Postscript: Close Really Counts

      "Close only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades," quipped new Cleveland Indians player-manager Frank Robinson before opening day of the 1973 major league baseball season. I'd also throw in bocce, being from Bound Brook, New Jersey in the mid-twentieth century. So why does it matter that a boy's team almost won the state title over fifty years ago?

     It mattered a lot to the small working-class town. Less than two weeks after hosting the state finals, Bound Brook was devastated by Hurricane Doria's direct hit on the Raritan Bay. Nine inches of rain in a night washed out the flash boards on the Chimney Rock reservoir, releasing a three-foot wall of water down First Watchung Mountain. The rampaging Middle Brook leapt it's banks at 3am and gouged a new bed across the west end of town. Many cars, bicycles, and outdoor pets were lost to the muddy torrent, but the early hour kept  pedestrians from it's path.  Only a lone lineman was washed away in his work vehicle, leaping first from it's submerging roof onto my father's work shed and then onto our cemented-in clothesline pole where he was rescued by boat. In a miracle of timing my father had ended the separation and moved back home just in time to help save both the lineman and the house from the flood.

     The Kennedy Memorial Field was not so fortunate. All the upgrades for hosting the state finals - bleachers, toilets, turf equipment, food service implements, electronic scoreboard - were gone. The trash-strewn runnel from the flash flood settled in downtown Bound Brook along with the rising Raritan River, breaking records for water depth and property damage. People came together, just like they did for hosting the finals, to help with rescues and clean-up, but the week-long power outage and business bankruptcies were the last straws for the flood prone borough. Many businesses would move uptown, and the bustling downtown would never return to it's former prosperity. State and federal disaster aid initiated a flood control project that started channelizing streams between levies. The old Little League field that had brought the town together and shown us who and what we were playing for never recovered. It was moved a few years after the flood to a new location protected by a dyke.

     Coach Robinson was right that close doesn't count for the outcome of any one baseball game, but the process of getting there does matter. It takes cooperation, dedication, effort, and commitment - from players, coaches, families, and fans - to keep a winning streak going long enough to make it to a championship game. That lesson still rings true a half century later.

    

Game 8: Wallington

     "Let's go Bound Brook, we're right behind you," echoes into our dugout in an impromptu cheer from somewhere in the home stands.

"Now boys, we'll take this one batter at a time," commands Coach Zujk from in front of the dugout to bring our attention back to the field on a steamy Saturday afternoon in mid-August.

     Our all-star team had won seven games in a row against mostly larger towns. We'd done it with crafty pitching, skillful fielding, or strong hitting, sometimes all three in one game. In the process of winning we'd found a clutch relief pitcher and a prolific pinch hitter. We felt poised to take home the title.

     This would be our first contest against an equally small Little League from a similarly working class town, though Wallington had many players of Slovak origin while we were mostly Italian and Polish. The match would be for the New Jersey title and a trip to the eastern region championships. A team from Wayne, New Jersey had won it all in 1970 and we were starting to believe that the World Series was possible for little Bound Brook.

     The larger crowd would be on our side and we'd be playing on our own field, though the coin toss gave the Bergen County borough the home advantage in last at bats. The hubub about a team from the host town making it to the finals had an unforeseen consequence that suddenly raised the stakes for us local boys as the game was starting. Twelve-year-old girls from our sixth or seventh grade classes would be watching us play. We tried not to look, but how could we not hear Annie and Tina, Bernadette and Barb, Cheryl and Robin, Laura and Rosemary, Patty and Darlene, the Marshas and others screaming from the bleachers?

     "Let's go Bound Brook!" croaks Coach Tomaro with frantic clapping from the third base coaching box in the top of the sixth inning.

We've got runners on first and second base and are behind one run in what's been a back-and-forth game.  Our coaches had used all our resources against a talented lefty with a wicked screwball that cut away from our right-handed batters. The use of pinch hitters, a relief pitcher, fielding substitutions, and even a pinch runner had depleted our bench. It came down to our last available player, and a hit now could tie it. An out would end our quest for Williamsburg. 

     "I'm proud of you young men," Coach Zujk consoles as behind him Coach Tomaro throws down his red and white BB cap onto the infield and in the dugout we players fight back tears. "Now let's hold our heads up and go shake their hands."

Final score: Wallington 4, Bound Brook 3

     

 Coach Tomaro, Eric Winchock, Coach Zujkowski, and
Tony Thomas after the 1971 NJ Little League final

Pre-Game 8: Wallington

     “There is nothing so clean…” sings a guy from Wallington lining up his cue for the next shot in our bumper pool match, “…as my burger machine.”

“Stick that in your burger machine!” I mutter, landing a double carom to win it.

     Most of the boys from the four New Jersey finals teams were splashing in the Codrington Park pool opened for us on the Friday night before consolation and championship games. Catari's had delivered a dozen  pizzas and the Bound Brook Little League supplied chilled cans of Coca Cola and 7Up. After eating, a few of us twelve-year-olds stayed in the field house, normally for thirteen and over, to play ping pong, shuffle board, and billiards.

     I hadn’t been in the big pool since a scare in the deep end at age four. A sister had taken me over after I passed swimming lessons in the kiddie pool. I was embarrassed to tell her I was faking it with an occasional surreptitious hand on the bottom, so I jumped when she said jump and sank to the bottom at six-feet. A desperate push into the concrete as my breath ran out propelled me through the surface where I grasped the edge, but that moment of underwater panic kept me away after that.

     Players from the three visiting teams were staying with local families, and I was suspicious of sharing a bedroom with one from the team we’d face the next day. Just as strange was a different Wallington kid constantly humming about his burger machine. It was my first encounter with someone more socially anxious than me.

     “What’s with that guy always mumbling about a burger machine?” I call over the thrum of a window fan to my roommate after the lights are out. 

“Just…the coach’s…son,” he yawns into the darkness. “Good luck tomorrow.”

“If I say good luck back will they cancel out?” I whisper across the room, but a snore tells me he’s already out cold.

Game 7: New Milford

Sean Doremus is carried off by Tony Izzo and Mike Fassano

     "Charlie, no!" screams Officer Frank Cornaccione running toward the field where our coach is dousing the infield with a red gas can.

"The show... " grumbles Coach Tomaro dropping his Philly Blunt to the edge of a puddle and hopping back onto the neatly mowed grass, "...must go on."

"Jeez Coach," chides the policeman turned field crew shaking his head side-to-side as bluish-orange flames flicker along the base path.

     An errant cloud had drenched the field two hours before the first semifinal game on a mid-August Friday. That Little League season, normally done by mid-June, had ambled into late summer's frequent thunderstorms along the coastal plain of central New Jersey.

     The John F. Kennedy Memorial Field at the corner of Tea Street and Route 28, where now stands a Shop-Rite grocery tucked into a former bend in the Middle Brook, had been meticulously prepared for the town's first hosting of the state finals. Bleachers, normally confined to the first and third base infield, now bordered the fence along the foul lines and the outfield. The small snack shed behind home plate had been expanded with a line of grills on one side and iced barrels of drinks on the other. Rows of blue and white porta-potties were stationed behind the nearby firehouse, and a fancy electronic scoreboard had replaced the old wooden and cardboard display beside right field. It was a huge and expensive community effort that involved coaches, parents, borough personnel, and community volunteers. 

     We were opening the single elimination tournament against New Milford North, and it was our first game of the entire post-season against a similarly sized town. The prosperous Bergen County borough, better known for football all-American and new Minnesota Viking Ed Marinaro, was actually twice the size, population, and average income of Bound Brook, but it supported two Little League teams to make it a relatively matched contest. 

     "Hey Sean, hey Sean, keep it down, keep it down," I chatter from shortstop as he takes the stretch position, glances at the runners on second and first base, and delivers a wicked slider that cuts over the strike zone.

New Milford is threatening a comeback in the top of the sixth inning after we thought they'd been put away in the fourth by home runs from Tony Izzo and Mike Fassano.

"Thwack," vibrates across the field with a hard bouncer up the middle as I lunge and miss it near second base.

"Shit," I hiss, turning to follow the ball and finding our second baseman back-handing it in shallow center field. 

In a slow-motion instant Eric Winchock flips the ball behind his back and I grab it bare-handed, brush the bag with my right foot, and whip it to first.

"You're out," screams the umpire as the Bound Brook crowd erupts at the game-ending play.

"Way to go boys!" marvels league president Ed Gabrielski as we carry our winning pitcher off the field.

Final score: Bound Brook 11, New Milford North 8

Game 6: Old Bridge

 

     “Win this one and you’re home for the …” growls Coach Tomaro through his Philly Blunt before the New Jersey Section 3 final at Lincroft Field.

“Now guys, we take it one game at a time,” interjects Coach Zujk before his assistant can get the word “finals” out. “Florczak will keep it close so let’s get those bats going.”

     Two of those big bats were from Zujkowski’s regular season team with the black trimmed uniforms sponsored by Research-Cottrell Incorporated. Everyone called them Research and Tony Izzo and Glen Gulyas provided the data, ending the year second in home runs (Izzo) and batting average (Gulyas). 

     Glen was a stocky catcher and a classic clutch hitter, knocking in runs with long doubles to left or right center field. For the all-stars he’d been relegated to backup backstop and pinch hitter since the league leader in all batting statistics was the starter behind the plate. This second string role didn’t harness our Hungarian stallion one bit - he led the team in runs batted in.

     Baseballs players and coaches are notoriously superstitious. Our Little League team didn’t step on the white foul line and we didn’t mention a developing no-hitter or long batting streak. We also didn’t say anything out loud about our winning, though getting to the finals was on all of our minds. It was just better not to jinx it even though we knew it would take more than magic to get that home field advantage for the push to Williamsport.

     “Gulyas will hit for you,” utters Coach Zujk as I swing a bat in the on-deck circle with runners on first and second base.

We’re behind by a score of 3-1 in the top of the sixth inning and I’m eager to knock in a run or two to get us back in the game.

“Why?” I cry mid-swing with visions of hitting something or someone going through my head.

“Don’t worry Cuz,” Glen consoles as he slips on a batting helmet and Richie Schenck walks to load the bases. “You’re still our number one shortstop.”

Final score: Bound Brook 3, Old Bridge 2

Game 5: Manalapan

      "Isn't that Doc Vischetti?" wonders Sean Doremus from the back of the bus as we stop at a red light on Route 28. 

"I don't know those people," Matt quips as his five family members wave wildly and blow air horns from a royal blue WV beetle with the top down.

"Me neither," laughs Sean, though he can't resist a wave and a grin.

     We were on the way to a neutral field in Middlesex for a face-off with the shore district champion. Manalapan Township is a populous Monmouth County suburb with a huge draw of players, putting tiny Bound Brook in our usual underdog position. 

     We didn't know it until game time, but Manalapan had won their previous games behind a strong lineup of lefty hitters. Most pitchers, like most people, are right-handed with an advantage against most batters, also right-handed. Righty against righty requires a greater turn of the hitter's head, and the distance is shorter between ball release and bat. The pitched ball appears to be coming at the batter before crossing over home plate, making swings more tentative and called strikes more likely. The converse is true for lefty hitters facing left-handed pitchers. 

     Sean Doremus was a lean lefty with a shock of blond hair that swayed with each pitch. His family lived across the street from our Little League field so he'd grown up chasing foul balls and working the hand-changed scoreboard, eventually graduating to official scorekeeper when not playing for the blue Tri-boro Lions. He really knew baseball, but his passionate play and strong reactions sometimes thwarted control of his throws, like after a good hit or in a close game.

     “I don’t know those people,” quips catcher Matt Vischetti when the Manalapan crowd cheers for a walk in the bottom of the sixth inning.

We’re ahead 3-0 behind a one-hitter as Sean repeatedly struck out their five lefties and got the four others on grounders. The walk is only their second base runner of the game and it brings up the third and best hitter, a strong lefty.

“Me neither,” Sean scowls, barely concealing a smile as he delivers three sweeping sliders for the third out.

Final score: Bound Brook 3, Manalapan 0

Game 4: Hillsborough

      "There's a crowd up from Hillsborough," warns Mrs. Shumsky as a half dozen mothers man the hut behind home plate. "Whoever takes a window might get a peek at our boys, but it could be non-stop orders."

"Many hands make light work," quips my mother moving over to one of the counters as we take the field for final warm-ups.

     The district championship was being played across the Raritan River in South Bound Brook, but it felt like a home game because our parents were staffing the concession stand. Hillsborough was a wealthy Princeton suburb that had splurged for matching spandex all-star uniforms while we Brookers still wore the wools from our regular season teams. Our stands along the third baseline were already packed, and the visitor side was rapidly filling. This turnout was our first inclination that the winning streak was causing a stir.

     Just as I was starting to feel hopeless about my home and hitting life, my twelve-year-old world seemingly turned. Richie Schenck was back in the lineup, and it was a surprise that my anxiety-prone mother had volunteered to work in the snack stand. At home she'd even asked about games, calling my teammates pet names like Sean Do-Re-Me and Matt Machete. My bat was also finally picking up as the hand numbness faded. I'd come to see my late place in the batting order not as a failure but instead as an opportunity to get another runner into scoring position for our big bats. 

     As the game started I was so shocked to spy my father leaning on the top plank of the wooden bleacher beside our dugout that I nearly bobbled a routine double-play, recovering the ball just in time to tap the runner and make a quick throw. 

     

     "Florczak will keep them in the park," Coach Zujk decrees before we take the field with an 8-2 lead in the top of the sixth inning. "Just take care of business on defense and we'll have this one."

"Ozzi Ynot!" I whoop after Tony Izzo makes a diving catch of a lined drive down the right field line for the first out.

The next batter draws a walk in six pitches to put a runner on first for their cleanup hitter, a tall righty with an immaculately neat uniform. On the first pitch he slaps a chopper to third that bounds over Schenck's upstretched glove and into mine. My hard throw to Eric Winchock at second and his twisting toss to first completes the double play.

"Way to go Davy," as I run to the dugout nearly knocks me down as the team bounces in jubilation. There's only one person who calls me that.

Final score: Bound Brook 8, Hillsborough 2

Game 3: Bernardsville

      "Marone, no third baseman," moans right fielder Mike Fassano from the back seat on the long bus ride up Route 287 to Bernardsville as the rest of us nod and groan.

"Now men, we'll play with the players we have," counsels Coach Zujk wobbling in the aisle as the yellow Romano's Bus jostles over the gap through third Watchung Mountain. "It's Wegrzyn on third base until Schenck is back."

     We'd just lost strong-fielding Richie Schenck to an emergency tonsillectomy right before our fourth game of the postseason against the northern region champion of our Little League district. After three jubilant playoff wins with a steady lineup, it felt ill-fated to lose one of the starters.

     His backup at third base was Larry Wegrzyn of the orange Congers, a mash-up of Conroy Funeral Home and Efinger Sporting Goods. Larry was another of Coach Tomaro's pitching proteges, though more prone to complaint than compliance. If the heart of our hitting lineup was Bound Brook's Italian army, our right-handed pitchers were the Polish firemen with Florczak and Wegrzyn. Us boys, however, didn't care one whit about ethnicity. What mattered was hitting the ball, throwing strikes, or laughing with your teammates. Larry had plenty of credibility for the first two, but his taciturn nature left him at the front of the bus.

     That summer I was sitting right up there with Larry in the laugh-less section. My parents had separated after a big fight in the spring, and our mom wasn’t handling the home and the heat with her usual stoicism. In our household it was suddenly self-service for food and laundry while trying to dodge her sometimes unfocused anger. I hadn’t seen my father in three months and it was starting to feel like forever.

     "All right Larry, see if you can throw it a little straighter from the mound,” croaks Coach Tomaro from the dugout as starting pitcher Sean Doremus whips his glove into a corner after walking the bases loaded.

Larry had been playing a decent third base up until the fifth inning, though he had to be saved from some off-target throws with nimble catches by first baseman Tony Izzo. This would be his first playoff appearance as a relief pitcher and it was in a pressured situation with a tie game. A wild pitch, a hit, a walk, or just a fly ball to the outfield and we’d be behind with one at bat to go.

     “Settle down,” coaxes Matt Vischetti pushing mitt and ball hands downward after snagging the first pitch from over the hitter’s head.

“That’s it Larry,” roars Coach Tomaro as a pitch drops into the inside corner of the zone for a called strike.

The field gets quiet when the next throw nicks the outside edge for strike two.

“You’re out! booms the umpire as the batter whiffs at a sinker that drops below his swinging bat.

"Welcome to the playoffs," beams Coach Zujk stepping from the dugout to shake a smiling Larry Wegrczyn’s hand. "Now let's finish this one off!"

Final score: Bound Brook 7, Bernardsville 3

Game 2: Piscataway

      "All right Richie, throw that overhand curve just like we practiced," exhorts Coach Tomaro kneeling to catch for our right-handed pitching ace warming up before the second game of the post-season.

"You got it Coach," retorts Richard Florczak with a big grin at the manager of his regular season championship team, the Congers.

     There’s a special relationship between a player and the first coach who recognizes his or her talent. Mine as an eight-year-old playing organized baseball for the first time was Officer Frank Cornaccione. Coach Corni saw that I was better at fielding groundballs than pop flies, installing me at shortstop where I’d stay until done with college baseball. It might have been the bloody nose I got trying to catch a pop up in the first game, but the move to infield gave the boost in confidence I needed to run with a baseball identity.

     Coach Tomaro had noticed a diminutive 11-year-old who could consistently keep the ball over the plate. He taught Richie Florczak the grips and arm motions needed to throw a slider, screwball, changeup, and sinking curveball. Not many little leaguers could deliver these pitches so the Congers started winning games and Richie became an all-star. He’s the youngest of the four Florczak boys who all looked alike except for height. Bob was the oldest and tallest as the six-foot-three-inch former center for the Bound Brook High School basketball team. When he left for art school, identical twins Ron and Mike took up the hoops mantle at six-foot-one. Richie was the shortest but made up in style and craftiness what he lacked in size. 

     Piscataway would be our first home game of the post-season and it was against an out-of-county team even though the Middlesex County township adjoined the southeastern tip of Bound Brook. In the late eighteenth century New Jersey had been organized into a system of townships for areas that weren't already defined as town, borough, or city. As housing close to New York or Philadelphia started to fill in all available land in the former garden state, the once rural townships became population centers. Piscataway High School is still one of the largest in the state, and any sports competitions between the large township and the tiny borough of Bound Brook left the latter as a decisive underdog even at our home field. 

     “All right Richie, finish em off!” calls Coach Tomaro from the dugout with two outs and one on in the top of the sixth inning.

The count is one ball and two strikes as Florczak assumes the stretch position and nods to the catcher Matt Vischetti’s flashing down of three fingers to signal a slider. Richie grips the ball along the seams, kicks his left leg up, and whips a sidearm throw as he turns the wrist and forearm leftward. The ball spins toward the middle of homeplate and breaks four inches to the left as the hitter flails, dribbling a weak grounder down the first base line. Richie charges over, grabs the ball bare handed, and flips it to second baseman Eric Winchock who's covering first. We all charge over to celebrate an unexpected 4-0 win over heavily favored Piscataway.

“Now you’re firing on all cylinders!” proclaims Coach Zujk with the first smile we’ve seen on his stoic face all year. "We'll take it one game at a time, and next up is Bernardsville."

Final score: Bound Brook 4, Piscataway 0

     

Game 1: Branchburg

     "If you can't hold the bat, you can't hit the ball," grumbles Coach Tomaro pitching batting practice before the first post-season game at Branchbrook Park. 

"Just let your finger fall onto the wood and the sting will go away," advises Coach Zujkowski as I step back into the batter's box for the next pitch.

"Better put him last in the lineup," Tomaro calls after another weak swing yields a feeble ground ball.

     I was mortified that my bat had disappeared after the return from a laceration on the right middle finger. My maroon-colored Truckers, formally named Schofield Inc., had been in first place at ten wins and no losses when my hand got snagged on the top of a chain link fence I was vaulting over in the long dusk of late spring. After an hour of running cold water on it, the jagged gash was still dripping blood into our kitchen sink prompting my sister to run next door and beg the neighbors to take me to the hospital. Eight stitches, a splint, and thick bandages later, I was out of commission for the remaining games. We lost them all to end the regular season in a tie for first place with the Congers.

     The finger was still bandaged for the playoff game so I switched from shortstop to center field to limit throwing. Hitting was even more of a problem because the splint kept middle and ring fingers from gripping the bat. I never forgave myself for us losing that close game and coming in second place, and my grip was still off when the all-stars started the next week.

     The top of our lineup was what I thought of as Bound Brook's Italian army. At leadoff was Robert Corsini, a compact lefty from a family of builders. Rob's eye was a sharp as his bat, often anteing us up a base runner to start games or big innings. Next up was Mike Fassano, a stout and fearless player always in the middle of rallies or ruckuses. Batting third was Matt Vischetti, the home run champ of the regular season with fourteen four-baggers in fourteen games and an astounding batting average of .750 (three hits every four at bats). It's a good thing for the town of Bound Brook that Matt loved baseball - his family's dental practice had taken a bite out of the budget for hosting the state finals. At cleanup was Anthony Izzo, a handsome kid who could play any position and hit any pitch. Tony's single mom, one of the cooks at the junior high kitchen, gave Tony's teammates extra helpings along with a good Sicilian scolding on the way through the lunch line.

     The guys on the Branchburg all-star team would be going to Somerville High School in a few years. The county seat school was larger than Bound Brook and often favored in Somerset County championship tournaments, and us small town kids already felt the weight and desire of the underdog.

     “You’re overdue Vischetti,” mewls Coach Tomaro as our catcher steps up to bat with Rob on second and Faz on first base and the game tied 1-1 after two innings.

“Put him down,” chatters the Branchburg catcher as their pitcher winds up and heaves a low fastball on the inside corner of the plate.

“Thwack,” reverberates around the field as the ball sails over the fence in left-center and bounces at least thirty feet beyond.

“Was that down enough for him?” Matt exclaims coming into our dugout to our slaps and cheers.

     Next up is Tony Izzo, our tall first baseman. He thunks the bat onto the plate, squares into a tight stance, and crushes the high and outside pitch to right center. It's two towering home runs in two pitches, and by the time the third inning slugfest is over we've scored eight runs. 

     "All right men, it's drinks on the house!" declares Coach Zujk in a post-game huddle at pitcher's mound.

"Yeah, and grab a hot dog on me," puffs Coach Tomaro through his cigar smoke as we sprint for the concession stand.

Final score: Bound Brook 14, Branchburg 1

Pre-Season

Bottom row: R Florczak, T Thomas, B Shumsky, R Corsini, E Winchock;
Middle row: D Beatty, S Doremus, L Wegrzyn, R Schenck, G Gulyas, M Fassano;
Top row: E Zujkowski, T Izzo, M Vischetti, G Barna, C Tomaro

      “If you want us to host the finals you gotta let us have the best players,” growls Charlie Tomaro from the corner of his mouth opposite a stogie clamped between lips and teeth.

“My Elks might be in last place,” counters Harry Frezza slipping off a red cap and rubbing a balding pate, “but they played just as hard as your Congers.”

“Now men,”  laughs league chairman Ed Gabrielski waving away the cigar smoke, his gray hair and beard jiggling with a rotund belly. "We've always picked two players from each team.”

     The Bound Brook coaches had selected their season-ending all-stars by taking two from each team for as long as anyone could remember. The league had eight teams and international Little League rules only allowed fourteen members on the tournament teams, leaving two alternate players that could be called up if needed. Those sixteen boys, led by current and previous league champ coaches, would enter a single elimination playoff for the New Jersey championship. To win it all a team would have to prevail in nine or ten consecutive games against local, region, and district winners. The square-mile town had never gotten past the second round, much less made it to the coveted national championships held each summer in Williamsport, Pennsylvania. 

     The 1971 lineup of coaches and players read like a who's who of central Jersey history. There were old Dutch families (Doremus, Schenck, Winchock), the first to settle in what was called New Holland in the seventeenth century. Next were Italians (Corsini, Fasano, Frezza, Izzo, Pinto, Tomaro, Vischetti) fleeing poverty and finding new opportunity through St. Joseph Parish and school. Taking up the rear were eastern Europeans (Florczak, Gulyas, Shumsky, Wegrzyn) escaping inter-war oppression for a better life at St. Mary of Czestochowa church and school or the St. Andrew Ukrainian Orthodox cathedral. If you grew up in twentieth century Bound Brook you knew how to pronounce European surnames as well as how to curse in several old-world languages.

     “It’s not for my Congers,” Tomaro expounds, the Philly Blunt bobbing with each consonant. “The Lions are loaded and we need all four of their twelve-year olds.”

“Well Zujk, what say you as the all-star manager?” queries Gabrielski.

"I'm with Charlie," murmurs the immense and soft-spoken Ed Zujkowski. "Teamwork starts at the top."

The 1971 Bound Brook Little League All-Star Team:

Manager - Ed Zujkowski, Research Cottrell; Coach - Charlie Tomaro, Conroy-Efingers

Pitchers - Sean Doremus, Tri-Boro Lions; Richie Florczak, Congers
Catcher - Matt Vischetti, Bound Brook Trust Company
1st Base - Tony Izzo, Research
2nd Base - Eric Winchock, Ford Realty

3rd Base - Richie Schenck, Trust
Shortstop - Dave Beatty, Schofield Truckers
Left field - Rob Corsini, Lions 

Center field - Gordon Barna, Lions
Right field - Mike Fassano, Lions
Backups - Glen Gulyas, Research; Billy Shumsky, Truckers; Tony Thomas, B.P.O.E. Elks; Larry Wegrzyn, Congers

Alternates: Ricky Pinto, P&M Furniture; Mike Sepesi, Trust