Dreams die hard for a lifelong Red Sox fan hoping for one more day in the sun, By Mark J. Yablonsky AUGUSTA Long ago but not too far away, I dreamed of being a major league baseball player. You know, of suiting up for my Boston Red Sox day in and day out, playing outfield and even pitching to feared sluggers like Frank Robinson, Mickey Mantle, Frank Howard and Willie Horton. Of batting in the same lineup as my all-time favorite player, Carl Yastrzemski, and hitting a pitch or twenty over the Green Monster in left. I also dreamed of seeing my name in the box scores each morning and opening up a pack of baseball cards and seeing my own card there. In fact, to this day I still have that dream, although perhaps with a little less intensity than I had at the age of 13, when I was the regular left fielder for a team in the Springfield Pony League that went 1-7. And yes, I pitched the lone game we did win, a 10-8 thriller on May 27, 1971 that featured us, spearheaded by my lifelong friend Stuart, turning a triple play. That was certainly the highlight of my career as a youth. And so, for one last time, ludicrous as I knew it might be, I attempted to try out, and in the professional ranks, no less. With our brand new Canadian-American League team, the Sussex Skyhawks. So, at the ripe old age of 48, I bought myself a new pair of spikes, gathered up my Red Sox cap and my glove and went to Skylands Park last week where the Skyhawks were holding tryouts, looking for perhaps an extra outfielder or catcher to add before the final product takes the field for the 2006 opener on May 25 in Quebec. At no time did I seriously believe I had a chance to impress anyone. In fact, there would have been a better chance of Captain Ahab sponsoring a Save the Whales campaign than of me being signed by the Hawks. Knowing that and also worried about a number of things, including the possibility of ending up in the emergency room, I asked for the assignment. And with the happy cooperation of the Skyhawks, I decided to go for it. Ah, but what happens when the mind is willing, but the neglected body of a middle-aged man is not? You quickly end up knowing your place even before you are put in it. Mind you, I was never half the ballplayer that my late brother Stan and my late Dad were; they had pitched college ball while I was done by my junior year in high school. And as it turned out, I was done even quicker than that at last week’s tryouts. After running a lofty 18.10 in a 60-yard dash that could have been timed with a calendar instead of a stopwatch and trying a few relays from the outfield, I decided enough was enough. My arm was dead, and my legs felt as though they were made of lead every time I attempted to run. Regrettably, I opted not to try tossing a few pitches from the mound, lest someone time one of my slow offerings and send it straight toward me. And I knew better than to try swinging at an 85-mile-per-hour pitch in the batting cage. So I was done. But at least I still looked good sitting on the bench, as I had in high school. But you know what? Not one person there not manager Brian Drahman or pitching coach Pedro Sierra, nor any of the talented athletes ever uttered one condescending remark, not even one tiny snicker under his breath. And you know something else? I learned something, too: that aspiring ballplayers never laugh at someone who has no business being on a ball field and that dreams die hard for everyone involved. “My friends told me about the tryout, so I came out,” explained Travis Wilfong, 24, of Dover, who displayed a Roberto Clemente-type howitzer arm from the right field corner. “Nothing to lose, but hopefully a lot to gain. If not, I’ll just keep trying harder, that’s all.” “There’s a lot of Deckers and I’m probably related to 90 percent of them,” commented Dave Decker, also 24, of Matamoras, Pa. where he is both a firefighter and a jack-of-all trades in a local deli. “I want to play sports to the day I die. This is more like a test for me; I want to try to get back into college. If I make it, I make it, but if don’t, I’ll definitely be back next year.” Other candidates stood out, too, including Sergio Arguello, 22, and Max Gutierrez, 21, both of Miami, who weren’t afraid to come all the way north to try out. “It’s the love of the game,” Arguello said. “The passion, I think, is a better way to say it,” corrected Gutierrez, who was clad in a Florida Marlins uniform. “I had to pay a taxi to get us here from Newark (Airport), and the flight, the hotel and the registration, too. The greater the sacrifice, the greater the outcome will be.” Unfortunately, not one of the 50 or so candidates who showed up got picked. Not even Mark Moldovany, 20, of Vernon, who like me is a big Red Sox fan. But we sure did have a great time reminiscing about our team’s epic, brilliant 2004 comeback against those blasted Yankees. I would be badly remiss if I did not mention the graciousness and class of both Jim DeMatteis of the Upper Montclair-based Bender Hammerling Group, which handles the team’s publicity; and Seth Bettan, the Skyhawks’ director of ticket sales/operations. And this assignment couldn’t have happened without the very lukewarm support of my good friends Rose, Jane and Hope, who have bravely resisted the urge to strangle me over the last three years. (I guess the high legal costs involved have been enough of a deterrent to keep me alive.) Baseball may be a kids’ game, but it is also one for adults, too, especially for adults who never grow up. But if the Skyhawks are half as good on the field as the organization’s apparent class is off of it, then baseball fans, young and old alike, should have a good time in Sussex County for many years to come.