Getting to First Base

I had the most strange experience at the ballpark yesterday. After a quick, stealthy storm ripped Omaha to shreds Friday afternoon, Rosenblatt Stadium (home to the Omaha Royals) was without electricity. The team had a scheduled doubleheader yesterday, and didn’t want to try to reschedule yet another game - they’ve already had 6 rainouts, one game postponed due to an acid spill, and couldn’t play Friday night because they had no power.

So we were determined to make a game happen Saturday afternoon, no matter what. That meant playing without the things to which we’ve grown inherently accustomed at ballgames: No videoboard, no scoreboard, no public address system, and no cooked food or chilled drinks.

In an Omaha World Herald story, Royals manager Mike Jerschele mentioned how it was weird to not have a scoreboard to assure him of the inning and pitch counts. I felt the same way, but I loved all the challenges the game presented Royals staff. The front office staff and the media covering the game pulled off quite a show, all things considered, using a megaphone instead of a PA system and leftover numbers from the Powerball billboard to keep track of the score.

I noticed a lot of the fans really getting into things, too. Sometimes it’s easy to space off or get lost in conversation when you’re at a ballgame, but usually there’s a scoreboard there to clue you back in when you start paying attention again. Without that luxury, we all had to pay closer attention to all of the action. I noticed a lot of strangers helping each other keep score, and those who had scorebooks became information hubs for people who had lost track of the inning, pitch count, or whatever else. I guess we all could have gotten angry about the inconveniences caused by the lack of electricity, but given that the storm that wiped out our power caused so much more significant damage to other people’s lives, it was easy to let go and play ball instead of getting worked up.

Power was restored to the stadium as soon as the electricity-free (how very green of us) game finished. But I tried my best to learn from the lessons of that game, and in the three (!) games the team has played since then, I’ve tried to not rely on the videoboard so much to keep track of what’s going on. In the wake of a horrible storm, I may as well take away some kind of lesson, even if it’s simply to get more into the game I already love.

Some days I wish I were a psychologist so I could dig into the complicated, sometimes desparate, usually frustrating but always fascinating world of Minor League Baseball.  I work side-by-side with a couple dozen riveting personal stories, collectively known as the Omaha Royals, the AAA affiliate (top minor league team) of the Kansas City Royals. Every one of the guys on our team, and all the players who come on the visitors’ bus to play against them, have some kind of story.

One thing I love about seeing Minor League games all the time is I know I’ll be seeing a lot of these players in the Majors soon; some of them could go on to be big stars. That’s cool in an “I-knew-him-back-when” kind of way, but what about the other guys, the tortured players who have toiled in the minors for way too long and are hungry for a shot - those are the ones who are deeply fascinating to me.

Every game a starting pitcher throws badly is another five days he’s not going to be a big leaguer. Every hitless game, every error committed is a reason not to be called up. Every time Player B hits a homerun, it squashes Player A’s chances. Every blown lead pushes a reliever further away from the 40-man roster. I figure that kind of pressure has to mount up.

And those are just the guys who haven’t yet made it to The Show. AAA rosters are also littered with guys who’ve had their shot, and for whatever reason have been brought back to the emptier stadiums (In the case of one Iowa Cubs game, a completely empty stadium). How hard is that?

I want very badly to sit down and talk with a particular player I know who fits that scenario. He has spent time in the Majors, and has even been successful for a while, but injuries and a crowded roster have pushed him back into the Minors for quite a while. I have so many things to ask; I figure that kind of demotion has to make a guy question his ability, and if he questions his ability how can he perform well enough to get promoted again? How does a man re-align what he knows about himself when coaches who used to praise his big-league ability now call him into their offices to tell him he’s going back to the minors? So much of athletic success relies on ego and swagger, so what happens when those are deflated?

And what about the guys who are perpetually being sent up and down between levels? How can you focus on your work when your workplace - and public perception of your talent level - keep shifting?

I’m beginning to see that professional baseball is not an easy life. I still think pro ballplayers are incredibly blessed to get to play baseball for a living. But to balance all the demands of the game with a constantly shifting social calendar and weird, artificially inflated senses of self-worth that can be punctured at anytijme by any size of rejection or failure…it’s damn nigh impossible to be normal, much less to be better than normal. And at some point, a lot of guys I see at work might have to admit they won’t make it higher than Triple-A ball. Then what?

See, minor league baseball is more than just the games and the on-field promotions. It’s a continuous human drama full of uncertainty, walls of egotism chipped with periods of self-doubt, more questions than answers.  And if I ever get answers to any of these questions, you will be the first people I tell.