The morning sun beat down, mercilessly, on our hat-sheltered heads. The click-clacking of dozens of baseball cleats filled the summer air, resounding through the uncompromising humidity. Tall, bearded boys lumbered past us, toting enormous baseball bags and worn jerseys from various baseball teams.

The adversity was apparent and the challenges clear. Weather and leviathan jocks were part of this job description, occupational hazards of what we were preparing to do — try out for a major league baseball team.

We knew why we had come, we knew what lay in front of us, and we knew what had to be done.

We were warriors, plain and simple. Wielding weapons of aluminum and shields of leather, we carried our coat of arms proudly, with “Shorewood Baseball” proclaimed confidently across our crested chests.

There we stood, the longest of long shots. The darkest of dark horses. The under-est of underdogs. There we stood, our shoulders noticeably smaller, our hats decidedly more nerdy, our gumption and positive attitude critically outweighing our talent. And yet there we stood, our hearts set, our dreams planted. Visions of greatness were firmly entrenched in our minds, thinking maybe, just maybe, the day was ripe for a miracle.

We were but three young men wishing to play a boy’s game forever. Like the other 60 or so hopefuls who arrived at Pohlman Field, home of the Class A Beloit Snappers, to try out for the Milwaukee Brewers, Joe, Daniel and I came because we wanted to believe we were good enough, fast enough, strong enough and with large enough protective cups to play Major League Baseball. It was the movie The Rookie, but in all likelihood, without the Hollywood ending.

We were best friends and avid sports fans. So when the opportunity to try out for a Major League Baseball team arose for free, we jumped on it. As Daniel and I filled out our “player cards” and listened to a pre-tryout speech from Harvey Kuenn Jr., son of the only manager to guide the Brewers to the World Series, we laughed and joked about the reality that lay in front of us. Our long ago devised plan was for Daniel and me to actively participate in the tryout while Joe filmed us. We were ready to be humiliated in front of austere, no-nonsense baseball players and coaches. We were prepared to throw any and all sense of propriety not only out the window but entirely out of the stadium; to mock and malign the integrity of the very sport we were playing. We were going to be, without a doubt, the worst players there.

The tryout was at 9 a.m., which meant we had to wake up at 6:30 a.m. in order to drive the 70 or so miles from Milwaukee to Beloit. The development of the “mockumentary” began in the car, where we crafted our moronically comical image. Donning soccer cleats and softball visors, and pulling our socks up to an absurd height, we looked positively ridiculous. We had perfected the appearance of that pint-sized, glasses-wearing kid from your Eight Year Old Little League team; the one who sat cross-legged in the outfield, eating daisies and watching, with rapt attention, the ants on the ground, instead of the batter on the field. That was the look we were going for, that was the type of ballplayer we wanted to showcase.

After an hour and a half of driving, we finally pulled into the parking lot at Pohlman Field. As the clock approached 9, more and more cars drove into the lot, and we became acutely aware of the severity of the situation. These boys were all bigger than us, and each carried his own colossal baseball bag that could easily have passed for a body bag. They all wore shirts emblazoned with some variety of “All Stars”, or referencing the player’s traveling team or Regional or State team. Contrastingly, I wore a Milwaukee Brewers jersey I bought for $15 at Kohl’s department store on top of a “Your Girlfriend Likes My Team” Brewers t-shirt while Daniel showed off his Intramural Champions shirt from middle school. Completing the ensemble, we each sported the silliest hats we could find—mine a 7-Up hat made out of recycled cans and Daniel’s a yellow visor courtesy of his 11-year-old sister’s softball team.

We started filming our mockumentary as soon as we sat down in the bleachers. Panning the crowd of talented ballplayers around us, we offered commentary on our bleak situation. “The competition looks pretty tough,” Daniel began, with a convincing tone of awed apprehension. “They all look bigger, stronger, faster than us. Many of them are wearing actual baseball uniforms. We’re wearing uniforms too, they’re just not technically from a real team.” Following insinuations that some of the players must be on steroids, Joe added that “the only thing we test positive for is hard work.”

We sat in the stands for almost an hour, listening to the coach explain to us how extraordinarily rare it is to find major league talent at these tryouts, and not to get discouraged if we do not make the team. It was a grim speech, one that clearly and unambiguously laid out for everyone the near-impossible odds of making a major league baseball team—especially at a free, open tryout where goof-ups like Daniel and I were allowed to participate. Finally, he asked if anyone had any questions. Naturally, I raised my hand. Coolly, confidently and outrageously, I asked what happens after we make the team. The coach was noticeably and understandably taken aback as he examined Daniel and me, blatantly astonished at the brass of a 5’9” kid wearing such a bizarre combination of clothing. “We’ll cross that bridge when and if we come to it,” he responded, with a discernible note of annoyance in his voice.

Finally, we got on the field. We began by running the 60-yard dash, the benchmark for measuring a player’s speed. Having been two of the faster and more athletic players on our soccer team in high school, Daniel and I assumed we had a chance to be at least average in this exercise. Not so. My personal race pitted me against a monstrosity of a boy who, after consulting his genetic tree, had War Emblem on his mother’s side. We reported back to Joe for a little camera talk while the other players ran. I explained that my poor run was due to various maladies, among them “my ankle, knees, hips, shoulder, arms…”

Next, we moved to the diamond for fielding drills. Daniel had decided to try out as a first baseman; I was to try my hand at second. I muffed the first ball that came to me, and on my throw to first, I could have sworn that I actually saw the first baseman check his watch while the ball was in the air. From the toddler-esque difficulty level of the next five hits, it was evident that the coach hitting grounders to us must have decided to take pity on me. On the other hand, Daniel was able to avoid getting hit in the face by the myriad of speeding balls being launched at him.

After this latest embarrassment— and after sensing some serious irritation from players and coaches alike— we decided our best option was to leave. So we gathered our belongings and surreptitiously left the stadium. With one final address to the camera, three pilfered, major league-quality baseballs and the prospect of an all-you-can-eat buffet for lunch, we got in the car and drove home. We may not have been major league-caliber ballplayers that day, but I think were are worthy of Academy Award for Best Documentary, right?

We’re still waiting on that call, too.