"The manager wants to see you." These words mark the beginning of the end.
The second this sentence is aimed at you, you're a dead man - and everyone knows it. As you make your way toward the manager's office, you creep closer to the end of your baseball career with each step.
The phrase casts a hush over the clubhouse. For that moment, everyone feels vulnerable. You could be a first-rounder in the middle of an all-star season, but in that instant, you can't help but fear you will be next.
Regardless of your relationship with the player in question, you feel awful. He may be your direct competition for a starting job or a promotion - his release may ultimately translate into more opportunities for you - but for the moment, that's not important. This is a kid who has spent his whole life playing baseball, just like everyone in that clubhouse - and today, the game he loves is being taken away from him.
Minor League Baseball is not about championships. It's not about making friends, or winning baseball games- it's about player development. Every player begins his season looking to get better, achieve personal success, and finish up the year at a higher level- and if the team wins, well that's great, too- I guess.
It's a concept that has taken a while for me to fully grasp- winning is secondary? I'm not pulling for my teammates?
I spent four years in college putting the team first, and I wasn't alone- that was our mentality. Nothing was more important to me than my teammates and our collective success. The team was a unit- we were best friends on a mission to win baseball games and finish our season in Omaha. We were a family, really. All that time spent together, how could we not be? We shared a common goal and rallied around it- there was nothing any of us wouldn't do for one of our teammates.
Now I'm not saying that people don't want to win in pro ball- it's just not a main focus. And when you take winning out of the equation, you're really no longer a team- you are now 25 individuals trying to achieve individual success. And in our sport, sometimes that works- after all, baseball is an individual game with merely a team concept. Guys hit back to back home runs: it's good for both of their stats, and it's good for the team- regardless of whether or not helping the team was a part of their motive.
Every organization is different, and each has their own unique set of rules. Coming up through any minor league system, you become accustomed to these rules- they become second nature. They are guidelines that everyone must follow, and as strange as some may be, no questions are asked. We follow these rules blindly, all while hoping to some day break free from such oppression and make it to the Show, where you basically do whatever you want because, well, because you can- you're a Big Leaguer.
But as we struggle to climb the ranks, we still fall under minor league jurisdiction. Now every team demands its players be on time, work hard, and abide by the different daily schedules and appointments- but they also each have their subtle clubhouse rules: rules that make the MiLB experience slightly different for every club.
For example:
No Cleats in the Clubhouse: This rule is a mainstay in most clubhouses, and almost everywhere it proves effective for maybe the first week. The idea is to keep from tracking dirt and mud into the clubhouse, but taking your spikes off outside and walking around in your socks is surprisingly annoying- unfortunately for the clubbie manning the vaccuum, this rule almost never stands the test of time.
Dress Code / Collared Shirt: Every time you make your way to the ballpark, regardless of the time or reason, you have to wear a collared shirt. They want their players looking sharp and professional, which I can actually appreciate. (Hilarious in Rookie Ball seeing the surfer dude from California who brought nothing but t-shirts and wife beaters react to hearing this rule- harsh, bro.)
Being the new guy is never easy. Whether you were traded, signed late, got moved up or bumped down, the process is all the same. From my experience, it usually takes around one week for a new player to become fully acclimated and feel like part of the team- but boy that is one long, lonely week.
The minute you walk into the clubhouse you're under the microscope. Your new teammates size you up as whispers about what position you play and which round you were selected in swirl around the room. You are a threat to several players in that clubhouse- you are now their competition for daily at-bats and future opportunities. Not to mention you are totally wrecking the flow of a clubhouse full of players that have spent the bulk of a season together- everyone knows each other's quirks and habits, they're well aware of their pet peeves, and they all have their own routines that ultimately contribute to the overall team routine. 'Hey man, that's Johnny's seat.' - 'Franky hates when people touch his glove' - 'Hey hold up, Sandy always hits first in our group.' As the new guy, you know none of this. You will inevitably mess something up on day one and step on a few toes along the way- all part of the process.
The team trainer is your new best friend. He welcomes you, gets you squared away with a locker and uniform, and gives you the full tour. But once the pleasantries are over, you're on your own. There will be a few guys who come up to you on their own and introduce themselves, and instantly you think these are the greatest guys in the world. I try to be one of these guys- a simple handshake and an exchange of names goes a long way for a kid feeling out of place.
In case you missed it, check out MiLB LIFE: a Typical Game Day [Part One]
Now that you've had breakfast, watched a movie, taken a nap, phoned home, surfed the web, and grabbed lunch - it's time to go to work.
3:00 PM - Arrive at the Ballpark
Enough sitting around - time to head to the office and earn that sorry excuse for a paycheck. Pack a snack, throw on a collared shirt (team dress code), and hop in the car with your roommates for another trip to the stadium. When you walk into the clubhouse you're greeted by a crop of sweaty early bird pitchers who have already lifted and done their running. You will also see the position players who live with those pitchers who have no other ride to the park and so have been napping on the clubhouse couch for a good hour or so. There are card games, music blasting, TV's catching you up on the previous night of sports - kudos to whoever first dubbed it a 'clubhouse.' That's exactly what it is - a place for guys to be guys. The Little Rascals would be proud.
3:45 PM - Head Out for Warm-Ups
After popping a sufficient amount of Ibuprofen and getting dressed - game pants and BP top (team issued T-shirt) - it's time to head out for 'Orientation.' This word was totally foreign to me when I entered the professional ranks, but it's basically a wrap-up of the previous night's game along with an outline of the day's schedule and maybe even a scouting report if it's the first day of a series.
Unlike every previous sports team I've played on, game recaps are discussed by the manager the next day rather than right after - likely to give the coaching staff time to exchange opinions and also because of the fact that there are so many games - no single game is worth a post-game meltdown. During a losing streak? Maybe. But no one loss, no matter how heart-breaking, will ever be addressed by a manager until the following day.
After orientation comes a long, drawn-out stretch, led by the team's strength coach. Despite knowing how important it is for both a warm up and injury prevention, the whole stretching process is one of the worst parts of my day. Perhaps I become bored too easily, but stretching for 15-minutes is nothing more than a necessary evil in my book - total snooze fest.
Kangaroo Court is a staple in any fun-loving clubhouse. You can get away with saying literally anything while court is in session, the worst insults you could dream up - making fun of a teammate's girlfriend, mother, swing, stats, style, speech impediment, huge mole on his face, jock size - it's all fair game, and everyone present will have your back.
If a kid gets defensive and approaches you at any point after, every other player in that clubhouse will rush to your side and say "Dude, it was Kangaroo Court relax, take the tampon out." It's beautiful! Like it never even happened. And after you carve a guy up for smelling like a hockey bag or taking home the ugliest girl in whatever God-forsaken town you're in, when he gets mad, HE's the asshole! Only in America.
So here are the standard rules for Kangaroo Court:
A box of some sort, usually a taped up shoe-box, is placed in an established spot in the clubhouse with a "mail-slot" type hole cut into the top. This starts the process and every action committed afterward is fair game to get written up. If you see or catch someone doing something stupid, all you do is take a little piece of paper, write the perpetrator's name, his action, your name, and the name of a witness, and submit it into the box. You usually let the box build up over the course of a few weeks or a month, and generally Court takes place in the clubhouse during a rain delay.
There is a judge, or judges - usually the longest-standing members of the team - who empty the box one grievance at a time, reading the charge, the name of the accused and the accuser, and confirming with the witnes that this action did indeed happen. Some veterans get real into it and get all official with the proceedings - get a gavel and everything, which can be hilarious if done right.
Then, the fun starts. There are plenty of classic reactions you see when someone is accused, either through verbal response or body language: there's Shit, you saw that? - How the hell did you know about her? - Ok yeah, I'm an idiot. - and, of course, No way! I'm not paying that, I've never done anything stupid in my life, you guys are all just ganging up on me, this is bullshit!
I'm assuming most clubhouses are similar, and it's always fun to see the back and forth banter/ shouting matches/ fist fights that occur with each "grievance."
After the dust has settled, the team acts as the jury to determine whether the action merits a penalty charge, and if it does, the judges quickly come up with an amount for the guilty party to pay. Amounts vary with circumstance. Rookie ball may be $0.25 minimum fine and $3.00 max fine. Double-A may be $1.00 minimum with a $5.00 max. Big Leaguers, if they even do these juvenile shenanigans we do to keep ourselves entertained while we're in the middle of nowhere, probably go high stakes.
After the ceremony, a deadline is given for everyone to get their money in. (Late payments are doubled.) Once the money is collected - assuming the guy in charge doesn't pocket it - it's usually put towards beer or balloons for some end-of-the-year blowout, and with good reason - it's a lot easier to fork over a couple bucks on behalf of your stupidity if you know that your dough will ultimately be put toward some ice cold adult beverages. Makes acting like an idiot almost worth it.
