SECTION: Section 8; Page 1; Column 1; Sports Desk 

LENGTH: 1322 words

HEADLINE: BASEBALL;
After Earning Job With a Letter, a Bat Boy Becomes Part of Yankees' Family

BYLINE:  By BUSTER OLNEY 

BODY:
He has flopped into bed exhausted, knowing his sleep would last three hours. Thank God, Luis Castillo has said to himself before drifting off, and he has thought about what he would've missed if he hadn't written that letter to the Yankees.

He would've never seen Paul O'Neill catch the last out of David Wells's perfect game last year, from 25 feet away. He would've never come to know Derek Jeter's singing voice or been given a nickname by the shortstop, or warmed up David Cone on the day he pitched his perfect game. He wouldn't have been able to stand next to home plate and listen to Roger Clemens's fastball. But Castillo did write the letter, and over the last two seasons, he witnessed the creation of baseball history and came to regard his hero -- Cone -- as a friend, and the Yankees as family. When Chad Curtis caught the final out of the World Series sweep at Yankee Stadium Wednesday, Castillo stood in the Yankees' dugout and sobbed, for Castillo, a bat boy, knew the anguish that the players felt.

His mother speaks often of what a unique and incredible experience her son has had. "I consider myself very lucky," said Castillo, 17, a senior at Wings Academy who lives in the Bronx, his home a 10-minute walk or a short late-night cab ride from Yankee Stadium.

Castillo had always been a Yankee fan, often begging his mother for $6 to buy space in the bleachers at Yankee Stadium. He succeeded one day in the spring of 1997, took a seat and immediately found himself the target of angry screaming, from Tina Lewis, a member of the Bleacher Creatures. Castillo had unknowingly occupied a place that once belonged to a revered and now deceased member of the Creatures, and was ordered out of the seat.

Castillo returned the next day and apologized to Lewis, who responded in kind and adopted Castillo into the band. Later that summer, Lewis suggested that Castillo apply to be a bat boy, and she helped him prepare a letter to Sonny Hight, the vice president for administration of the Yankees. Hight wrote back and outlined the criteria for the job: Castillo had to get good grades and be a model citizen in his school.

Castillo improved his marks and was hired three months later, after his parents signed off on the unusual work schedule. Like the team's other three bat boys, Castillo works every day when the Yankees are at home, earning the minimum wage, plus a tip at the end of the season. After school, Castillo would take a train to Yankee Stadium, arriving by 4 P.M., often finishing his homework while the players took batting practice. He worked during the games either in the dugout or retrieving balls along the foul lines, helped with the post-game laundering process, and then returned home at 2:30 or 3 A.M., before rising for school at 6 A.M.

But Castillo found his weariness was overcome by the depth of his experience. The players, coaches and the Manager Joe Torre treated the bat boys respectfully and graciously. Castillo goes by the name Luigi and it wasn't long before Jeter -- who nicknamed Chuck Knoblauch, Hideki Irabu and other teammates -- amended that to Squeegee.

Darryl Strawberry would stroll over and extend a hand, look him in the eye and ask how he was doing. Bernie Williams would be consumed by his guitar before games, and when Williams erred while turning off his bass, filling the air with piercing feedback he would turn to the bat boys sitting nearby and apologize in his quiet way. Knoblauch would stay late after games, laugh with the bat boys and tease them about their laundry duties. "It's like he's one of us," said Castillo.

Jeter likes to mimic songs on the radio and sing aloud. Castillo would call the bench coach, Don Zimmer, "Chief," and Zimmer would laugh. Chili Davis, who has roots in Jamaica, surprised Castillo by calling him "Primo" -- Spanish for "cousin" -- and then chatting with him in that language.

Castillo plays baseball in high school -- he hopes to continue doing so next year in college -- and he had always followed Cone's career closely. He was stunned when the pitcher offered to help him. During batting practice, Cone would bend at the knees in the outfield and set a target, like a catcher. Castillo showed Cone his curveball; Cone was impressed. Cone demonstrated how to throw a cut fastball, how to put pressure on the index finger. They worked together so often that one day, while Cone and Castillo played catch, the relievers Mike Stanton and Tony Fossas began chanting, "Little Coney."

He was often given the duty of patrolling the foul lines, and the Bleacher Creatures included Castillo in their roll call, right after the third baseman Scott Brosius. Castillo came to love working along the right field foul line, because it was his responsibility to warm up O'Neill between innings -- "playing catch, with a major leaguer, everybody watching." When O'Neill is in a particularly good mood while playing catch, Castillo said, he will raise his right leg high, step and unleash hard-breaking curveballs. Shane Spencer is tougher to warm up, because he throws hard and his throws will often knuckle, moving erratically.

Castillo was on the foul line on May 17, 1998, when O'Neill drifted close by to catch a high fly, the 27th and final out of Wells's perfect game. Castillo's instinct was to run onto the field, but he forced himself to the dugout and watched as the players carried Wells off the diamond.

About 14 months later, on another Sunday afternoon at Yankee Stadium, a third-inning rain delay was about to end, and as Castillo hustled to the clubhouse to retrieve more baseballs for the umpires, Cone -- who was pitching against the Montreal Expos that day -- stopped him in the runway and asked Castillo to grab a glove and warm him up. They played catch there, underneath the stands, and when they finished Castillo stuffed the ball in his pocket. Two hours later, Cone was carried off the field, after pitching a perfect game, and he signed the ball that he had tossed with Castillo.

Clemens pitched against the Mets this year at Yankee Stadium, and as he warmed up for the second inning, Castillo brought a towel and water to the umpire; while waiting, Castillo stood just outside the batter's box and turned slightly while watching Clemens warm up, and it was apparent that he was simulating the experience of batting against the future Hall of Famer. "Amazing," he said afterward, recalling the hiss of the baseball. "That's why he's the Rocket Man."

When the Yankees played the Boston Red Sox in the American League Championship Series earlier this month, Castillo was told to join the team on the road. He hadn't traveled extensively -- he went to Puerto Rico once, to Brooklyn, to Connecticut, but can't remember going to New Jersey. He bought a pair of slacks and a tie, borrowed a jacket from his father, Luis, and fretted that he would be so overwhelmed that he might forget to retrieve a bat. The first game he ever saw in Fenway Park was the match-up between Pedro Martinez and Clemens; his father, who is Dominican, rooted for Martinez, but the son rooted desperately for Clemens.

Castillo was in Fenway Park when fans threw bottles on the field and the game had to be stopped. He was in Atlanta when the Yankees won the first two games of the World Series. He had seen how the death of their fathers had affected Scott Brosius, Luis Sojo and Paul O'Neill. He was in Yankee Stadium Wednesday night, when Curtis caught the final out.

Castillo and the other bat boys had been told they could run onto the field and celebrate. But Castillo found himself frozen in the mouth of the dugout, crying, sad for his teammates, stunned by their achievement. He composed himself, returned to the clubhouse, hugged Cone and sprayed his friend with champagne.

Castillo lies in bed at night, wondering how different his life would be if he hadn't written that letter. Thank God, he thinks.
 http://www.nytimes.com

GRAPHIC: Photo: Luis Castillo, a Yank bat boy known as Luigi, was nicknamed Squeegee by Derek Jeter. (Aaron Lee Fineman for The New York Times)(pg. D8)

LOAD-DATE: October 31, 1999