The Road To The Majors (Home Run Edition)

Chapter 1: Up, Down or Out?

I ran in place, kicking up dirt like a lawn mower. I wanted to keep my feet moving. I couldn't play with frozen feet, not today. I looked down at my beat up cleats. They looked worn out next to the bright green grass of the baseball diamond. I was planning on buying a new pair. That morning, I would find out whether or not I could afford them.

"Assignment day" is an important day to a wannabe Major League baseball player. Today, each of us would be placed on a Minor League team or sent home. I'd been awake since 5:00 a.m., wondering where I'd be playing next season.

I ran in place faster. Cold sweat dripped from my forehead onto the soft green grass of Kissimee, Florida. I was twenty-four years old. If I wanted to play in the Majors, I couldn't spend another season in Single A. This spring was the start of my second full season in the Minors. I had to keep moving up.

I started the day by working on my defense. Coach Catta pounded grounders to me at third. The first ball he hit shot off his bat like a rocket. I tried to locate it through the 7:00 a.m. fog. Usually, I'd field the ball cleanly. This one took a strange hop. The grounder hit the edge of the grass and changed direction like a pinball. I dove left and missed. The ball slipped past me.

I pulled my hat down, trying to hide for a moment. Then I punched the center of my mitt. This punch was a signal. "Wake up Jimmy, make this practice count." My glove spent more than a few nights wrapped in rubber bands beneath my pillow. I'd had it since high school. I punched the leather again as a few of the guys arrived at the field. Their nervous looks told me they'd marked "assignment day" on their calendars. We all fought for the chance to play at the highest level. Getting there was the hard part.

The road to the Majors is hardly a smooth ride. A player must first survive Minor League Baseball. Only the very best Minor League players have any chance at reaching the 'big leagues.' These special players must pass through six grueling levels of competitive baseball.

In the Minors, we traveled on buses that smelled like gym class. We slept in hotel rooms that Major Leaguers would use as closets. We lived out of suitcases for months at a time. And we never knew when we would be moved up, down, or out of baseball. We traveled to Shreveport and played double headers in Erie. We played through injuries, and dove on beat up fields. We did all of this every day. And in the end, we all faced the same reality. Some of us would get to the Majors, but most of us would not.

I fielded a few more grounders. Orlando Rodriguez stood waiting at first with his glove extended. I tossed a laser across the diamond. Orlando yelled at me, "Hey! Don't pull me off the bag. I don't know what I'm doing out here." Orlando was an outfielder, not a first baseman. I made us both look bad on the next throw. The ball bounced in front of him and skipped into his leg. "You trying to kill me?" He shouted.

I laughed. "You told me not to pull you off the bag. You never said I couldn't hit you."

Orlando moved to my town from Puerto Rico in sixth grade. We'd been playing baseball together ever since. It was great having a friend from another country. I got to learn a lot about his home. Plus, I learned some Spanish from watching so many ballgames with Orlando and his dad.

A few seconds after my poor throw, a voice rang out. "Balance yourself before you make that throw, Hanks." I turned around and saw Bill Putnam, a coach in the Dallas Lonestars organization. The smile left my face. I should have known that someone was watching. Someone was always watching.

The Dallas Lonestars are a Major League franchise. They didn't leave anything to chance. During our time in Florida we were watched closely. Every year Dallas drafts fifty players. Half of them will play Minor League Baseball. For every player who enters the farm system, a player must exit. It's a numbers game that doesn't benefit slow learners.

A few minutes later Benny Catta finished hitting grounders to me. I walked over to Orlando at first base. "Sorry about that throw."

We looked over at our teammates who'd begun stretching. I wondered who among these guys would be going home today. Orlando nudged me. "What do you think?"

I knew exactly what he was talking about. "Double-A, I hope. You?"

Orlando smiled. "I'm going right to the show." The 'show' was the Major Leagues. We both laughed, knowing that neither of us had a shot at that yet. Our next step would be moving past Single A.

The early morning "stretch and catch" was how we loosened up for the day ahead. Usually, this was a time filled with chatter between the guys. We talked about sports and the upcoming baseball season. Everybody had their favorite team and favorite player. Although the friendships were real, so was the competition. We all chased the same dream, a dream that wouldn't come true for most of us.

This was the reason the normal chatter stopped on "assignment day." Today it was too personal. This was a day that we all hated. If not for ourselves, then for the guy whose job we would take at the next level.

We lined up across from one another in the outfield and threw the ball back and forth. I played catch with Chad Barnett, my teammate from Single-A ball. The early morning fog cleared. Baseballs snapped back and forth between partners. A rhythm developed. Somebody coughed, "pop." A bird flew by, "pop." Chad threw a laser that smacked my glove, "pop."

Then, from nowhere, a voice called out. "Bobby Ashbury, you're first." The silence was broken. I recognized Jerry Retskin's strong southern accent. It always got my attention. Jerry and his crew watched Minor Leaguer on top of Minor Leaguer. We all played "catch" together and awaited their judgment. Jerry's crew made the final decision as to which Minor League team we would play on. I believed I'd progressed. I hoped Jerry and his guys thought so too.

One by one, guys entered and exited the clubhouse. There is rarely an expression on a player's face when he returns. Nobody acts too upset or excited. It's an unwritten rule that we all follow. Most guys just got back into line and kept throwing. Others whispered something to a friend. Sometimes a guy would walk right past the line. We'd usually never see or hear from him again.

But most times when guys got cut they tried not to show emotion. Those tears drop later, when you pack up your stuff. The same stuff you packed on road trip after road trip. Only this time you pack for home. You leave the clubhouse one last time to start the rest of your life--a life without baseball. I hoped today wasn't my day to go home.

I noticed Chad Barnett walking back from the clubhouse. He moved slowly but with confidence. I wanted to ask him where he was playing, what had happened, what did Jerry say? I had a million questions. I kept them to myself. I ended up saying, "Hey buddy."

Chad responded, "Hey Jimmy." He let out a small laugh without showing his teeth. I felt relieved.

"Where are you playing?" I quietly asked him.

Chad tried hard to hide his excitement. "Amarillo, Double-A ball, Jimmy."

"Congratulations." We bumped fists. He looked like he was about to say something, but didn't. I understood. There was nothing to say. If I was joining him in Texas, we'd celebrate tonight. If I wasn't, we'd probably never see each other again. There was more than just baseball on the line that day. Friendships were also at stake.

I bent down to tie my shoelace. When I picked my head back up, the sun was in my eyes. I could barely make out the figure of Brian Peterson. He walked quickly back from the clubhouse. He looked rattled. "Jimmy, you're up. Hope someone around here gets some good news," Brian avoided my eyes when he spoke.

I made my way toward the locker room. I wanted to get this over with quickly. When I reached the door to Jerry's office I paused before entering. I took a deep breath. The office was poorly lit. A flickering Dallas Lonestars lamp sat on the corner of the desk. "How's it going, Jerry?" I asked as I shook his hand before taking a seat.

Jerry knew me as a laid back California kid. I did my best to keep my cool and lean back in the chair. He reached across his desk and fiddled with the light bulb inside the Lonestars lamp. The room became bright. "Well, I guess I can start by telling you that you are now a member of the Amarillo Dusters." In one sentence I'd received my promotion. Jerry smiled. I smiled back. After one season at the Single-A level, I was moving up to Double-A. I was through leaning back in my chair at this point. Jerry broke in with his southern accent, "Congratulations on that accomplishment. The jump from A ball to Double-A is a real important one." I was speechless.

I shook Jerry's hand and left the clubhouse. I was going to Double-A Amarillo! I was moving to Texas. I was two steps away from the Majors. I was closing in on my dream faster than expected. I was hitting and fielding better than ever. Life was great.

Practice came to a close. I was showered, dressed, and out of there before half the guys left the field. Hector Gomez stood behind me in the parking lot. "Hey Jimmy, congratulations." Hector and I had both been promoted to Amarillo. "Thanks, man," I said. "You too."

I hopped into my car and Hector banged on the window. I rolled it down. "What's up?" I said.

Hector smiled, "Do you know where Amarillo is?"

I smiled back, shrugged my shoulders and drove away. I had no idea where Amarillo was. But I did know that it was one step closer to my dream.

After practice, I drove back to the apartment I'd been renting with Orlando. On the ride over, I blasted the radio. I can't remember what song was on, but it fit my mood perfectly.

Orlando and I sat in the living room. We were excited about what had happened that day. We were laughing and were louder than usual. After a few minutes Orlando asked me the question I'd been thinking about for an hour. "You wanna surf before the sun goes down?" He didn't have to ask twice. We grew up together in Southern California. And although baseball was my life's passion, surfing wasn't too far behind it.

In our time in Florida, Orlando and I met two girls who became our surfing buddies. Jen grew up in Florida and Maria was born in Cuba. They were excellent surfers and big baseball fans, too.

Orlando called the girls. Fifteen minutes later we were heading to the beach. We pulled up just as the sun was starting to set. The girls were already in the water. Orlando called out to them, "How'd you get here so quick?"

Maria laughed, "You baseball players are slow."

Orlando smiled. "No, Jimmy's slow. I've got six stolen bases this spring already."

With that comment I jumped into the water. "Faster than you," I yelled to Orlando. I fought my way out past the break. The waves crashed in on me. I watched Jen, the strongest surfer of the four of us, take in a huge wave. These were some of the biggest I'd seen.

Surfing in Florida was different than surfing out west. It wasn't the size or shape of the waves. It was more the way the water looked. Growing up in Southern California had spoiled me. I was used to clear blue water. In Florida, the water was a muddy brown. This made it hard to judge depth. Crashing into shallow water was a sure way to get hurt. I'd just received a promotion to Double-A ball. The last thing I needed was an injury.

I rode my first wave on Jen's heels. She'd competed as a pro surfer, so following her was always a smart move. Her board seemed to be in tune with the ocean and her timing was incredible. I leaned in too much and crashed into the cool water. I watched Orlando crash and burn on the same wave. Maria and Jen laughed as they hopped off at the end of their ride. These girls could surf.

We spent the next thirty minutes riding one large wave after another. Orlando and I were equals in terms of surfing. And just like in baseball, we competed hard against one another. The girls were done for the day. They sat on the shore, toweling off. Orlando and I were side by side on our boards. We waited for the last ride of the night. "I can't believe we're going to Double-A," I said.

"One step closer, Jimmy."

"One big step," I answered.

We made eye contact and then there was silence. We both quietly thought about the next step in our lives. And then we saw it--the biggest wave of the day. Right away, I started paddling and so did Orlando. Neither one of us wanted to miss this one.

I felt it coming from fifty yards back. The ocean seemed to rise a few feet for this monster. My heart started to beat quicker and my arms paddled. "Here we go!" I yelled to Orlando as I jumped up onto my board. The power of the ocean rushed me toward the shore. The wind blew hard and I crouched down, rising higher and higher. The wave picked up more and more steam. I was traveling faster than I'd ever traveled before. And that's when I felt that something wasn't quite right. My balance gave way and I started to wobble toward a headfirst crash.

The next thing I knew I was beneath the water. My body was thrashing hard into the ground. My head smacked the ocean floor with a thud. The swirling water pushed me back toward the surface. I reached the surface and was out of breath and in pain. I could see that my head was bleeding. I was looking for Orlando, Jen or Maria, but I couldn't see them. I was dazed. I couldn't tell which way the shore was. And I didn't even have time to take a deep breath before another wave crashed over my head. And then I was numb.

My eyes closed and memories began to flash through my head. I remembered that before surfing, before baseball, before spring training, college, or the Minor Leagues, I was a soccer player...