Most of us have dreamed of sitting in the dugout with our favorite baseball team, and at sixteen Matt McGough was no different. A few months after sending a blind application letter to George Steinbrenner, on Opening Day 1992 Matt found himself walking into the legendary Yankee clubhouse. There, amid the chaos and excitement, he was greeted by none other than his idol Don Mattingly — who promptly played a prank on him.Thus began two years of adventures and misadventures, from being set up on a date by the bullpen to playing blackjack on the team plane to studying for an exam at 3 am in Yankee Stadium. Through these often hilarious experiences, and especially through his friendships with the ballplayers, Matt learned priceless lessons about honor, responsibility, and the importance of believing in oneself. A magical tale of what happens to a young man when his fondest dream comes true, Bat Boy wonderfully evokes that twilight time just before adulthood, ripe with possibility, foolishness, and hard-won knowledge. "A remarkable memoir of a boy among men playing a boy's game. At turns wistful and hilarious, the book lyrically captures the complexities not of dreams broken, but of dreams fulfilled." - Gay Talese "Matthew McGough's memoir of his teenage days in the Bronx is a winning, inside look at clubhouse life. Wry and nostalgic, Bat Boy takes readers to a time before steroid scandals and $200 million payrolls when the Mattingly-led Yankees were still lovable losers. Where have you gone, Danny Tartabull?" - Stewart O'Nan "More than an all-access pass to Yankee Stadium and baseball -- it is an exquisitely written and observed book about growing up and the beauty of the game." - Library Journal After his two-year career as a Yankee bat boy, Matthew McGough graduated from Regis High School, Williams College (George Steinbrenner’s alma mater), and Fordham University School of Law. After law school he clerked for a district court judge at the Federal Courthouse in Lower Manhattan. McGough lives in New York City. Chapter 1 The Best Seat in the House The game of baseball frames many of my sweetest childhood memories. I made my first friendships playing Little League, and these friendships were shaped by countless hours of team batting and fielding practice on our neighborhood diamond. I consider our coach, a burly police officer named Mr. Ferguson, to have been my first great teacher. He drilled us in baseball fundamentals until they became second nature, but also allowed us time to practice acrobatic catches and double plays, feats we dreamt ourselves capable of but had little chance of ever actually executing in a game. Practices were focused but fun, a solid foundation for a lifelong love of baseball. As a fan, I grew up rooting for the New York Yankees, and the team's players became my earliest heroes. I looked forward to visiting Yankee Stadium at least as eagerly as I anticipated the first day of summer vacation, Halloween night, or Christmas morning. I was still too young to realize that I might lack major league talent, and the handful of games I'd seen in person just fueled the dream that I too might play someday at the Stadium. As momentous as any trip to see the Yankees seemed at the time, there was one particular game that made an impression so vivid and powerful that I can hardly imagine my childhood without it. In fact, it's hard not to wonder how my adolescence might have unfolded had I been anywhere else but Yankee Stadium that day. The game, against the Kansas City Royals, was played on a sweltering Sunday afternoon in late July 1983. I had just turned eight. Personally speaking, it had been a banner summer for baseball. I was halfway through my second season of Little League, starting at shortstop and leading off for my team, the legendary, perennially pennant-contending Brunt & Brooks Pharmacy. Being sponsored by a pharmacy didn't yield the tangible rewards enjoyed by some of our rival teams--namely, Tony's Pizzeria or the Ice Cream Villa--but one through nine, B&B had the best third-grade ballplayers in town. My team won many games that summer. After the school year ended that June, my bedtime had been pushed back late enough that, if the pitchers worked fast and kept the score down, I could watch Yankees night games on television right up to the last out. Summer days peaked with Little League practice, then dinner in front of the TV listening to Phil Rizzuto call that night's Yankees game until Mom or Dad sent me to my room. That Fourth of July, I sat on the living room floor and watched every pitch of Dave Righetti's no-hitter against the Boston Red Sox. It was one of the most exciting things I'd ever seen; the fireworks show broadcast later that night from over the East River seemed dim in comparison. A few nights later, tuning in to another game, I saw Dave Winfield reach up and over the outfield wall to pull a game-winning home run back into play. I was awestruck by his catch. Fo