SAN FRANCISCO – Glove? Check.

Cleats? Check.

Pride? Definitely in check.

Cup? Uh-oh.

And so it was, with 75 percent of my baseball essentials at my disposal, and paramedics on site just in case, that I laced them up, tugged on my cap, punched the pocket of my glove and took the field for warmup tosses and stretching.

I was joining 33 certifiable fanatics, er, fans of the Giants on the emerald green expanse of AT&T Park to take part in the club's riotous-yet-rewarding "Balldude Camp."

For $350, or $500, which gets you a personalized Giants jersey, fans dress in the visitors' clubhouse, meet former players Rich Murray and Bill Laskey, pick ground balls at shortstop, shag flies in center field, take batting practice, field two grounders down the right-field foul line after jumping up from your perch on a stool, answer a few Giants-related trivia questions and enjoy lunch in the Giants' dugout. And, oh yeah, they do it all for the chance to be selected as a Balldude or 'Dudette for a Giants game later in the season.

The campers came from all over Northern California, some from the Central Valley, others from Nevada. Ira Zimilover flew in from New York City. The three from the capital region – Jeff Hughes, Rancho Murieta's Ron Qualls and Chico's Bill Napoli, whose father played for the Oakland Oaks and San Francisco Seals – were my guys.

Some campers were in full uniform, others in old-school polyester Bike coach shorts and more than one in jeans and watches.

There was a husband-and-wife team, Joe and Sally Palmer from Brownsville in Yuba County, an octogenarian and a thrill seeker who, a week earlier, jumped out of a perfectly good airplane at 13,500 feet over Lodi.

"Now or never, I guess," sniffed Dave Gonsalves, 58.

Balldudes, of course, are as much a part of the waterfront park's landscape and allure as splash hits, garlic fries and Lou Seal.

The program was founded in 1993 to "include active senior citizens (ages 60 and better) to join the team … by catching foul balls down the lines and handing them to children in the crowd."

The Giants now include men and women of all ages, and proceeds from the fifth-year camp, open to ages 21 and above, go to the Giants Community Fund.

Split into three groups, my set was sent to shortstop, and the infield from this vantage point seemed small. Especially when Murray began hitting peas.

Oh, sure, he banged some nice, easy 20-hoppers that made us feel like we had channeled our inner Omar Vizquel. But then there were the screamers that stayed down and went through the wickets like we were the second coming of …

"Just like (Edgar) Rentería," laughed a camper who had "Coach Marc" stitched into his jersey.

Maybe. But I swear a little birdie flew by Murray's ear and told him I was a reporter just before he lined one at me that ricocheted off my right shin and into left field. Then another that took out my left shin. And another that bounded off my glove. On the fourth try, forgetting that I was wearing shorts and sans cup, I got so low on the ball I planted my right knee in the infield. Not only did I come up with the cowhide, so too came my trophy – a bloody knee.

So it was off to the outfield to shag flies off Laskey's fungo bat.

"My dad was a farmer," whispered an awe-struck Gonsalves, who lives in Stockton but grew up in Crows Landing. "The only time he took off work was to go to a Giants game at Candlestick (Park). So to be here now … "

Gonsalves' words hung in the air like the fly ball under which his longtime buddy and Little League rival Rennie Campos circled.

"Willie Mays, baby," Campos yelled after his basket catch.

All the while, our names flashed individually on a constant loop on the big screen.

As small as the infield felt, the outfield seemed just as huge.

"I can't judge if the ball is going to land on my head," laughed 72-year-old left-hander Mickey King, who came from Washoe Valley, Nev., "or on my feet."

Some guys grumbled about sore hamstrings – "And that happened on the first warmup throw," said Bob Baum, who remembers watching the New York Giants play at the Polo Grounds. Others vented about their, um, seniority – "I feel like I'm among all these children," said Len Belaski, about the fittest 77-year-old you'll ever meet.

Call The Bee's Paul Gutierrez, (916) 326-5556.