Two old friends who had shared a cherished episode in Braves history were meeting 23 years later. It was their first time together since the parole.

Still 20 pounds lighter from prison, Rick Camp, for nine seasons a Braves pitcher and author of the unlikeliest home run ever, didn't waste any time on small talk.

Frank Niemeir / AJC (ENLARGE)

Former Braves pitcher Rick Camp throws to his dogs at his home in White, Ga. Camp recently was released from prison after serving nearly two years of a sentence for conspiracy to steal $2 million.

Frank Niemeir / AJC (ENLARGE)

Rick Camp has a place of honor for his home run bat in his home.

Frank Niemeir / AJC (ENLARGE)

A photo of Camp with baseball greats Hank Aaron and Mickey Mantle.

More on ajc.com Rick Camp photos [an error occurred while processing this directive]

"We still friends?"

Skip Caray, the team's classic broadcaster, looked back at him like he had grown a third arm.

"What the hell are you talking about? Of course we are."

"I was worried I had let you down," Camp explained.

As Caray assured him that the only person Camp needed to worry about on that score was himself, another little re-introduction to the happier part of an old ballplayer's life was done. One more awkward exchange was out of the way — now let's talk about better days.

A thousand and more such meetings await Camp as, at the age of 55, he attempts to rebuild his life from the shoe tops up. Released from a federal prison camp Oct. 2, still wearing a monitoring device on his ankle for another month, Camp can see the end of his prisoner phase from here. Now, if he can just get a toehold on freedom again.

"It has destroyed my name, which I hate more than anything. It has humiliated me," he said.

"Can I come back? I feel like I can."

He ended up doing nearly two years of a three-year sentence as one of five defendants in a conspiracy to steal more than $2 million from an Augusta mental health facility. The fact that Camp still believes he was innocent, unknowingly caught up in the schemes of former state Rep. Robin Williams, he said, is almost irrelevant now. When a tornado sweeps over your house, you can't deny it happened. You can only size up the rubble.

There's a broken marriage over there: Camp's wife filed for divorce while he was away at the Montgomery (Ala.) Federal Prison Camp.

And a shattered career over here: A former lobbyist, his down-home style born in Trion, Ga., always played well at the state house. Camp says he is done with the high-level influence industry that once made him as much as $30,000 a month.

His first job after leaving prison was in the shipping department of a Smyrna uniform company. He's now working out of his home, currently helping organize a charity golf tournament and doing some sales work while looking for somewhere permanent to apply his proven people skills.

"He just wants somebody to put some trust in him again," said Braves Hall of Fame pitcher Phil Niekro, one of Camp's sustaining friends.

Everything to rebuild

Scattered everywhere is the financial fallout: Making 12 cents an hour as a prison cook doesn't really leave much for a retirement plan. Camp still owes $133,000 restitution from his money laundering and conspiracy conviction. His home, sitting on 10 acres in White, Ga. — about 50 miles north of Atlanta — is up for sale. Still, he is searching for some way to hold on to it.

"Growing up, I lived in a textile town and in textile homes," he said. "My dream was to have a new home. I built one, and I thought everything was fine until all this happened."

Then, there are the pieces of his good name spread all over the landscape.

When Camp went off to prison in November 2005, it all crashed down upon him.

"The first four days were the toughest four days of my life. I literally wanted to die," he said. "The Alabama River runs right behind the prison. I could see the fish hit the top water and could think positively about fishing. I made a decision: I could be negative or positive. I could let this get me down, become institutionalized, or I could look forward. I decided to stay positive."

Yes, prison was hard, but it also was the place where he broke his habit of trying to drink away his problems. At its peak, Camp said he was going through two gallons of bourbon a week. With more time than diversions, he picked up a late love of reading. Every dawn, he'd do his 500 pushups, 500 sit-ups, and run in a tight little circle until he couldn't go any more. Just before his release, he did 18 miles on the prison track.

"It's the best shape I've probably ever been in," Camp said. "My mind's clear. I feel great."

Sometimes, if you look hard enough, you can find a shiny little something untouched by the storm.

It was a whole lot less complicated in 1985, when Camp went inexplicably deep.

Flash back that last year of his baseball career, to a Braves-Mets game that refused to die. The Fourth of July had long ago turned to July 5. Two rain delays and a stubborn tie with the New York Mets had taken the game way past closing time. Finally, an end appeared in sight in the bottom of the 18th, with two out, the Mets up 11-10 and the Braves out of players. Up came Camp, a .074 lifetime hitter with no discernable pop in his bat.

"Might as well hit it out and we'll play all night," home plate umpire Terry Tata joked with Camp as he scratched out his place in the batter's box.

"You SOB, I was joking!" Tata would bellow minutes later as Camp trotted home with his first and only major league homer, having taken Tom Gorman's careless 0-2 pitch into that long, good night.

"You know how buttoned-down Pete [broadcast partner Van Wieren] is," Caray recalled. "That's the only time I can recall in 32 years that he got so excited that he leaped to his feet."

No matter that the Braves lost the game in the 19th — Camp gave up five runs and struck out for the last out of the Braves' longest game. Losing was no big deal back then; the team lost 96 games in 1985. As the fireworks exploded over Atlanta Fulton-County Stadium at 4 in the morning, a goofy bit of lore had been added to baseball's precious keepsakes.

"It was not the first time I got home at 4:30 in the morning," Caray said, that distant night still invoking a crooked smile. "But it was the first time I got home then with a clear conscience."

Camp always will have the capital of that one freak at-bat. That defined his Braves career as much as 56 wins and 57 saves the sinkerball pitcher collected while he bounced between the rotation and the bullpen.

Mistake not glossed over

It was for that home run Camp was invited to a recent gathering of the Braves 400 Club, when it celebrated the top 10 Braves moments on TBS. When he rose to speak, it wasn't just about the 18th-inning heroics. It also was to bring the audience a little more up to date on recent events. That's how it has to go from here.

For there are other stories that make up the Camp repertoire now.

He can tell about a brief period spent shuttled between various federal prisons before settling into Montgomery. Atlanta was the worst. He met some of the most interesting people there.

"At night I didn't sleep. I sat there with my back against the wall. I was scared to death," Camp said.

Camp will tell you that a person can pick out his real friends from the other side of prison walls. He had two Hall of Fame visitors in prison, Niekro and Bruce Sutter. And every letter from the outside was like oxygen to a gasping man.

Once in a while, an old baseball card would get past the prison censors, some fan wanting an autograph. Camp wouldn't sign while he was in prison.

Baseball, he'll tell you, didn't really matter all that much inside. He didn't watch games in the common TV room, preferring to listen on the radio, alone. And whatever reputation he brought in with him had little value one way or the other.

"You were an inmate, that was bottom line," he said.

By the Braves home opener March 31, Camp is scheduled to be well clear of the restrictions of home detention. He plans to bring his niece to Turner Field. He surely will see old acquaintances again, and maybe a few fans who still can pick him out of the crowd — more people who will weigh good old memories against current truths.

"When I got up there and made a speech at the 400 Club I said, 'Look, I've been in prison for 21 months. I went there and I restored my life.'

"You can accept that or not, it's up to the individual. I'm not going to hide it well; I can't hide it. I'd love to forget it, but I'm scarred for life.

"I'm not going to give up. Am I going to come out smelling like a rose? No. I got to start a whole new life. It's going to be hard. I can take a challenge. I can handle that."