My Baseball Life, Part 2: The Grind

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.