Ray Liotta came to mind. The words were clear.

"Look for low and away," he said in Field of Dreams to a scrappy, young hitter, playing the role of Shoeless Joe Jackson.

As I walked to the plate, Liotta's words faded, replaced by laughs. I'd expect nothing less.

After criticizing a bunch of players that are probably 10 times better than I am over the course of the season, the opportunity to take batting practice against the Penn State pitching coach was a risky endeavor.

Still, Penn State baseball coach Robbie Wine allowed me to take a few cuts in the cage before yesterday's practice.

Despite the heckling, it was still a dream come true for a kid that had to give up the game at the age of 15 because he wasn't talented enough.

Walking with the kind of nervous excitement of a teenage girl before her first Backstreet Boys concert, I "dug in" along the back of the carpeted right hand batters box. A new thought came to mind: don't suck.

First swing: ball popped straight up into the net. Thank God. Not a whiff. The surrounding crowd gathered around the back of the cage seemed a little surprised.

So was I. Still, they laughed.

Pitching coach Jason Bell, who was hurling the ball from about 50 feet away, cracks up from behind the fence, amused by how much I was opening up.

My hips acted as though they were on a pull string to the first pitch dugout. Basically, I was Pinocchio, as Geppetto pulled the strings as if he was on acid.

Hey, I hadn't faced anything that hard since before I could operate a car.

A couple of pitches later, they got the breeze they so desperately wanted, one that I knew was a matter of time.

Eventually, Bell assumed the role of string master, throwing something funky that bore low and in. I bailed out, my head flew up.

I did nothing right. A nubber down the first-base line and a chuckle for all. It was the bat, I swear.

"I couldn't resist," he said.

"You throw him a slider?" someone questioned.

"Ha, yeah," he replied.

"Well, some people on our team can't even hit that," he said laughing.

It's a small victory for the geeky beat writer in jeans.

I pop one out, somehow it escapes the mesh enclosing.

It sails past the pitcher's mound and drops in front of whoever was playing shortstop, a lefthanded pitcher clearly having his own fun, and someone else.

I found the Bermuda triangle, good for an infield hit.

Only a fascist scorekeeper wouldn't score that an error.

After complaining they were too inside, Bell leaves one out over the plate. A pop to shallow center.

"Ohhhhhhh," goes the peanut gallery, making fun of my most powerful blast of the afternoon. Another one goes to the power alley just behind short, quieting any doubters.

"Somebody's going to be throwing another syringe pretty soon," I'm thinking.

A few pop-ups later, it's clear that none are coming. I call it a day.

Thank you and goodnight.