The Road To The Majors (Touchdown Edition)

Chapter 1: Up, Down or Out?

I ran in place, kicking up small chunks of dirt from beneath the grass like a human lawn mower. I wanted to keep my feet moving to fight the morning chill of central Florida. I couldn't play with frozen feet, not today. I looked down at my beat up size twelve cleats. They looked especially worn out next to the bright green grass of the baseball diamond and the true brown of the infield dirt. I promised myself that if I made the jump to Double-A ball, I'd buy a new pair. That morning, I would find out whether or not I'd be able to afford them.

"Assignment day" is the day that each player is assigned to a particular Minor League team, or told to go straight home. I'd been awake since 5:00 a.m. that morning, wondering where I would be playing in the upcoming season. Every year, three days before spring training ends, Minor Leaguers around the country can count on the most nerve-racking day of their season. Today was that day.

Cold sweat dripped from my forehead onto the soft green grass of Kissimmee, Florida. I was twenty-four years old and if I wanted to have a legitimate chance of playing Major League Baseball, I couldn't spend another season in Single-A. This spring training marked the start of my second full season in the Minor Leagues. I had to keep moving up. If I stood still for too long, I would need to find a new profession. I ran in place faster, kicking up bigger and bigger chunks of dirt. I was excited. In a few hours, I would find out my baseball destiny.

I started the day by working on my defense. Benny Catta, my manager during my season in Single-A, pounded grounders to me at third base. The first ball he hit shot off his bat like a rocket. I tried to locate the dirty brown thing as it cut through the 7:00 a.m. fog. Usually, I'd field the ball cleanly, but this one took a strange hop that only a baseball could take. The grounder hit the edge of the freshly cut grass, and changed direction like a pinball. I reacted and dove to my left, trying to save myself from the embarrassment of an empty mitt. I missed. The ball slipped away from me like a pretty girl on a passing bus. And in those moments, I could really feel what baseball was all about. The game had taught me how to overcome failure. I stood up and brushed myself off, ready to dive again.

I pulled my hat down hard on my head, trying to hide inside for a moment or two. Then I punched the center of my mitt. This punch was a signal to myself. "Wake up Jimmy, make this practice count." The glove I wore on my hand had spent more than a few nights carefully wrapped in rubber bands beneath my pillow. I'd had that mitt since high school. I punched the leather again as I watched a few of the guys arrive for the long day ahead. I knew how much this day would mean to my life as a baseball player, and to the lives of all the ballplayers who sweated for weeks during spring training in Kissimmee. I could see by their nervous looks that they'd marked "assignment day" on their calendars as well. We all fought and bled for one chance to play the game we loved at the highest level. Getting there was the hard part.

The road to the Majors is hardly a smooth ride. To be-come a Major Leaguer a player must first survive Minor League Baseball, the training ground where potential Major Leaguers are plucked like apples from a tree. Only the very best apples have any chance at reaching the 'big leagues.' But first, these exceptional players must pass through six grueling levels of competitive baseball.

In the Minor Leagues, we traveled for hours at a time on packed buses that smelled like high school gym class. We slept in hotel rooms that Major Leaguers would use as closets. We lived out of suitcases for months at a time, never knowing when we would be moved up, down, or out of the system. While Major Leaguers played in big cities like Los Angeles and New York, we endured six-hour rain delays in Shreveport and double headers in Erie. We played through injuries, and dove onto unkempt fields countless times with little chance of making a play, and we did all of this every day. But in the end, we were faced with the harsh reality that while some of us would get to the Majors, most of us would not.

I fielded a few more grounders from Benny and fired the ball across the diamond to first base. Nick Erickson stood waiting with his glove extended, ready to receive my next throw. He yelled at me, "Hey! Don't pull me off the bag this time. I don't know what I'm doing out here." Nick was a great outfielder, but he was definitely not a first baseman. I guess I didn't listen to him, because I made us both look bad on the next throw. The ball bounced in front of Nick and skipped into his leg. He laughed sarcastically, "Nice throw Jimmy. You trying to kill me?"

I laughed along with him, "Well, you're still on the bag. You told me not to pull you off the bag, you didn't say I couldn't hit ya." Nick laughed harder. We could never stay angry with each other, we'd been friends forever.

A few seconds later, a commanding voice rang out from behind me. "Balance yourself before you make that throw, Hanks." I turned around and saw Bill Putnam, a coach in the Dallas Lonestars organization, and he wasn't laughing. The smile quickly disappeared from my face. I should have known that someone was watching. Someone was always watching. The Dallas Lonestars are a Major League franchise and they wouldn't leave anything to chance. During our time in Florida, we were observed closely by the coaches and executives in the Lonestars system that assigned us to our particular teams. Every year Dallas drafts fifty players, and more than half will play Minor League Baseball. For every player who enters the six-team farm system, a player must exit. It's a numbers game and it doesn't benefit slow learners. I knew this. I punched my mitt again, this time much harder. "Buck up, Jimmy, big day for you." My palms began to sweat, and although I knew I had done everything in my power to leave a positive impression on my bosses, I was still nervous. I think everybody was. After all, we were just boys chasing the same dream.

A few minutes later Benny had finished hitting grounders to me. I walked over to Nick at first base and patted him on the back, "Sorry about that throw, you all right?" I felt bad about hitting him.

"Yeah, I'm fine." Nick and I looked over at our teammates who had begun stretching and warming up. I wondered who among these guys would be around tomorrow, and who would be going home today. Nick continued, "So, what do you think about today?"

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

As usual, Nick had a great answer on the tip of his tongue, "I'm hoping to go right to the show." The 'show' was the Major Leagues, and we both laughed, knowing that neither one of us had a shot at that yet. The thought of playing in the Majors sounded great, but our next step was advancing beyond Single-A.

The early morning "stretch and catch" was how we loosened up our legs and arms for the long day ahead. Usually, this was a time filled with chatter between the guys where we heard stories from the previous night's adventures. We talked about sports and the upcoming baseball season. Everybody had his favorite team, and his favorite player, and we'd argue back and forth just like we were kids. These guys were from a hundred different towns and cities, and their stories were as different as their backgrounds. The chatter was friendly, never too personal, and almost always a welcomed distraction. And although the friendships were real, so was the competition. The guy who slept with his head leaned against your shoulder on a seven-hour bus ride to nowhere, could be the same guy who took your position at the next level.

This was the reason that the normal chatter ceased on "assignment day." Today it was too personal. This was a day that we all dreaded, if not for ourselves, then for the guy whose position we would steal at the next level.

The boys lined up across from each other in the outfield, and threw the ball back and forth like we'd done a thousand times. I played catch with Chad Barnett, my teammate from Single-A ball. At six feet tall and two hundred pounds, Chad was a guy who just looked like a ballplayer.

As the early morning fog crept away from us, everything and everyone became silent. The only sound that could be heard was the popping of the mitts, as the baseball snapped back and forth between partners. A rhythm developed. Somebody coughed, "pop," a bird flew over head, "pop," Chad threw a laser that smacked the palm of my glove, "pop." Then, as if from nowhere, a voice said, "Bobby Ashbury, you're first, come with me to the clubhouse." The silence was broken. Bobby was the first person to find out where he would be playing next season. Everyone immediately came to attention. Each player was now aware that the next person to be summoned to the clubhouse could be him. For some guys, "assignment day" would mark the end of their baseball careers, for others, just the beginning.

I recognized the voice that broke the morning silence. Jerry Retskin's strong Southern twang always got my attention. Jerry and his crew evaluated Minor Leaguer on top of Minor Leaguer. They had a wealth of knowledge and experience about what type of player and person would be a Major Leaguer and what type would not. We all played "catch" together and awaited the judgment of Jerry and his partner, Phil Toombs. The two of them made the final decision as to which of the six Lonestar Minor League teams we would play on, if we made a team at all. I was waiting for my turn in their office. I believed that I had progressed, and I prayed that Jerry and Phil had noticed. But I wouldn't find out until I met with them in the clubhouse, located just beyond the wall in left field.

There is rarely any expression on a player's face when he returns from the clubhouse. Baseball etiquette strictly forbids gloating, and teaches a player to be humble as well. One by one players exited the clubhouse and quietly told their closest friends if they'd been moved up, down, or out of the system. Some guys just got back into line and kept throwing, seemingly unaffected. The last thing anyone wanted to do was rub their promotion into somebody else's face, or put their head in their hands and cry, showing how their demotion had broken them. But deep inside, beyond the diamond and the glove and the stirrup socks, guys do cry when they're released. 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. The trip is over and you leave the clubhouse one last time to embark on the rest of your life--without baseball.

I toweled off after another run through the morning obstacle course. I didn't understand why we had to run the course three times, but I never questioned a coach's decision. I noticed Chad Barnett walking back from the clubhouse. He moved slowly but with confidence, chin up, his face stolid and expressionless. I wanted to ask him where he was playing, what had happened, what did Jerry say to you, did he tell you the news right away? I had a million more of these questions, but kept them to myself. I couldn't find any words and ended up saying, "Hey buddy." The comment seemed idiotic, but it turned out to be strangely appropriate.

Chad responded, "Hey Jim." He let out a small giggle, without showing his teeth. I felt a great sense of relief, guessing that his laughter signified some decent news.

"So, uh, where are you playing?" I quietly asked him, trying not to pressure him.

Chad spoke through a tight grin that concealed his obvious excitement. "Amarillo, Double-A ball, Jimbo."

I sighed with relief. "Congratulations, Chad. That's really awesome," Chad and I touched fists, a gesture of congratulations that has replaced the high five in dugouts everywhere. He looked as if he was about to say something, but he didn't. I understood. There was nothing to say. If I was joining him in Texas, we'd celebrate tonight, and if I wasn't, we'd probably never see each other again. There was more than just baseball on the line that day. Our friendship was also at stake.

I bent down to tie the shoelace that had come undone someplace between the obstacle course and my conversation with Chad. When I picked my head back up, the sun was glaring into my eyes and I could barely make out the figure of Brian Peterson, another Major League hopeful. He looked rattled.

"Jimmy, you're up. Hope someone around here gets some good news," Brian spoke softly and made sure to avoid my eyes. I untied, and then tied my other shoelace slowly and deliberately, avoiding the panicked look I had seen on Brian's face a moment earlier. I was sure he'd be packing his things for home.

I made my way toward the locker room as quickly as possible. I wanted to get this over with. When I reached the door to Jerry's office, I paused before entering and took a deep breath. I turned the doorknob and went into the room. The office was poorly lit. A flickering Dallas Lonestar lamp sat on the corner of the desk, but other than that, the place was bare.

Jerry and Phil welcomed me into the office and made me feel comfortable. I had a friendly, yet professional, relationship with both of them. "How's it going guys?" I asked them as I shook their hands before taking a seat across from them in a chair that didn't look strong enough to hold me. They knew me as a laid back California kid. And even then, I did my best to keep my composure and lean back in the chair.

Phil finally answered my question, "We're doing fine, Jim. Thanks for asking." He was all business today. He reached across his desk and fiddled with the light bulb inside of the Lonestar lamp. The room became bright. "Well, I guess we can begin by telling you that you are now a member of the Amarillo Dusters."

In one simple sentence I had received my promotion from Single-A Kissimmee to Double-A Amarillo. I breathed a sigh of relief as softly as I could, and I think that Phil noticed because he smiled. I smiled back. After only one season at the Single-A level, I was moving up.

I was through leaning back in my chair at this point. Jerry broke in with his southern accent,

"Congratulations on that accomplishment. And I know it's not your style, but you can give yourself a quick pat on the back if you'd like, 'cause the jump from A ball to Double-A is a real important one." I was excited and relieved. Double-A ball sure sounded sweet, but I wasn't going to pat myself on the back until I was standing on a Major League field.

I was speechless. I shook their hands and I don't know if I walked, jumped, or floated right out of the clubhouse. I was going to Double-A Amarillo! I was moving to Texas. I was now only two steps away from playing in the Major Leagues. I was closing in on my dream faster than I had expected. I was hitting and fielding better than ever. Life was great.

All of those extra ground balls at third base and the extra batting practice had paid off.

"Jimmy Hanks, playing third base for the Amarillo Dusters." That sure had a nice ring to it.

Practice had come to a close. I was showered, dressed, and out of the clubhouse before half the guys had even left the field. On the way to my car I stopped at the pay phone to call my parents. I was so excited that I dialed the wrong number twice before I punched in the number I'd known by heart for years. Mom screamed when I told her the news. I hung up the telephone feeling great.

Hector Gomez was standing behind me, waiting for his chance to use the phone. "Hey Jimmy, congratulations, buddy." Hector and I had both been promoted to Amarillo. "Thanks, man," I said. "You too." We slapped hands and I gave him the telephone. "Hey Jim!" Hector shouted out to me just before I got into my car.

I rolled down the window. "What's up?" I said. Hector smiled, "Do you know where the heck Amarillo is?" I shrugged my shoulders and drove away. I had no idea where Amarillo was. I did know, however, that Amarillo meant I was one giant step closer to reaching my dream of playing Major League Baseball.

After practice, I drove back to the condominium that a few of my teammates and I were renting during spring training. On the short ride from the field, I smiled from ear to ear and blasted the radio. I can't remember what song was on, but I remember it fit my upbeat mood perfectly.

Shortly after I arrived at the condo, my friends and teammates joined me in our living room. We were all excited about what had happened that day, and the atmosphere was almost giddy. Everyone was laughing at stupid jokes, and we were all a little louder than usual. As it turned out, all five of us who'd rented the place had received promotions to Double-A. Kevin Cove, Chad Barnett, Nick Erickson, Leon Thompson and I readied ourselves for a night of celebration on the town. But first, we needed pizza. I took the initiative and grabbed the telephone.

"Get extra cheese on one of 'em Jimmy," Kevin Cove shouted as I dialed the number to Mama Mia's Pizza.

"Hello...yes, I'd like two large pizzas, one with pepperoni and one with extra cheese... Twenty minutes?...O.K., thanks."

I hung up the phone and flicked on the television set. I glanced around the room, and stared at everyone. This is what I always remember when I think about that night. The television, the excited faces, the conversations, the way the room was set up. The way Leon leaned back in the corner lounge chair. How Kevin and Chad argued over the remote control on the long green couch next to the window. I remembered Nick and I sitting on the adjacent couch that faced the front door, talking about the weather in Texas, the difference between Single-A and Double-A, and then nothing at all. There was no signal that something was terribly wrong. The doorbell rang.

"That was quick," Leon said from the corner. "Didn't you just hang up the phone about five minutes ago?"

I reached into my pocket for some money. "They say they have the fastest pizza delivery in town."

Chad Barnett chimed in, laughing, "Five minute delivery, what's this guy driving, a rocket?"

I got up from my seat and walked over to the door, still chuckling at Chad's comment. My mouth was starting to water for the pizza. If there was ever a night for a five-minute delivery, this was it. I went over to the door like someone might do a million times in their life. Never thinking about what's on the other side. I turned the doorknob without care, without fear, and without thought. A split second later the door slammed shut behind me, and two men holding handguns were standing in our living room.

"All of you get on the floor right now, this is a holdup!" One of them screamed. He was dressed in black and his face was hidden by a dark wool ski mask. I looked into his eyes and a chill shot down my spine. His partner was also dressed in black. A green bandana covered the bottom part of his face and another one covered the top portion. I could only see his eyes as well.

I immediately dropped to the floor, eager to comply with the men. We would put ourselves in much more danger if we didn't cooperate. I tried to put my arms in a position that would look the least threatening. I didn't want either of them to think that I was going to try to be a hero. If money was all they wanted, that was not a problem. Their guns were what scared me.

"All right, where's the money?" the man with the ski mask asked gruffly.

At once, all five of us began to answer, "In the drawers, in my pocket, in my soccer bag."

The simultaneous blurting out of answers appeared to fluster the man in charge momentarily. "No, no - one at a time!" He spoke with force behind his words. He reached down and tapped me hard on the shoulder with his gun. "You first." I had only seen guns in the movies but I knew how dangerous they were.

I spoke deliberately, making sure not to do anything that would make the man nervous or upset, "My money is in my old soccer bag, the blue one with the Tidal Waves logo on it. It's to my left on the floor." I looked out of the corner of my eye and pointed at the bag, making sure that "old trusty" was still there. It was there; it was always there. Ever since I was fourteen years old my soccer bag had never left my side.

I glanced closely at the word "Tidal Waves" on the side of the little blue bag. I began to remember why I had been carrying it around with me for such a long time. I thought about how much I cherished that bag. I'd kept that tired thing intact for almost a decade.

I stared at the man who pointed a gun at me. I searched for a trace of humanity in the dark abyss of his eyes. I looked for a human expression hidden behind his bandana. I listened to rough voices, and quickly glanced at scared faces all around the room. And then I was numb. I stared long and hard at the white writing on the bag that spelled out the word "Tidal Waves." And I remembered that before baseball, I was a soccer player...