May 2021, Mike Saeger

Travel in the minor leagues

During my long career as a minor league play-by-play broadcaster, I was often met with two questions when I would tell strangers what I did for a living: “Oh, so you’re the guy we hear over the loudspeaker when we go to the games,” to which I would always say, ” Uh, actually, no. I call the games on the radio. I’m the play-by-play guy. You’re talking about the stadium public address announcer.” The other question, though not as frequent as the former, was, “So, do you get to fly on all your road trips?” For most of my career, the answer was no, aside from one season spent in the Triple-A Pacific Coast League, in which case we did fly almost exclusively.

Only those who have played the game or served as a broadcaster in the industry can truly appreciate – if that’s even the correct term – the exhausting toll that travels in the minor leagues can exact on one’s mind and body.

Now, depending on which league you worked in, bus travel could be as simple as boiling a pot of water or as grueling and painful as getting your wisdom teeth pulled without novocaine.

The California League and Florida State League were arguably the easiest bus leagues. Nothing was more than four or five hours away, and most trips were within a couple of hours. It was just enough time to finish some prep work and still feel human when you arrive at your destination. Those leagues were outliers.

Travel in the minor leagues was not as enjoyable if you worked in the Pioneer League, South Atlantic League, or the Texas League (South Division, in particular). There, you would endure some trips that stretched well beyond 10 hours and others that were five, six, or seven hours. There’s a reason they call those trips kidney thumpers. There would be many days when you boarded the bus as a healthy twenty-something or thirty-something and arrived feeling as though you were 85 with two arthritic knees and a hip replacement that didn’t take.

There’s also a unique way to measure time on bus trips. Rather than calculating a journey by time, movies often measure the length of road trips. Yes, movie watching is pretty standard for bus travel in the minor leagues. You could gauge the distance of a trip by how many movies you could squeeze in until you reached your destination: “Yeah, this is about a four-movie ride,” or, “Yippee, we’ve got a two-movie trip, fellas!” A one or two movie trip was like finding a Willy Wonka golden ticket in your chocolate bar.

When it came to movies, there was usually one player on every team who was the designated flick-picker. His job was to load up on enough DVDs to cover the round trip. If you’re traveling eight hours, you can probably imagine that the flick-picker role came with weighty responsibilities. Sometimes you got lucky, and your flick dude was a regular Siskel and Ebert. You could count on having a plethora of good films to watch while killing time. It helped to take your mind off your aching back and kidneys. Other times you might get a guy who wouldn’t know a good movie if it came up and hit him in the earflap of his batting helmet. Most of the time, the designated flick-picker did a decent job of providing entertainment.

Sometimes, the club manager would have a say in the selection of movies, though in my personal experience, that wasn’t often the case. I remember a fellow broadcaster telling me about a particular manager of his club who was the absolute authority on deciding which movies would be viewed on bus trips, which boiled down to one genre: B-horror films. Talk about making travel in the minor leagues even more appalling.

There was one time I recall when a manager insisted on a particular movie for a trip. Former major league infielder, Rich Dauer, was the skipper of our Double-A club many years ago.

He had retired from playing in the late ’80s and soon after took a job managing the Single-A team in San Bernardino, California. At the time, actor Mark Harmon was a co-owner of the club. Harmon got Dauer a bit part in his movie, Stealing Home, which also featured Jodie Foster. It’s a coming-of-age baseball movie about a failed ballplayer.

For our final road trip one season, Dauer decided he wanted to have a little fun with his players and play the movie during one of our shorter excursions. Remember that coming-of-age romantic dramas are not exactly at the top of a ballplayer’s list, and our boys weren’t thrilled with the selection. player, played by Harmon. In the end, Harmon’s character, by now in his 30s, joins a minor league baseball team that just so happens to be managed by Dauer, who didn’t have an actual name in the flick.

The best part was at the movie’s end when Dauer had his cameo appearance.

He had been so excited to see the players’ reaction when he showed up on the screen, except none of the players recognized him. After all, the movie debuted about 25 years earlier when Rich had a little more hair and fewer wrinkles.

Rich probably replayed his on-scene appearance two or three times before one of the players near the front of the bus finally asked, “Richie, is that you?” At that point, everyone started to catch on as laughter and shouting began to fill our 45-foot sardine can. We must have watched that scene seven or eight more times.

The absolute worst part about bus travel in the minor leagues is the futility of trying to sleep on those long overnight trips. Have you ever tried to sleep on a bus crammed with 35 to 40 people?

I’m one of those who has always had trouble sleeping in cars, buses, airplanes; you name it. The only way I can sleep is by lying down. If you’re on a bus, that’s comfortable for about an hour. If the row across from you isn’t empty, you can’t stretch out your legs, so you have to turn yourself into a circus contortionist freak. Even if the row next to you is empty, it’s still not entirely pleasant. I’d love to know who thought it was a good idea to make seats where the inside edges of each one curve up?

What’s wrong with two flat seats? You may as well try sleeping on a roll of quarters. Don’t get me started on those immovable seat belt buckles that make your leg feel like someone is giving you a continuous charley horse or sticking you in the back with a hot poker.

Often, some players will bring one of those roll-up foam mattress pads on the bus and stretch out on the floor. The worst part is when one of them decides to make his bunk on the floor directly next to your seat. Now you’re in trouble, mainly if you can’t stretch your legs across the next row of seats because they’re occupied. That presents a conundrum that would even be challenging for Daniel Browning Smith. Good luck!

That also brings me back to the movies. Have you ever attempted to fall asleep at 2 a.m. with a movie playing and the volume set to ear-bleed level? I eventually wised up and started bringing earplugs in my backpack. That helped mute the sound from the level of a jet engine to that of a chainsaw. If you were fortunate, the movies might cut off around 1 a.m., which would allow you to focus on the seat belt buckles that make your back feel like it was getting an epidural, or on that roll of quarters beneath your leg.

One other warning relating to bus travel in the minor leagues: DON’T attempt to use the bathroom in the middle of the night unless you’re Peter Parker, Peter Pan, or happen to be sitting in the back of the bus.

Trying to maneuver around a maze of stretched-out legs and bodies strewn on the floor makes the World’s Toughest Mudder competition look like a game of first-grade hopscotch.

If you want to ensure that you tear a hamstring, suffer a Grade 3 groin strain, or blow out a knee, try getting from the front of the bus to the bathroom in the middle of the night.

Early in my career, I made the rookie mistake – multiple times – of not monitoring my fluid intake before hitting the bus for extended overnight trips. That was a hard lesson to learn. I was obviously a slow learner. The key to survival is taking small sips of water, just enough to keep you from getting completely dehydrated.

If you like to have a couple of beers before boarding the bus after the game, proceed at your own risk. If you want to tip back a few during a trip, you either have ice water in your veins or a bladder the size of Texas.

I think that most major league organizations now disallow alcohol consumption on bus trips, but that wasn’t always the case.

So there you go. Now, if you ever run into me, you know that I wasn’t the PA guy at the local yard. And no, travel in the minor leagues is less than glamorous. However, if you ask me how I enjoyed my years in baseball, I’ll regurgitate the answer I give everyone – “Hey, I got paid to watch and talk about games all summer. How bad can that be?”

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Kiss it goodbye

The late baseball commissioner, Bart Giamatti, once penned about baseball, “It is designed to break your heart. The game begins in the spring when everything else begins again, and it blossoms in the summer, filling the afternoons and evenings, and then as soon as the chill rains come, it stops and leaves you to face the fall alone.”

Today, my heart is broken. My girl left me. Just like that, it’s over. A good part of a lifetime together, and she’s out the door. She was my favorite hello and my hardest goodbye. She is gone. Don’t pass go, don’t collect $200. The fact is, she is gone.

This was a scene from Annie Hall: “A relationship, I think, is like a shark. You know? It has to constantly move forward, or it dies. And I think what we got on our hands is a dead shark.” This was Rick Blaine in Casablanca telling Illsa, “I’ve got a job to do, too. Where I’m going, you can’t follow. What I’ve got to do, you can’t be any part of.”

Except, there was no conversation. She did leave a note. Like a thief in the night, she stole out on me – took my wallet, car keys, kids, and the dog.

I recently learned of her plans. In retrospect, maybe I should have acknowledged sooner that this was a possibility. I couldn’t bear the thought of losing her forever. There’s always that sliver of hope that things can work themselves out. Martin Luther King, Jr. once said, “We must accept finite disappointment, but never lose infinite hope.” But that infinite hope has been officially dashed. She is gone.

They define denialism as the rejection of undisputed basic facts and concepts. I guess I should have seen the signs. In fact, I was separated from my girl for several months. Pandemics have a funny way of working. I thought that maybe she just needed a break. After all, three decades is a long time to spend together. I just didn’t – couldn’t – know that the separation would be permanent.

She and I had always gotten along well. We never argued. How many couples can make that claim? It seemed like the perfect relationship. I don’t think she initially wanted to separate. I hope she occasionally thinks of me, even though she is gone.

Didn’t the summer trips mean anything? That was a time reserved for traveling together. Oh, did we travel! We were inseparable yet never grew tired of each other. She preferred to choose the destinations. I enjoyed the element of surprise. Every fall, she would lay the summer itinerary before me. I would study it, nod, and begin to count down the days until embarkation eagerly. I didn’t care where we were going, just as long as we were together. Those were glorious months. We often traveled off the beaten path and sometimes stayed in 2-star motels in the early days of our relationship. It didn’t matter because it was an adventure. There were no extravagant trips to the Louvre Museum, taking in the wonderment of Half Dome, or enjoying the beauty of Maui; we liked to hit some of the not-so-hot tourist destinations. Summers will never be the same now that she is gone.

I wasn’t perfect, but I was pretty good. I was a great provider. Like lemmings to the sea or swallows to Capistrano, my girl could count on me. I was consistent. I was always there for her. But now, she isn’t. She is gone.

The worst part is that I’ll never know why she left. All I have is her note. I do know that she’s found someone new. She’s his gain now. I’m left with questions and countless great memories. What’s done is done. No happy retirement together with early evenings spent sipping a smooth cab on the porch while watching the sunset—no retirement trips to the Bahamas or three-week cruises on the Mediterranean.

Let me state that I didn’t quit baseball (and I’m still happily married to my wonderful wife of 21 years). The game decided that it was time to move on from me. I gave it all she’s got, captain! I do wish her well. Our relationship would have ended at some point – everything does in life. As the great Vin Scully once said about an injured player, “He’s listed as day-to-day. Aren’t we all.” It just wasn’t supposed to end now. The Grand Ol’ Lady had other plans and desires, however. Thirty happy years together – poof! Most marriages don’t last 30 years. My marriage to baseball did. I sure will miss her.

I’ll miss late afternoons of sitting up in the booth, staring out over an emerald-green field of lush grass as the day begins to be swallowed by dusk. I’ll miss afternoon games in the spring, before the summer heat and humidity take over like unwanted in-laws who overstay their visit during the holidays. When you first walk into a stadium, I’ll miss the smell of freshly mown grass that hits your nose like a fine Bordeaux. I’ll miss the roar of the crowd and the crack of the bat. There’s something truly unique and captivating about the sounds of baseball, unlike any other sport.

I’ll miss the travel – sort of – and midnight dinners on the road. I’ll miss scouting towns before a road trip for local craft beer. I’ll miss the hours spent researching a good story about some centerfielder, whom no one has heard, from some small town in the corner of Kansas.

I’ll miss the rush you get when you slap on the headset just before going on air. Even on those mid-July days when you’re dragging and your body is weary from travel and few off days, putting on the headset is a magical elixir, like a double espresso.

I’ll miss wondering if I might see something that night that I’ve never seen before in a baseball game. I’ll miss the thrill of being on the air in those rare games when a pitcher carries a no-hitter into the ninth inning. I was lucky to have been in the right place for eight of those. I’ll miss the daily chats down in the manager’s office. I’ve gleaned more info on the game’s strategy from those meetings than you’ll ever know.

I’ll miss the satisfaction – and relief – of finally finishing game notes and prep each day, along with the excitement of uncovering a really cool stat that I’ll use on the broadcast: “Did you know the club is 22-3 when so-and-so drives in a run?” I’ll miss the excitement of calling opening day each spring. That never gets old. You always feel like a kid the day before Christmas.

I’ll miss watching a 19-year-old Fernando Tatis, Jr., do things I’d never seen a minor league player do daily. I’ll miss the thrill of a tight 1-0 game and the challenge of having to creatively fill time on the air when it’s 10-0 in the third inning. I’ll miss watching the rare 34th-round draft pick turn himself into a major league prospect. I’ll miss watching a young Chipper Jones, so lost at the plate in the early months of his first year in Class-A ball, transform himself into a future Hall-of-Famer by season’s end.

Even though it was a one-way dialogue, I’ll miss my nightly on-air conversations with the fans. I knew you were tuned in, and I always appreciated that. I hope you know that I always tried my best to bring you a quality broadcast. I’ll miss Baseball America’s annual top 30 rankings of the farm systems and looking to see which top prospects might be on our team this year. I’ll miss getting letters and emails from young, aspiring broadcasters asking for advice or wanting input on their work. And lastly, I’ll miss the camaraderie of my fellow broadcasters and grabbing a bite to eat or a beer after the game. We are kindred souls.

Someone once wrote, “Memories, even bittersweet ones, are better than nothing.” I always thought I’d broadcast baseball games until I was 70 and then walk away. It would be an amicable split, and it would be on my terms. God has a strange sense of humor when you’re busy making other plans.

I’ll always cherish and fondly remember the 30 years we spent together – the game and I. Like knick-knacks and junk in a house, you collect a lot of memories over that much time – too many to mention. I’m grateful we were given 30 years together and saddened that we won’t make it to 31. At least my girl can’t take the memories. Did she have to take the dog? The truth is she’ll always be my girl, even if I’m not her guy.

Former major league pitcher, Jim Bouton, had a great quote at the end of his masterful book, Ball Four. I appreciated what he said when I read the book many years ago, but I truly understand it now: “You see, you spend a good piece of your life gripping a baseball, and in the end, it turns out that it was the other way around all the time.”

Sadly, she is gone.

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