Bumping along in the dark. Seats that don’t recline far enough. You barely notice these overnight bus rides when you're 23 and can practically sleep leaning against a wall. At that time, I was happy to call myself a professional ballplayer, while my friends were doing manual labor or just graduating college. Now, nine years later, I’m back gazing out into the darkness, passing through the fields of northern New York. Bet they’ve finally turned green now. Syracuse to Rochester to Buffalo to Toledo to Indianapolis. Plenty of opportunities to sit and wonder how it all passed so fast.
No guarantees in baseball. Of course they went with the Club President’s nepo baby as backup corner infield and the rookie backing up the middle and pinch-running. I was too nervous all spring. Swinging for the fences, trying to impress. Cut me with a week left in spring training. The season starts and I’m in Rochester. Frigid, gray, awful, terrible Rochester in late-March. Thirty-seven degrees on Opening Day. Two guys got pneumonia before the first week was over.
I’m staring at the major league team’s stats on these late-night bus rides. The rookie hits a couple of homers in the first week and he’s been striking out, throwing sidearm missiles over the head of the first baseman, but he keeps his job in the majors for now. The nepo baby backing up third and sometimes at DH, he can’t seem to take a walk. Don’t like anything about him. Has one of those stupid mullet haircuts and wears eye black like he’s some superhero. Fucking spoiled overgrown kid made it to the majors because his dad knows our dipshit owner and the team president.
Rochester’s a sad town. Hollowed out by the thousands of manufacturing jobs that left over the decades. Housing is cheap because nobody wants to live here. Neither do I. Send me back to DC, so I can make a living as a defensive replacement and pinch runner. That’s what I tell the coach to tell the big league manager. He shakes his head and says, “Sounds familiar. You’re our elder statesman. Show these kids how to be a professional, while you’ve still got a job.”
I’ve been working with an online therapist to deal with this awful feeling that this year is a dead-end road that leads back home to Pensacola. Another sad town, but at least they’ve got a beach. Nine years of ups and downs. Glove guys like us are lucky to find a spot on a major league roster. The MLB minimum this year is $780,000. If I stay in AAA through September, I’ll make about $60,000. By the way, that was the MLB minimum in 1985. If I get called up for a few days, that’d help. Every day on an active roster is $5000. I hate to hope for an injury to that nepo baby or the rookie, but that’s all I’d need to double my salary. Two weeks on the active roster. A little luck and I’d get to stay. At least I’ve still got my hands.
Made a play-of-the-week highlight last night. A foul pop-up down the right field line. I was leaning that way because our pitcher was throwing heat. Hit a little soft pop. Thought it might get out of play, but sprinted like my life depended on it, and dove at the last second. Didn’t know I had it until I stopped sliding, a spray of dirt everywhere. Ended the inning with the bases loaded. Still got it. But as this bus chugs along through the night, my minor league heroics don’t stay with me. I’m not in the game anymore, I’m off to the side, biding my time to get back to the life I’ve known. Chartered flights instead of these endless buses. Catered meals instead of Burger Bill’s. High-end hotels in real cities, rooms with those expensive sheets instead of the Toledo Days Inn with odd-colored stains on the walls. Hope that nepo baby sprains his ankle.