Aug 2, 2002

SOMETIMES IT’S HARD TO HOLD ONTO A DREAM

(Imagine a career minor leaguer, having struggled for ten years to get to the majors, watching from a distance as major league baseball contemplates a shutdown.  Another year of hope and work wasted.  This is how he may feel)

      Alan unconsciously twirls a couple of jigsaw pieces in his left hand.  The puzzle, a map of the many towns he had played in, was a gift from his parents.  He kept the puzzle on his kitchen table so he could see it every time he ate—a personal reminder of the years of struggle.  He used it as inspiration to keep him going.  In his right hand he holds the morning newspaper—the sports section.  He has finished breakfast and is now poring over the box scores of the previous day’s major league games.  He is able to pick out a couple of dozen names that he has either played with or against in the minors over the years, and at least a half dozen who were, like him, career minor leaguers.  At least they were until their hard work and dedication rewarded them with a call to ‘the show’.  Alan still hopes that some team will need a good hitting outfielder with decent power and a little speed.  Someone with ten years of dedication, of commitment, of enthusiasm and of perseverance.

      It has been a roller coaster year for Alan so far.  Back problems slowed him as the season began—he was unable to get around on the fastball, and, of course, when it was discovered, that was all the pitchers threw him.  His back stabilized after a tough month and suddenly he was able to pound those fastballs.  His average started going up, the power returned, and the team was winning—things started to fit into place.  Then, on a fluky play, he turned his knee as he slid into third.  He was out of the line-up for two weeks, and it took him two more weeks to get his swing back.  But now, as the season moved into the stretch run he was pounding the ball again—the baseball was looking as big as a grapefruit as it came hurtling toward him. 

      Originally a mid round draft choice Alan had been to four big league camps.  Each time he was farmed out for the same reason—he didn’t have one outstanding attribute.  He wasn’t a small speedy contact hitter, and he wasn’t a big power hitter.  He wasn’t much of base stealer and a relatively weak arm lessened his solid defensive play.  What he had seemed to be in short supply though—he was a solid ballplayer who could do the little things.  He was a situational player who could make the play needed to help his team win.  He had twice been voted the MVP of his minor league team.  Unfortunately, the little things he did seemed to be too little to be noticed-- he stopped being invited to spring camp.  His rights started being dealt away like he was a card in the deck.  No organization seemed to want to keep him, certainly not to promote him.  He was destined to collect the little pay, live in a small rented house, and stay packed and ready to move to the next stop on the minor league whistle train.  He was alone.  He had loved but baseball was still his one true love.

     Most teams in contention want proven major leaguers as they chase a championship, and teams not in contention usually want youngsters to play so the team can gauge potential.  There were very few spots available for players like Alan.   This season seemed to provide Alan a little hope though.  Looking at the statistics of those half dozen ‘career’ minor leaguers he saw that they were proving that they belonged.  They were producing enough to stay—some even enough to warrant regular playing time.  This inspired Alan to keep trying and each day he ran onto the field and played as if his professional life depended on it.  The possibility existed that some team would notice, that some team would take a chance, that some team would want a player who works hard and does all the little things to help the team win.  In baseball hope is the fuel for players like Alan.  But another strike hung like a dark cloud over him.  He was getting too old; his chances were starting to run out.  If this season were wiped out his chance at making his dream come true would most likely be extinguished with it. 

     Each time he cashed his cheque he dreamed about earning the major league minimum—even for just one year.  The minimum is well over $200,000 and this much money would help Alan set himself up for the rest of his life.  Anything past one year, he thought, would be gravy.  To make millions?  That was too grand a dream.  It was incomprehensible to him that players making millions of dollars would strike.  It was also incomprehensible to him that owners making millions of dollars from baseball would want to shut the game down.  Was there a shortage of players like him, players who play because they love the game?  Do players lose the love when they meet the responsibilities and receive the money of big league ball?  How many times had he read of a ballplayer bemoaning his contract; how many times had he heard of a ballplayer loafing on the field because he was dissatisfied with his contract, dissatisfied with his team?  How many were caught with handguns, drugs, prostitutes…how many beat their wives, or at least cheated on them.  Didn’t character matter anymore?

     His baseball bag still sat on the floor by the front door where he had dropped it the previous night.  After 0-4 and three strikeouts the last thing on his mind was to clean out his bag.  Instead he had had a couple of shots of vodka, watched a black and white movie on television, and went to bed.  It was a day game today, and his team would be facing a young hard throwing lefty, a bonus baby that had signed a big buck contract and was tearing up the league.  That pitcher would certainly be called up to the majors before the season ended…if there was an end to the season.  Alan needed to be successful today.  He wouldn’t be satisfied with anything less than two hits--hopefully one would be for extra bases.  It was an opportunity for him to show that he could hit a quality pitcher.  He needed to keep the hope alive. 

     He folded the newspaper up, put all the pieces of the puzzle back into the box, and placed the breakfast dishes in the sink.  He would clean them later.  He emptied his bag and filled it with clean clothes.  He gathered the car keys in his hand, locked the front door, got in his ’86 Cavalier and drove to the ballpark.  Hopefully there would be some scouts in among the couple thousand fans.  Hopefully he would get those two hits.  Hopefully, this time, someone would notice.