Going pro

All through elementary school, middle school, and even through high school, whenever anybody asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up, I always answered professional baseball player. Back then everybody thought my answer was cute, though probably somewhat unrealistic, especially considering the fact that I only played one season of high school baseball and batted .111. They figured I'd go off to college and establish some real career goals.

So it might be disappointing to many of the adults who have guided me over the years that about a month before graduating from college I still dream of being inducting into the Baseball Hall of Fame. But, they can take solace in the fact that I no longer think I'll make it to Cooperstown as a shortstop or a center fielder.

Instead of hitting my way to the Hall of Fame, I hope to write my way there. Some may find this career goal to be as equally unrealistic or perhaps even more unrealistic than my career goal before college. And based on my current state of affairs they could probably make a strong argument.

Exactly 26 days before graduation, my life resembles Grand Central Station at rush hour -- mass confusion. I am jobless. I have few, if any, job leads. I have no time to look for a job. I do not know where I am going to live. I do not know whom I am going to live with.

In fact, I have applied for exactly one job (on a whim) -- to write sports for The Journal News, a White Plains based newspaper. You may call my situation desperate, sad, or maybe even funny.

And I'll admit, I am slightly nervous about it. But, I know what I want to do and, as I mentioned before, I know where I want to end up.

I am convinced that my job problems would be non-existent had my timing been better. The Journal News needed the writer to start immediately. Unfortunately, I need four more credits to graduate and I am still the editor-in-chief of the school newspaper.

I was all set to drop out of school and make myself available to the newspaper right away, but my parents weren't really cool with the idea. I tried to use music to explain the situation to them as I saw it.

"Look, if you had one shot, one opportunity/ To seize everything you ever wanted... One moment/ Would you capture it or just let it slip?"

Apparently, they were not fans of Eminem because they ordered me to "let it slip" and finish college. Maybe if I could have found an artist that they could better relate to, such as the Beatles, instead of a blond haired gangster our discussion would have ended differently.

Of course, as my parents reminded me, the newspaper didn't officially offer me the job, thus quitting school admittedly may have been jumping the gun a tad. So in retrospect their advice was probably prudent.

I should also tell you that the job was part time and the pay was definitely minimal. But, hell it was a sports writing job and all I need is a chance.

Hopefully, the whole Journal News fiasco wasn't my one shot.

I view myself as the Mike Piazza of the sports writing world. No, I'm not that cocky. I'm not referring to the perennial all-star and Hall of Fame bound slugger that Piazza is today. I'm talking about the Mike Piazza that was drafted in the 62nd round of the baseball draft as a favor to his father, who was good friends with Tommy Lasorda, the LA Dodgers manager at the time. I'm looking for that favor.

I don't expect to pull a Dave Winfield and go straight to the majors. In sports writing terms, this means that I don't expect to start out at The New York Times or Sports Illustrated. I realize that I'll probably start off at some low budget newspaper out in the boondocks somewhere, covering a 50 and over recreation slow pitch softball league, and earning only enough money to eat one meal a day -- consider it Single A ball.

Maybe a year or two later, I'll get called up to Double A. There I'll get to eat two meals per day and maybe I'll get to cover high school volleyball. To you that may sound dreadful, but in my view I'll be right on track.

Like Piazza, I'm willing to put my blood, sweat and heart into moving through the system.

Then in five or so years I'll finally get the call. The manager (the EIC) will summon me to his office and say, "They are bringing you up to the big leagues, son." And that will mean that one of the New York papers has hired me to be the New York Mets beat writer.

The story does not end there though. It actually ends 40 years later on a muggy July afternoon in upstate New York, when I am called to the podium to accept my plaque as the newest inductee into the baseball writer's wing of the Hall of Fame.

I just need to find my Lasorda to give me a shot (or maybe I should just send out some more job applications). I'll make the most of it.