. One fan would be chosen at random to throw three pitches at a target behind home plate.
Hit the target once, win $100.
Hit it twice, win $1,000.
Hit it three times and win $1 million.
My sister’s future husband was keen to sign up, as he was a pitcher in an adult recreational baseball league. I decided to sign up too, even though I had no business doing so. I played some rugby in college, but ice hockey was my sport. And while like every 20 and 30-something adult in Washington, I played a lot of softball, I hadn’t played baseball since a two-week stint at a camp in Pennsylvania 20 years before. My father, who was a pretty good CYO shortstop in the days of Pee Wee Reese, demurred.
We grabbed a few beers and some hot dogs and made our way to the seats behind home plate on the third base side. A few innings in I was stunned by the P.A. announcer: “Eric McErlain, please report to fan services.”
I was just as stunned that they pronounced my name correctly.
My Queens-born future brother-in-law was unhappy and he let me know it. “I can’t freaking believe they picked you!” I couldn’t believe it either, but that’s the sort of luck I have. Now that things were in motion, I tried to play it down.
“There could be a million reasons they’re calling my name,” not realizing the irony at the moment. “I’ll go down and see what’s going on.”
I made my way down the steps of the bleachers and inside the grandstand to find the Fan Services counter. “Uh, I’m Eric McErlain.”
A man about half a head shorter than me and at least five years younger stepped forward and shook my hand. I figured he was doing time in the front office in the hopes of catching on with a Major League team someday. I wonder if he made it.
“Congratulations, you’re our guy. Follow me.”
The kid led me into the team offices where I was confronted with a legal document about as long as a mortgage agreement. You didn’t think they were just going to give away $1 million, did you?
The terms were pretty simple and I was at least vaguely familiar with them. I had run a couple of charity golf tournaments earlier in my career, and we had crazy prizes for anyone got a hole-in-one on a designated par 3. Basically, you purchase an insurance policy that will pay off if somebody makes the shot. You monitor the hole and provide proof on video if someone makes it and send it to the insurance company.
In all the years I ran those tournaments, no one won the hole-in-one prize.
The terms here had some new wrinkles. I had to certify that I hadn’t played baseball competitively after high school (which would have eliminated my future brother-in-law from consideration). If I had they would have sent me away and picked someone else. I had to promise not to touch a baseball for the rest of the night until they brought me out onto the mound for my three pitches. As it turned out, there was a cage at the park where a speed gun would record how fast you pitched. If I could have used it, I would have been warming up beginning in the top of the 8th inning.
And then there was a final requirement: for the rest of the night I would have an escort who would ensure that I complied with the rules of the promotion. So after I signed, another kid accompanied me back to the grandstand and took an empty seat a few rows from where my family was sitting to keep an eye on me.
Just ahead of the bottom of the ninth, I made my way to a gate along the first base side of the field and waited for my chaperone to show up. After the Cannons went down meekly in the bottom of the ninth to the visiting Wilmington Blue Rocks, the P.A. announcer chimed in again: “Please remain in your seats following the game for our million dollar pitch!”
And remain in their seats many of them did. After all, goofy stuff like this is one of the reasons fans pay to watch minor league ball. Pfitzner holds 6,000 fans and most of them stuck around, outside of a couple hundred die hards who were lining the fence along the first base side looking for player autographs. Knowing that my chances on cashing in on the $1 million was next to nil, I tried my best to soak it all in and enjoy it. And enjoy it I did, especially after I saw them display my name on the scoreboard in centerfield.
I was joined on the mound by the kid who had me sign the paperwork. He was armed with a videocamera and a wireless microphone. He turned to me. “Are you ready?”
I nodded and he switched on the microphone.
“Thanks for staying for Million Dollar Pitch Night, where a fan has the chance to win $1 million. Joining me on the mound tonight, from Arlington, Virginia … “
Which is when a cascade of boos and jeers descended on me. Wearing a Mets hat while the Cannons were a Cardinals affiliate didn’t help, but there was more. In these parts, Arlington, Alexandria, Fairfax County, Fairfax City and the City of Falls Church are colloquially known as “Northern Virginia.” But as suburban sprawl has expanded south and west of Washington, some folks who like a quieter life “outside the Beltway,” have grown a touch resentful.
“ … is Eric McErlain.” And as suddenly as the booing began, it was replaced by cheers and a smattering of applause. So even though I knew it was unlikely I’d be able to put one ball on target, these people were rooting for me to nail all three.
It was quite a rush.
“Eric, are you ready?” I nodded and turned to home plate, which is the first time I got a good look at the target. What I saw had a frame made out of PVC pipe. If you looked at it from the side, it was shaped like an “L” with the base of the letter resting on the ground. It seemed like it was about seven feet in height. Stretched inside the frame and anchored to it by wire was a black tarp. And at the very top of the frame there was an opening cut into the tarp that seemed no more than a single square foot.
The sixty feet and change to home plate suddenly seemed more like 600.
Up until this point, I was just enjoying myself, and I didn’t have a plan — which after all was the point of not allowing me to touch a baseball and warm up before getting onto the field. So I ran through the options in my head.
Do I throw from the stretch?
In tribute to my hero, Tom Seaver, do I go full windup, dragging my right knee through the dirt and coming off the mound ready to field the position?
As I was running through my limited options, my host was getting impatient.
“Anytime now, Eric.” His voice boomed across the park.
Which is when I just figured I’d lob it in there and hope for the best.
The pattern over the next three pitches was the same. I started from the stretch, pivoted to get some mustard behind the ball, guesstimated the trajectory and let go.
Each time the crowd “oohed” as the ball left my hand, “ahhed” as it traveled toward the target, and let out an “oh” when it missed.
And then they booed. Every time.
But once again, these fans proved why the minor leagues are great. After the boos faded out, they were replaced by cheers and a smattering of applause. These were good people and there was no hiding it. The kid on the microphone asked the crowd to give me one more round of applause and they sent me off like a champ.
My night wasn’t over yet. The kid asked me to pose for a few pictures, which I received in the mail a few weeks later. Then he asked me if I’d like a game used baseball. I said sure, but asked if he could get a player to autograph it. He disappeared into the dugout, while I wandered over to the first base side to find my family. On my way, I ran into a few people who wanted my autograph. Perplexed, but happy to oblige, I signed a couple of programs.
Which is when the kid came back with the ball.
The ball had been autographed by Chad Hutchinson, a two-sport star out of Stanford University who had left school after two years to sign a contract with the Cardinals. A highly rated prospect in both football and baseball, he made it to the majors in 2001 where he pitched four innings and posted an ERA of 24.75.
Sensing that baseball wasn’t for him, Hutchinson signed a contract to play quarterback for the Dallas Cowboys. He started nine games for America’s Team in 2002 before losing the starting job to Quincy Carter the following season. He left Dallas for Chicago in 2004 and started five games there before retiring for good.
With my game used ball in hand and memories to last a lifetime, my family and I joined the throng headed to the parking lot and back into the night, never to throw a baseball again.
In official Washington, the news was all Lewinsky, all the time.
Before I departed, I had a chance to meet briefly with WorldCom CEO Bernie Ebbers. The vibes were not positive, which spurred me to seek opportunities elsewhere. A little less than four years after the merger closed, the company declared bankruptcy in June 2002. Ebbers was eventually indicted on multiple counts of conspiracy and securities fraud. It was determined that WorldCom misstated its profits to the tune of $3.9 billion. He was sentenced to 25 years in jail and served a little more than half of the sentence before he was released due to ill health in December 2019. He died a few months later.
The Washington Nationals didn’t move to D.C. from Montreal until 2005. So, between 1985 and 2004, I watched a lot of American League baseball in Baltimore. If I had to rank the top three stadiums where I’ve seen a game, Shea Stadium would be #1, Camden Yards #2, Memorial Stadium #3, Nationals Park #4 and CitiField #5.