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
