It’s game day. You show up to the field like normal. It’s the Big Leagues, so you stop into the kitchen to see what’s on the menu for the day. Sandwiches, two different salads, rice and beans, and fresh fruit if you want someone to make you a smoothie. Or you can just go to one of the refrigerators and try something new. Cold brew coffee, strawberry milk, vegetable shots, or plain bottled water if you’re feeling particularly boring. Life is easy.

As you head down the long hallway to the clubhouse, the bench coach stops you. It only ever means one thing.

MLB Bench Coach: Hey, Up-and-Down-MLB Player, Skip wants to see you.

You: No thanks.

MLB Bench Coach: What?

You: Okay, fine. I’m coming.

You walk to the Manager’s office, bright mango smoothie in hand. He’s at his desk. The GM is also seated inside.

Manager: Hey, Player, we’ve got to make a move. We’re gonna send you back to Small Triple-A City. Go get some regular at-bats, keep doing what you’re doing, and you’ll be back up in no time. GM, do you have anything for him?

GM: Your BABIP and exit velocity are down. Try working on that.

That last one hasn’t happened to me but, hey, you never know. The rest has been the case for almost every occasion I’ve been sent down- which is many times. “Play every day, work on stuff, get better, things will happen, and we’ll call you back up.”

So you sadly watch 5 clubhouse attendants pack all your gear neatly, while teammates come over and say goodbye. “Good luck down there. You’ll be back up soon.” The clubbies drop your bag at the edge of the clubhouse and you exit.

The next day, you show up to the small, old Triple-A stadium and go into the tiny, dimly-lit locker room. “It’s good to see you! Well- not good to see you, but you know what I mean.” You walk past the fold-up table that will hold the spread as soon as the clubbie gets to the stadium. Peanut butter, jelly, bread, chicken from the concession stand. You walk by the refrigerator. Water.

As you unpack your bag, you set aside the two MLB fleeces, the personally-tailored Majestic game pants, and special edition fan t-shirts, and pull out your one pair of MiLB shorts and BP top. The Manager calls you into his office.

MiLB Manager: How was it up there?

You: It was…great…

MiLB Manager: What is that? Mango?

You: Yeah, I saved it. It’s delicious.

MiLB Manager: We have berries here but I wouldn’t eat them.

You: I won’t.

MiLB Manager: Well, you’re in there tonight. This will be a good chance to get back to playing regularly.

There’s nothing like the first game back. You still feel like a Big Leaguer. You get two hits and your teammates support you from the dugout. “Call him back up! He’s ready!” Baseball is so easy when you don’t care.

The next day, you strikeout your first two at-bats. What’s wrong with you? You’re a Big Leaguer. You’re facing a lefty throwing 85 and you just swung at two curveballs in the dirt. “I can’t see anything here- the lights are terrible.” “I can’t get up for these games- there’s twelve people in the stands.” “This guy throws too slow- he would never get Big League hitters out.” “Maybe I shouldn’t have eaten those berries, after all.”

The excuses pile up as you reach a crossroads. You can pretend you’re above Triple-A baseball. Tell “Show stories” about all your Big League buddies. “Cespy,” “David,” “Cabby,” “Syndy.” (You play for the Mets in this hypothetical, apparently.)

Or you can embrace the grind. Hang out with bums like Zach Borenstein, Matt den Dekker, Patrick Kivlehan, and Cody Asche. (Now, you’re definitely me.) Cody has three years in the Show, Patrick and Matt have a year and a half each, and Zach has yet to receive his first call up, though he has as much power as anyone around. We’re not all in the same situation, but we all have the same goal.

There are plenty of guys who can play, and everyone in Triple-A is confident they can compete in the Big Leagues if given the chance. So it boils down to more than just athletic ability.

It’s beyond how many flips you hit in the cage and how much video of your swing you watch. Believe me, those guys have seen my 2012 footage more than my actual 2012 teammates. And I’ve seen every one of Zach’s towering home runs that has been caught on camera, every sliding catch Matt has made in center, Kiv’s first MLB hit- a home run off Robbie Ray in San Diego, and I’ve seen all of Cody’s clips tearing up the Mets as a Phillie.

The point isn’t that we’re all living in the past. It’s that you have to have a group of guys like this around to survive. They help me with my set-up. We help Zach with his timing, Cody with staying through the ball, etc., etc., etc.

But before I finish making this boring point, let’s get back to you. You’ve just been sent down. Your lifelong dream in the first place was to just get called up and play Major League Baseball so you’re happy. Well, not happy, but you know what I mean. But you did make it. So you can relax.

The guy they called up in your spot just got a pinch-hit double last night. And you went 0-for-4. You could get a pinch-hit double too, if you got a chance, but your last five pinch-hit at-bats, while you were up, were against closers. No one is expected to get hits against them.

So now you’re back at that crossroads. You’ve been humbled in so many ways and you find yourself staring out from the bench wondering how much more you have left. Do you have the capacity to do what it takes to make it back?

The game of baseball owes you nothing. One good season doesn’t guarantee you a career with job security, the same way hitting 25 home runs doesn’t guarantee you a call-up, the same way getting called up once doesn’t guarantee you peace of mind- not yet, at least.

Everyone has something to improve upon. The only way to get called back up and start drinking exotic smoothies again is to realize that, and use all your resources to make it happen.

Previous writings by Ty Kelly

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3

The post My Baseball Life, Part 4: Now What? appeared first on Metsmerized Online.

For every former Major League Baseball player who has recited the popular quote “It’s easy to get to the Bigs, but hard to stay,” I can confidently find you nine former Minor Leaguers who vehemently disagree. I got there and I still disagree. Chances are, that guy was a first rounder or a Hall of Famer and it really was easy for him. But if it was easy, everyone would do it. As much as I despise the aforementioned adage, though, there is one that stuck with me.

Bobby Dickerson came to the Orioles in 2011 as the Roving Infield Coordinator. He had a Southern quote for every situation so all you had to do was spend a little time with him and you were bound to come across something memorable. Luckily for me, every time he was in town, I had early work with him. And then more early work.

Playing multiple positions is the best. If someone was a poor batter, they “couldn’t hit a bull’s (rear end) with a bass fiddle.” Being from California, I had never heard of a bass fiddle and bulls were just a team Michael Jordan played for. Don’t worry, this is not the quote that carried me through 855 minor league games prior to my first promotion- though I can’t deny thinking about it every time I see Bobby D coaching 3rd for the Orioles today. He told me that if I wanted to get called up(from Low-A at the time), I had to “beat the league.” Up until that point, I had been a solid player on my teams, but never done anything to really set myself apart.

That resonated with me as it forced me to set my goals higher than ever before. I guess I didn’t realize I would literally have to lead the league in hitting before getting called up(humble brag). I was hoping it wasn’t so set in stone.

I was hitting .391 in mid-May, 2016, which was the top spot in the Pacific Coast League(just bragging now). We were in Colorado Springs, home of the Sky Sox and, undoubtedly, the worst Triple-A stadium in the country. It was a day game and I had the day off- stars don’t play day games after night games. Just kidding- I had gone 0-4 the night before. I walked down the stadium bleachers from the visiting clubhouse to the dugout because it was Colorado Springs and the clubhouses are at the top of the bleachers- similar to a lot of High School stadiums probably. The starters were getting ready for the game so I poured myself a coffee to muster the energy to coach 1st base for my allotted three innings.

My manager was Wally Backman. For those of you who know Wally, his reputation precedes him. For those of you don’t know him, I guess you could say he has a flair for the dramatic. Nobody on Wally’s teams just gets called up. There’s a whole performance that goes into it. He leads with a casual misdirection- catches you off guard, makes you wonder what’s happening.

“Have you met the clubbie here?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“Good. When you go back up, tell him you owe me a bottle.”

“What?”

“You owe me a bottle.”

“Of what?”

“Dewars.”

“Dewars? I don’t even-”

And just when you least expect it:

“Congratulations-you’re-going-up-you’re-meeting-the-team-in-Washington.”

It happened that fast. 855 games. 3,063 at bats. I had finally gotten “the call.” My teammates rushed to congratulate me because I am always everyone’s favorite teammate. No need to ask around- just trust me.

Still in shock, I headed back up the bleachers, through the crowd, and into the clubhouse to pack. I texted a few friends, called my parents, and then got in a car headed to the airport and, ultimately, Washington, DC. *An airplane moves across an old map from CO Springs to DC, Indiana Jones-style.*

I awoke the next morning in DC and got breakfast with Logan Verrett, the only person on the team willing to match my level of sarcasm for an entire meal. It was a 20 dollar breakfast and I didn’t even feel bad. I was a Major League Baseball player now- a.k.a rich. One day of minimum wage in the MLB was more than what I made in 2 months back in A-ball. Totally fair.

What’s not fair is facing Stephen Strasburg your first MLB game. More on this later.

I got to the field that first day and walked through the tunnels of the stadium to the visitor’s clubhouse. Under the stadium. Not through the bleachers. Wow. The clubhouse was nicer than any home clubhouse I had ever seen. There was a kitchen with like four chefs, a full weight room with flat-screen TVs, and enough spacious, wooden lockers for everyone on the team. Doubling-up on lockers is a common MiLB problem and, of course, Fenway and Wrigley because their locker rooms were built in the 1800s by the same people who designed CO Springs stadium(I assume).

I didn’t start the game my first day because some other guy got the nod at third base. I was outraged. He had done nothing to deserve it and his home run that night was pure luck. David Wrong is more like it- am I wright?

The whole game, I stood on the railing of the dugout. The lights were ridiculous. It was like the sun never went down. The fans had special cheers for the players and a chant every time their team scored a run. The batting cage was right behind the dugout and a TV was on the wall so guys could watch the game while getting ready for possible pinch-hits. I was in awe of everything.

The top of the ninth inning came around and I was told that I would be pinch-hitting if the spot came up. Yusmeiro Petit was on the mound- someone I had faced in the minors- so I was feeling confident about my at-bat. I grabbed my helmet and bat and walked into the on-deck circle. I looked over to the home dugout and saw the assistant coaches inform Dusty Baker that I was on-deck. He seemed unfazed for some reason. The third out of the inning was made, though so I wouldn’t make my debut until the next night.

0-4 with 3 strikeouts. Strasburg is good- good for him- whatever. My first at-bat, I got wrung up on a pitch 5 inches inside. The Nationals color announcer, F.P. Santangelo said “I bet he didn’t see any fastballs like that in the PCL!” I will hold off on my come-back because I’m bigger than that. Restraint builds character or something probably. Also, I haven’t thought of anything good enough yet. Someday.

Conclusion: Major League Baseball is great even when you strikeout three times.

The post My Baseball Life, Part 3: The Call appeared first on Metsmerized Online.

Photo Credit: Rich Franklin, Bowie Baysox

I’ve played in 1,015 minor league baseball games. You’d think, at this point, I’d have come across a slew of catchy metaphors and adages that give the experience some type of profound meaning. The truth is, however, I never set out to look for meaning in it all. I was just playing baseball. I think that’s the case for most baseball players.

You show up to the field, start snacking, go outside for early work and batting practice, come back in to the clubhouse, complain about how hot it is and how you don’t need to go over the bunt plays anymore, hope there’s food left, and then go play a game and probably still screw up the bunt plays. This is “the grind.” Love it, hate it, dread it, romanticize it.

So, what do you want to hear about? The incomprehensible ability of a peanut butter-and-jelly sandwich to sustain life? Or the long bus rides from motel to smaller, somehow-more-outside, motel? Or, perhaps, you’d like to hear about living in a 3-bedroom apartment with 6 guys crammed inside? Finally, an audience to vent to.

I’m only kidding, of course. I wouldn’t dare bore you with- actually, let me just throw out a couple:

I lived on an air mattress in the middle of a furniture-less apartment, including no blinds or curtains to keep the sun out, with roommates who had a complete disregard for the use of air conditioning because who really has money in the minors?

I spent two full seasons in Delmarva in the South Atlantic League where bus rides to Lexington, Kentucky take 13 hours and, inconveniently, your entire off-day. Fun side note: Jose Altuve and J.D. Martinez were on the same team in Lexington in 2010. They were good. They’re still good. We also saw John Wall, Demarcus Cousins, and Eric Bledsoe in town. They were freshmen and totally not out at a bar.

I saw PB&J’s transform into PB&Bananas when I got to Triple-A because there were finally enough bananas around to withstand the demand for this new and exciting product. I also saw…this is tough to say. I guess I should just come out with it – I saw a guy dip a banana directly into a jar of…mayonnaise. So, yeah. I guess you could say I’ve seen some things.

So, scooping-handfuls-of-mayonnaise aside, how does one get through an entire season of minor league baseball and live to tell his friends in the offseason the tale?

I’ve played in six organizations- two of them twice- over 10 years. My first season was with the Aberdeen Ironbirds, Baltimore Orioles Short Season-A affiliate.

My first roommate on the road was Steve Bumbry. His dad, Al, was an Orioles HOF’er- no pressure. Our first professional game against the Hudson Valley Renegades, Steve hit a home run and I had three singles. Somehow, neither of us got called up that day. That night, we went back to the hotel room and watched SportsCenter. Our game didn’t make it, but Scott Van Pelt came on and made fun of the Baltimore “hon” accent. I never knew this was a thing but Steve confirmed it, being from the area. He was even nice enough to invite me on the phune to see his Balmore hume.

As has already been- and will continue to be- a theme, I must mention the food. I survived on cheese balls and left-over sausage sandwiches from the concessions. Basically still my diet, today.

Gary Kendall was our first professional manager. Somehow, the hug he gave me in his office at the end of the season summed him up – or wrapped his personality up, like in a towel. Bad analogy but he was literally just in a towel. I played hard every day for him and that’s all he cared about. Simple. He was also the guy who would end up telling me I got traded for the first time, four years later.

I was sent to Instructional League after that season, as most first year players are. I went from California all the way to Florida, so by the time I got to the hotel, almost everyone had been assigned a room and roommate. The one player left, with whom I had played, was Garabez Rosa. He was from the Dominican Republic and was 19 years old. His English was…not good. Not to worry, though, I was in the middle of minoring in Spanish in college (I got drafted as a Junior). If he were to talk about how good my Spanish was, I feel like he would say “estaba…no bueno, Papi.”

Our room was like an art exhibit. Dominicans piled in to hear me struggle through mostly-nonsensical, broken sentences, and, of course, to watch telenovelas. Apparently their seasons just don’t end. But, then again, that’s the feeling of a minor league season, too.

Every team has a crazy guy. A class clown of sorts who knows just the right time to come in with an inappropriate joke to crack the team up but can also tone it down if- no, actually there’s no toning down. I was fortunate enough to play with Justin Dalles for most of my Orioles career. He was a roommate and one of my- and everyone else’s- favorite teammates. He was the guy who could work magic with baby powder- if you know, you know.

That furniture-less apartment and the six guys in a 3-bedroom were my first two seasons, respectively. These are the years I remember most when thinking about the true grind. I wasn’t a prospect. Being a 13th rounder is more akin to being a 50th rounder than the top few. You have to earn every opportunity. I played a full season and then was told I may not make a team out of Spring Training the next year.

My manager, Ryan Minor, vouched for me, though, and got me on his team again. I was repeating Low-A but at least I was on a team. Our infield was already set with Jonathan Schoop, Manny Machado, and Mychal Givens. Huge prospects. But, after some injuries and promotions, I got enough playing time to make the All Star team. Without Ryan’s help, though, I may not have continued playing at all.

Our pregame spread was chicken fingers. Every day. For two years.

I posed the question “how does one make it through a full season in the minors?” The answer, as far as I can tell, is guys like Justin. Guys like Steve. Hombres como Garabez (bueno, right?). Coaches like Gary and Ryan.

Perhaps, the next time you hear that someone is a “player’s manager,” or that someone is good in the clubhouse, you’ll have a little better idea of exactly what that means and why it matters.

The post My Baseball Life, Part 2: The Grind appeared first on Metsmerized Online.

Photo: Sportscipher.com

You hit Wiffle balls in your backyard, pretending to be Ken Griffey Jr. You made it through a season of tee-ball without having a clue where to run after hitting the ball. You ran from basketball practice to soccer practice to baseball practice during the summers because you couldn’t choose a favorite. You rode out every possibility until baseball chose you.

As you drove away from home for the first time, you realized those Wiffle balls had become Division 1 college baseballs, and you weren’t Mark McGwire or Sammy Sosa anymore. You were you.

Whether you were ready or not. You were “lucky” to make it that far, but you couldn’t help but wonder. You wondered a million things. “Is it really luck that brought me here?” “Was I destined to play baseball?” “Am I even good enough to play at this level?” “Do I really need to go to my 8 AM class? I mean, I have the book. That’s enough to pass the midterm, right? Ok, I haven’t read it, but still, it’s right on my desk over there- wait, where’s the book?”

You biked to practice every day in black sweatpants that hid your gray baseball pants underneath. This, right after you biked to Sociology after biking to Psychology, and at some point you ate lunch. You’re pretty sure you did, at least.

You know you ate breakfast because you set a record that morning. Not at 6 AM weights of course, and certainly not at the 2-mile run that immediately followed – not unless 17 minutes is a record.

No, you and your teammates sprinted – or did what felt like sprinting – from the track, directly to the dining commons and got the most out of an 8 dollar and 50 cent buffet than any team before you.

To say you’ve spent your whole life preparing for this moment is not just a cliche, it’s true. You may not have known it and you may not have expected it. But you dreamed of being a big leaguer. You learned how to play the game. You practiced and practiced and practiced. And then you chose baseball.

And you’ve seen the drafts on TV. You know how they go down. Your friends and family throw you a party. There’s champagne, there are streamers, there’s celebration as you watch the draft coverage. ESPN shows the teams getting ready to select upcoming picks, and experts try their hand at which players will be drafted to which teams and how they fit into their big league plans in the near future.

“If I get drafted by the Giants, I’ll have to wait until Freddy Sanchez leaves and Mark Ellis if it’s the A’s. Maybe they’ll just trade them when they draft me, though.”

Your agent interrupts your General Manager-ing, excitedly. This is it. The pick is about to go in. “It’s the Giants and they want to take you at number 13.” Your only question is “For how many millions?” Your agent tells you to leave it to him, “We’re gonna get every penny that you’re worth.”

You see the commissioner on TV walking to the podium. As he reaches the microphone, he prepares to call your name and, in doing so, validate your entire life’s journey thus far, setting you on your way to Major League Baseball and a glorious, fulfilling career.

Photo Credit: Rich Franklin, Bowie Baysox

“With the 13th pick of the…”

My phone rang.

“Ty, this is James Keller from the Baltimore Orioles. We just drafted you.”

“Wow,” I replied.

“How does that sound?”

“Awesome. I’m taking a final right now so I can’t really talk.”

“Oh, ok. Well, give me a call later and we can talk about getting you signed.”

Questions filled my head again. “Where is Baltimore?” “Who plays for the Orioles?” “Do I need to finish my ‘African Americans in Television’ final now that I’m a professional baseball player? Wait, where did I even get drafted?”

My friend Grant sent me a text message: “Congrats on getting drafted. Now you can literally big-league me.”

“What round did I get drafted in?”

“Seriously you don’t know? 13th round. 386th overall.”

As I finished writing about “The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air”- which, I should note, I studied fervently throughout the years, even before it was required material – I thought about what would come next.

I didn’t know where any of the Orioles farm teams were located, and, even if you had told me the names of the cities, I would have been clueless. I grew up in California and, at that point, thought Northern California and Southern California were the two most different places in the entire world. I was hella wrong (I apologize for this ultra-specific California reference).

The next day, my dad – since I didn’t have an agent – and I sat down with James, the local scout from the Orioles who said, “My boss told me I could make this offer to you, today. Since you’re a junior, of course you will get the rest of your schooling paid for, and your signing bonus will be for…”

I think I said yes before he finished.

I’m a master negotiator. It didn’t matter, though, I couldn’t splurge on bottles of champagne even if I wanted to. I was only 20 years old and I just wanted to start my career, whatever that meant.

It meant one last week in Davis, California before heading east. Northeast? I think northeast. Maryland is northeast right? Is it next to Massachusetts? I played in Cape Cod so maybe it’s near there.

I eventually figured it out as I arrived in Aberdeen, Maryland. I was a professional baseball player. Griffey, McGwire, Sosa; their careers all had to start somewhere, too.

The post My Baseball Life, Part 1: Draft Day appeared first on Metsmerized Online.