I did an interview today with a radio guy in Texas. I’ve done a lot a radio interviews now, some for books, others for baseball. I’ve done enough to know when a radio man has actually read my stuff, looked up my career, or is just having me on because I’m someone to fill otherwise dead air. I don’t complain, publicity is publicity and I’ll gladly take it. However, in this last interview I was asked about Josh Hamilton. Specifically, what I thought of him and his “being a distraction to his teammates.”

The way it was asked to me was in this joking, leading, players-being-players manner. I knew what he wanted me to say by the way he asked me and I’ll be dammed if I didn’t almost lock up.

I pride myself on being good on air, a great talker, articulate with something insightful always at the ready. I’ve been a fringe talent in pro-baseball all my life so I’ve made sure to sound smart when I got a mic in front of me because there was always the possibility it would become my true future in the sport. But this time I wanted to rant, be personal, damn all the polish to hell, cut out the articulate, assumptive, utterly shallow sound byte creation process and tell this guy to go *^$# himself.

Our culture has a problem with celebrity. Let us call it an addiction since we’re keen on throwing that kind of subject matter around. We tend to obsess over it and project onto it things that aren’t true. It is not a force field. It does not make us supermen to possess it. There is no transformation ceremony as we ascend to Godhood. Why do we constantly think there is? Why do we think people that have money, or fame, or success, should be better than us? Do we honestly believe they are?

Hamilton had a relapse and it’s a distraction? Christ, how do you think he feels? How do you think he feels waking up every day knowing that no matter how well he does on a playing field or how many fans buy his jersey his addiction does not care? It does not stop for money, or fame, or expectations of the sporting obsessed. It does not care that the Rangers almost won the series, and it certainly does not care that you might thinks it’s a distraction.

Life is full of distractions. The worst thing we can do is some how expect it not to be.

Look, my brother is a recovering alcoholic. He will be for the rest of his life. He beat the shit out me when he drank. I had to lie about it at a hospital to avoid having police reports filed. I had to lie about it when the cops showed up at my house and asked me why I was bleeding. I never understood why I couldn’t have him thrown in jail for what he’d done to me, but my family begged me not to, and for their sake, I didn’t.

He’s sober. But now I’m the one with problems. I get depressed. Anxious. I don’t know why. I don’t know what’s happening inside me sometimes and it scares the hell out me. Really, it’s terrifying to wake up and not understand how you can have so much success and just feel like there is nothing to live for.

And the worst part of it, the absolute worst part is when you know, because you’ve done well for yourself, you can’t talk to anyone about it because they’ll say to you, “You’re successful, what do you have to feel bad about? Ha, you wanna know real struggle, live my life sometime, pal. Drive a truck for a living. You play a game… you write books… You”— some other line of BS that only makes sense in a world that thinks all that matters star power and fat pay checks.

I’d give it all back to wake up and not feel like I was dying inside. I don’t feel it every day but the days I do, it’s terrible. To put on happy face because the world thinks I should have it and doesn’t understand how I could feel anything but.

I cant speak for Josh, but from what I know of the guy, I’m pretty confident there is a similar battle taking place in his mind. One of expectation, reality, and futility. When things that are supposed to feel great don’t, when the world becomes a place where simple things seem heavenly, and where canned answers are a way of life. Where he can talk about God’s providence one day and then shake his fist at him the next because of life is more full of irony than the analysts make it seem.

For the sake of professionalism, I kept my two sense to myself. I knew I had other ways to express those thought. Better ways. I wrote Out Of My League because I wanted to show people a side of the game that never gets shown. Sure, I want to entertain people, but I want them to know the truth. Not just be told it, but give a chance to feel it. There is some hard material in Out Of My League, hard for me to write and probably hard for you to read.

But that’s why you should read it. Because we’ve gotten soft, and expectant, and disappointed with our hero’s when they act like anything less than heroes. Read it because it shows how a person can collapse under the weight of a dream realized, when the strength we thought we were supposed to get along with the title isn’t really there. Read it because through it I think you’ll understand the human side of players better, and maybe even yourself.

I don’t know why they come at night, but they do. Sometimes I write them down, sometimes I promise I’ll remember, sometimes I follow them off into the dark. But what happens more often then not is that the finale of ideas turns into this sense of anxiety, which then gives way to this sense of fear that I haven’t done enough, and never can.

I wonder if there is something wrong with me. Something seriously, psychologically wrong? Why can’t I turn off my head? Why, if can’t I make all the things I see happen, must I be cursed with them populating my consciousness? And why do I feel the need to tell people I’ve never met about all this…

There it is again… there… right at the tip of that last thought. This thing. This one, sharp, jagged thing that sticks in my being. It’s like the grip of an unseen hand around me, squeezing. An obscene hum in the background of my existence. This need to throw myself out there and be validated by everyone around me.

They say your self identity is formed in part by what you believe, and in part by what comes reverberating back at you once you’ve thrown yourself out to the mercy and judgement of world around you— what parts of you get endorsed, what parts get accepted.

God I hate this.

And yet I’m chained to it…

This is the force shooting off all the fireworks, the hand holding the match that sends flash down fuses.

There was once a time when the ideas were for me you know. Things that a genuinely satisfied; things I wanted to do for me. Just for me. Ideas that didn’t need the world to deem them worthy of pursuit.

I miss those days. I’ve missed them for a long time now. I always wanted to be known, be famous, have the elitist dream granted. But the more time I spend in that world the more I find myself committing this horrible sin of filtering the thoughts of my heart through a lens that makes me ask if what I’m feeling is worth something to someone else. If not, it’s probably not worth feeling.

In a world of likes, and retweets, and reviews, and stars, and friend totals… how much of me is me, and how much is the artificial construct of a Dirk that lives to pander to that force out there?  How much is me being jerked along by a social leash for a biscuit of relevance?

I wish I could turn it all off. Desperately I do. Sometimes it adds up on me so heavily I don’t know if I can bear the weight off it. It’s easy to say that no one else’s opinion matters, but it always matters. It always will matter and it always has mattered. We are social beings. In fact, those of us who reject the opinion of all others are often labeled psychotic, insane, mad.

The truth is we all want to be a little mad. We want to be free and confident, because we realize a life lived purely for the approval of others is no life at all. We all want to march to the beat of our own drum, but dammit if we don’t also want others to like the beat we’re making… It’s torture. We’re so close and yet so far.

Lord do I envy those who love their own music, because the song pleases them and no one else.

Lord do I miss the days when the fireworks were just for me.

Good night.

Let me speak first of Russ’s character, which I feel will be something severely neglected (as it always is when we start evaluating players in terms of numbers) You will not find a finer individual in the game of baseball today. A total class act who speaks from humility if he speaks at all. I wish I possessed some of the admirable character traits that he does, both on and off the field.

As for his on field ability, Russ does posses an amazing athletic talent. Although he did struggle defensively a tad this past season, he was also platooned for the sake of keeping his bat in the line up. I do not doubt that while Russ was thankful for the chance to show his diversity, he also suffered do the a lack of consistency at a position. I’m sure that Russ will benefit from being groomed for a specific role, though it’s nice to know that he’s athletic enough to play multiple ones, especially for an AL team that needs his bat in the clutch.

And what a bat Russ has, too. He swings an absolute log—one of the heaviest I’ve seen used by hitters in my career. But that is part of his game. What I was so impressed by when watching Russ play is that his swing is really a compact, effortless thing. He never tries to do too much with the ball, no extra moving parts that jerk the bat from its path in the trade off of control for power. He trusts his swing and his hands and lets that bat supply the pop. He also has good plate coverage and his swing allows him to drive the ball to all parts of the field.

Russ has a tremendous upside because his contact and power production are excellent while his on field potential has been relatively underdeveloped. Frankly, you can find a place for a guy in the AL that can hit and fill holes, but I believe Russ can do more than fill holes. I believe he can flourish, and just needs a chance to prove it.

The Indians have chosen wisely. I wish Russ all the best. He deserves it.

He also REALLY likes Clif Bars. So much so that I was commissioned to created the following during our season together.

But you only live once. I could go back and try my hand at filling out someone’s Triple-A roster on the hope that if enough guys above me get hurt I could sneak back onto a big league roster. Yet, after spending as much time in this game as I have, I can honestly tell you that the chances of me making it back to the top are relatively low, while the chances that I grow resentful to the grind as it eats yet another year of my life are relatively high. 

And there is something else: making it back doesn’t excite me, at least not now.

I set out to make it to the big leagues, and I did. I didn’t stay long, but I stayed as long as I could, if that makes any sense. I got hurt, pushed to come back and got hurt again, then found myself next to a silent phone and no offers to return. My options were Independent ball, or something completely different.

A lot of guys would go to Indy ball and push back into the game anyway they could. I respect that. I appreciate their will to never give up on a dream, and maybe if I hadn’t reached the Bigs myself, I’d be right there with them. But, after much soul searching, I know we no longer share the same dream.

My agent said that I could make the jump from Indy ball back to Affiliated ball just as soon as I showed everyone I was healthy. But I didn’t want to make that jump. I wanted to leave the quest for Big League ball, even though it was contrary to what most American baseball players believe is the only reason to play. I wanted to see what else the world of baseball had to offer. And, in a way, I wanted to see what else I had to offer.

Baseball is played in so many countries around the world—so many beautiful countries with fabulous cultures. True, America may have the most competitive league with the most glorious venues, but baseball is more than competition and expensive stadiums. It’s a reflection of the cultures that plays it. It’s a measure of history. It’s a tool, a release, a distraction and a refinery. And for me, it’s now a passport. I don’t just want to play the game in other countries, I want to experience other countries through baseball, and I can think of few better places to start than fabulous Italy.

I’m okay with trading a chance at being famous, celebritized, and even well compensated for a chance at priceless experiences and life enrichment. I know most wont understand this, but the Big Leagues are not everything, at least not to me. They’re Big, and great, but they are just one part of a life that can be filled with an infinite number of wonderful experiences. I have a chance to chase down a few more of them, and, in my opinion, I’d be a fool not to take it.

My new dream is to catch as many of them as I can. Wish me luck.

I got the call again that night. It was getting easier to manage the big league stadium factor now that I’d made a few trips to the mound. I wasn’t comfortable by any stretch, but I did make it through the eighth inning without much trouble, which gave me some confidence that I was improving. I felt like I’d found my command again. I felt like I’d remembered my delivery. Maybe it was calmer nerves. Maybe it was Frenchy’s pep talk. Whatever it was, I didn’t dwell on the issue. After punching out the next two hitters in the following inning, I got back on the mound ready to face Andre Ethier and finish my first real appearance as Dirk Hayhurst, San Diego Padre.

I knew what Ethier was capable of, the year he was having, and, most importantly, who was on deck behind him. It’s funny how so many threads of life can intersect on a baseball field. In this forgettable game, one where the home team cheered more for the Dodgers than their Padres, one that I was allowed to pitch in because we were losing by a jagged number, so much of my life hung in the balance. Baseball revolves around what a player is able to repeat: throwing balls or strikes, getting hits or making outs, wins and losses, success and failure. I finally had a chance to repeat success. I could finally tune out the crowd long enough to hear my teammates cheering. I could even hear Balsley, a voice I would never be able to tune out, telling me to keep it up.

Pumping in strikes like the Dirk of old, I got Ethier to swing at a hook. I aimed it for the bottom of the zone, a plate topper that would look like a fat, juicy strike leaving my hand but fall deceptively short of hittable. When done right, bats are drawn to it like a tractor beam and Ethier’s bat was no exception. He made contact with the top tenth of the ball, enough to send it sputtering on the ground between Adrian Gonzales at first and myself.

It was a “tweener,” a groundball so slow and awkwardly placed it commits both the pitcher and the first baseman. I chased the ball, but, realizing I wouldn’t get to it in time, broke off and headed toward the bag ready to take Adrian’s throw. Ethier was right behind me, bolting down the line, unwilling to concede the at bat as a failure. Adrian, unwilling to concede it as a success, scooped and flicked the ball to me in stride. I stuck out my glove while breaking down to hit the bag, and in the rumbling of my footsteps and Ethier’s, I lost the ball for a split second. It deflected off my mitt, hit the dirt, and Ethier crossed the bag safe.

There was a collective groan from the audience, which only served to punctuate the one in my soul. I’d worked on that play roughly a million times in my life. It was a play that pitchers made

so many times they universally hated practicing it for its monotony. It’s the one play coaches tell us we will never get beat by because we work too hard to make sure we don’t . . . and I just did. Now, as a punishment for my crime of poor coordination, I would have to face Manny Ramirez.

I returned to the mound with the weight of my own self-loathing fresh upon my shoulders while one of baseball’s all-time great sluggers, not to mention one of this season’s hottest, strode to the plate with the carefree bounce the world had come to know him for. His pants were so baggy he looked like one of MC Hammer’s backup dancers. In fact, the way his uniform billowed around him, he looked more like a gray trash bag with dreadlocks and a Dodgers’ cap than a uniformed player. This was all part of his charm, and the roar of his fans nearly blew me off the mound. They kept chanting his name, screaming how much they loved him while tugging at shirts that bore his name—some even wore fake dreadlocks in imitation.

I stared him down from my elevated position. I told myself he was nobody special, that he was just another player. I told myself to not be intimidated by his legacy, or his horde of screaming worshipers. I told myself he was a clown, that he made the game look bad with all his antics, and that I would put him in his place by getting him out quickly and quietly. Then, as I watched the third pitch of the at bat sail over the right field fence, I told myself I hated the game of baseball, the big leagues, and Manny Ramirez.

Read more chapters from Out Of My League. 

Chapter 16 of Out Of My League

Chapter 1 of Out Of My League

Chapter 35 of Out Of My League

Chapter 64 of Out Of My League

On Monday, after losing a day game with the Bees, we packed up and hopped a flight to Colorado Springs, home of the Rockies’ Triple A team, the Sky Sox. Sky Sox Stadium is the highest-altitude park in baseball, even higher than the infamous Mile High Stadium that houses its parent team, where ERAs commit suicide upon eye contact.

Like Salt Lake City, Colorado Springs offered gorgeous views of towering mountains. However, unlike Salt Lake, there were no pretty girls, or warm weather. We sat down the line on an unforgiving, bun-freezing aluminum bench. There were a couple of plastic lawn chairs, but only enough for the older guys who rested upon them like thrones.

The Sky Sox provided the pen with an oil-burning heater that looked like a miniature jet engine. It pumped out enough heat to melt our lawn chairs or set our uniforms on fire. Though its intensity was significant, its area of effect was limited, and we had to take turns standing in front of it to get warm, but not so close as to combust ourselves.

“Goddamn,” said Ox. He was bending over, letting the heater warm his ass. “This feels tremendous. I might have to get one of these for the house.”

“Careful, big man, or you’ll melt a hole in your drawers.”

“These fucking pants deserve to be melted. Besides, there’s no one here to watch this game,” Ox said, gesturing to the stands, which were virtually empty.

“Why people build stadiums in towns with weather like this, I’ll never know,” said Bentley.

“They say if you want to make a small fortune in minor league baseball, the best way to do it is to start with a large one,” I said, standing up and taking a turn in front of the ass heater.

“Has anyone seen Zarate?” asked Hamp.

We all looked around. “No.”

“Wasn’t he just out here?”

“I don’t know. I can’t remember. He’s like a ghost,” said Fish.

“Did he get sent down?” I asked.

“No, he was definitely on the plane. I know because Reek has to help him out with all the English stuff.”

“I don’t think he speaks much English,” I said.

“I don’t think he speaks much Spanish,” said Ox.

“I think he’s part Aborigine,” said Bentley.

“Maybe we should talk to him in clicks and pops?” offered Hamp.

“I never see him eat spread either. I don’t know how he survives,” said Bentley.

“He’s probably out behind the stadium hunting feral cats with blow darts.”

“Who gives a shit?” said Dallas. “He’s a strange fucking bird. Yesterday, I saw him spray his armpits with fucking hair spray thinking it was deodorant.”

“Yeah, but if the pen phone rings, he appears out of nowhere, like he was always there,” said Fish.

“It’s his witch doctor magic,” I said.

“You think if we whistle for him, he’ll show up?”

“He’s not a dog.”

“Just scream his name or something.”

“Z!” screamed Fish. “Z!”

There was a rustling in the tree line just behind the bullpen fence. A dark navy jacket broke through and Z appeared, looking at us with wild eyes.

“Uh, Abby was looking for you.”

“Ahbee?” said Z.

“Yeah, he wondered where you went,” lied Fish.

“Ahh.” Z nodded his head but there was no way of knowing what he had heard.

“What the fuck were you doing?” asked Dallas.

Z held up a couple of waterlogged baseballs he had found. Probably batting practice balls struck over the fence but never retrieved. He made his way to the pen with his new clutch, hopped the fence, and joined us again, showing us his collection.

“That’s great, Z. You found some fucking baseballs. We got a whole bag of ’em right there,” said Dallas.

Z nodded appreciatively at Dallas and sat down. We all sat down as well, exchanging Twilight Zone looks like we were sharing a roster with some alien. We half-expected Z to sit on the balls and try to hatch them when, instead, he picked up a long metal tarp spike, usually used for holding the bullpen tarp down during bad weather, and proceeded to bang the ball into the sharp end of it.

We all watched him as he worked the ball onto the spike, pounding it over and over again.

“Five bucks says he makes a shish kebab and roasts it on the heater.”

“I may take you up on that bet,” said Bentley, staring at Z.

“If something living comes out of that ball, I’m done. I quit,” said Hamp.

We were all wrong. In the next strike on the ball, Z missed his mark and stabbed himself in the hand with the spike.

“Ieeeee! Coño! Coño! Diablo! Mamma—heuvos!” He grabbed his hand as blood gushed forth.

“Speaks Spanish about as good as any other Latin guy I know,” said Ox.

“What a fucking dumb-ass,” said Dallas.

“Z, go see the trainer. Comprende? Trainer?” said Fish.

“No, no,” said Z. “Iz okay.” He started wiping large splotches of blood on his pants legs, then sucking on the wound.

“Z, you need to see the trainer,” persisted Fish.

Z got up, still sucking on the wound. He walked toward the heater, at which we all jerked back for fear he would stick his hand on the glowing red metal part and cauterize the wound. Z kept walking, though, hopping the fence and returning into the forest.

“What the hell?” We traded baffl ed expressions.

Minutes later, Z returned. He’d picked some vegetation from behind the fencing area and was chewing pieces of it in his mouth, and pressing it into his hand, which had stopped bleeding.

“Now I have seen it all,” said Hamp.

“Where do they find these guys?” I asked.

“Iz fine,” he said, smiling at us. “Iz okay. No trainer.”

“I wanna know what he rubs on his arm after he pitches,” said Ox.

After the game, we got our first paychecks of the season. They were sitting on our locker chairs waiting for us to discover them when we walked in from the field. It was a big moment for me since this year’s paycheck would be the biggest paycheck of my player career—the first time I saw a comma in my earnings since receiving my signing bonus in 2003.

I carefully tore off my paycheck’s perforated edging, opened it, and stared at the number. A nauseous surge of anxiety hit my stomach where glee should have been. I turned the paper over in my hands, then looked at it again. Then, in a cold sweat, I spoke aloud to the paper in my hands. “Is this right? This can’t be right.” I spun around to see the other players in the locker room. “Is this right?” I called to anyone who would answer.

Other players were looking upon their checks with wrinkled, angry faces. Heads twisted in confusion before going back to the checks for a second inspection. Fingers traced deduction lines, then silent counting indicative of mental math, then, like me, the desperate search around the room to see if someone was playing a bad joke.

“This can’t be right,” I said, answering my own question, then diving into my check again.

Chip spoke to me from a few lockers down. “Tax in Oregon is harsh, bro. And, don’t forget, you’re missing two days’ worth of pay.” He didn’t seem upset about his pay, of course. His check was that of a free agent. A few hundred missing from a seventy-thousand- dollar-a-season salary is a lot different than a few hundred missing from a salary barely reaching fifteen thousand.

Chip was right about the two days missing, but, even after I factored those days in, my pay was still much smaller than I expected— almost three hundred dollars smaller. That was six hundred a month gone, over three thousand for the season! I sat down and gripped the check so tight I thought it might rip in two. In fact, if it weren’t for my desperate need of the money, I would have ripped the check up in protest and fried it on the bullpen heater. But whom would I be protesting? My own stupidity for not considering the deductions for playing in a major city?

Guys around the room were having similar reactions, especially the first year Triple A players who seemed shell-shocked. Most of them had signed for large bonuses, one of the reasons they made it to Triple A so quickly, so I didn’t feel too bad for them. In fact, I expected their checks to be less than mine, but when I asked them about what they made, it turned out to be more than me.

“How is that possible? How are you making more than me and I’ve been playing three years longer than you?” I asked Frenchy after consulting his numbers.

“I don’t know, man. I don’t know. Maybe there was a mistake?”

“There’s no mistake,” said Luke. “It has to do with the original contract you signed under, how it was negotiated, the way the pay level’s scaled, and so on.” He regurgitated this information in a sterile tone; then, looking at my devastated face, he offered a sympathetic frown and said, “Sucks. Sorry, dude.”

My anger was building. It was my sixth year and this paycheck was less than what some of the third year players were making, and there was nothing I could do about it. What the hell was the point of all this time spent in the minors if you made less as you went up?

I felt like a fool. I didn’t factor in the local taxes, the state taxes, and all the other deductions that get taken out of a paycheck when I blissfully planned out my future in Triple A. My outlook for the future crumbled, falling down on me. Reality set in. I had to pay off Bonnie’s ring. I had to pay the rent. I had to save for a wedding, scratch up airfare, and provide for a wife I hadn’t even proposed

to yet. Where was this money going to come from? How did I not see this? I thought of my poor pitching numbers, my poor earnings, my poor living arrangements. Maybe my parents were right; maybe I had no idea what I was doing.

I meandered drunkenly back to my locker and sat down, collecting my head in one hand while squeezing my paycheck in the other. We were not playing at home and I was glad of it because, if we were, I would have needed some strong Kool-Aid to come to terms with what I was experiencing. When I finally had enough strength to lift my head again, I noticed my cell phone’s notification light was blinking; I had a text-message from Bonnie. The message read, “I found my dress!”

My head fell again.

Read more chapters from Out Of My League.

Note to self: if you’re going to show-up the president and your team, and polarize America in the process, make a bigger statement than a Facebook message.

Yes folks, I get Timmy was trying to make a point—and he did, kinda—but he could have really went the distance.

I have two major critiques:

1)   Tim could have made public his plans not to attend before the day of— getting it out there in the news so his team wasn’t overshadowed by his right to exercise individual freedoms. I’m all about individual freedoms and enjoying them, but Tim, who knew about this event well before it happened, could have given the media a heads up so that his team didn’t get stuck with explaining “well, uh, the thing is Mr. Obama… Tim hates you” while at the president’s house. If you’re going to do something like this, which is totally all about you, do it in a way that doesn’t screw up the attention earned by your teammates who may not agree with your stance on things.

2)   Get your money’s worth. I can respect you for wanting to be radical with your freedom, but this wasn’t radical. After reading Tim’s Facebook message (really? A fucking Facebook message is how we tell off the president these days?) I couldn’t help but notice his beefs sounded a more like the generalized rumblings so often found on the lips of those who like to complain but don’t exactly know what they’re complaining about. Was there any real item Tim was mad about in particular? His message sounded like Tea Party regurgitation, which is rather sad. I mean, if you’re going to no-show a team party from president and piss off at least half of the country, say why, be specific, draw attention to exactly what you want people to know. Don’t just say that the government is out of control, it’s both parties fault, and you’re mad. The only statement something like, “this government is broken and I’m not going to participate in a party because of it” makes is the one declaring you to be a jack-ass. That’s so general it’s almost elitist. Tim, you just got to do something so many other people would love to do (engage President Obama personally about his policies) and the best you could come up with is a Facebook message? Talk about getting zero bang for your buck.

I’m going to say this as plainly as I can: stop doing stupid shit just because everyone else on the team is doing it. It’s not a good reason to do something in any other walk of life so don’t be fooled into thinking it’s a good reason now.

Being on a team is a lot like being in high school: what is popular and logical is often based on pop-culture knowledge, who is pretty, and who can score the most—on or off a field. This means majority accepted behaviors won’t always make you a better player or generate extra success. They will, however, like they always have, simply make you accepted by the group. If that is what you are going for, then by all means, follow.

Before you all freak out and act like I’m preaching anarchy in the face of team chemistry, let’s put some facts into perspective: you can’t play this game forever, and many of the folks currently playing would be selling cellphone skins at a mall kiosk if they didn’t have amazing physical talent. Not all, but many, and more often than not it’s those guys who buy into the thinking that baseball is all that matters in the world, and all that ever will matter. If they had their druthers, they’d have you thinking it too. After all, the more one-dimensional you are, the more one-dimensional you’ll see the world.

Surprisingly, many players strive to make their lives as one dimensional as possible because they think it will make them better at the game. But “Keep it simple, stupid” often gets taken to far, resulting in just being stupid and no better at baseball. Furthermore, doing baseball for a living has a tendency to make people believe their ways of thinking are superior to those who don’t play for a living. Chalk this thinking up to our culture’s obsession with sports and celebrity, which creates a near religious atmosphere for and around players. It justifies why some players eat, sleep, and breath baseball, and choose to ignore reality in favor of interpreting life by the way tobacco spit splatters instead common sense.

You must maintain balance! Life is bigger than baseball, and in your heated pursuit of baseball greatness you can create a really crappy life for yourself.

I recommend that, along with all your other on field skills, you cultivate a talent to strip away the pomp and celebrity that this job can blind you with. Remember professional sports is an industry wherein those who have on field success A; can’t always tell you how they got it, B; are looked at as authorities on things that have nothing to do with sports because they’re famous, and C; think being the best at playing a kid’s game as a grown-up is reason enough for arrogance. Are these really the type of people you want to turn to for serious life guidance? Sports success does not a role modle make—it only shows you what a good player looks like.

Most folks you go to for guidance in this sport should have a balanced view of it. They should understand the financial upsides and the sacrifices to get there; the glory and risk of losing your humanity; the temporal nature of sport and its role in our culture. If you want baseball advice, pick someone inside the game you admire and ask for it, but don’t be afraid to filter it. You’re a big boy know, you can think for yourself, and sometimes that means going against the flow.

I’m not talking about stuff like working out harder, or running more, or even eating less. No, if you haven’t done that stuff by now, you’re pretty much screwed. I’m talking about those practical tips and tricks that make spring training more convenient. The ones you slapped yourself in the head over last year saying, “why didn’t I…” or, “next year, I swear I’m going to…”

Lets start by refreshing ourselves on the facts. Playing in the minors is one step above poverty. In minor league spring training you’ll get about $140 a week to live on, and NO paycheck. Thus, in order to make your money go as far as you can, you need to think outside the box.

Getting to spring training.

Airline companies suck, all of them, equally. And they suck particularly hard if you are flying coach, which you will be since you’re in the minors. On top of that, flying coach ensures you’ll be charged exorbitant fees for packing anything more than that required to survive for a four day excursion.

How do you avoid getting ripped off? Simple: ship your stuff to the spring training complex. All the extra crap you want, but don’t need to take with you on the flight, you know; extra gear, your gaming console, your collection of immaculately maintained and alphabetically organized adult entertainment— pack it all up and ship it ground.

If you’re the type player who believes the shoe makes the man, you’re right—they make you a poor man. All those super-fly sneakers you swear, when coupled with your fake earrings and slathered down hair, could help you score post game with cleat chasers will certainly have you paying extra at the check in counter. But, you can keep your mojo and your bank roll, and get a hundred pounds of “essentials” to your spring training residence for the same price you’d pay for going over fifty pounds at the airline weigh in. For the minor leaguer who can’t leave home without home, it’s the best way to go.

Just remember, when spring training ends you’ll have to find a way to get it all to it’s next location. Ask your spring training clubby to help you with this. He’ll have everything required to ship on hand, and, if you tip well, he might even ship it to the right place.

Meals.

My second unsolicited nugget of wisdom has to do with eating once you’re at Spring training. Now look, the $140 weekly meal stipend is enough to cover meals, it really is. But if your meals include two man sodas at a sit down restaurant, plus tip, you’ll be broke before the weekend.

Remember, you’re not getting paid during spring training. If you eat beyond your allowance, it’s on you. This says nothing of other investments you might want to make, like chewing tobacco (if you’re a mother reading this article, replace tobacco with bubble gum) alcohol (Gatorade) video games (video games) or poker buy-ins (charitable contributions).

May I humbly suggest that you invest in Tupperware. Sexy? No. Practical? Yes. You can bring home a lot of food from the field in those glorious plastic containers, especially if your organization cooks its meals on site. With meals taken care of, the meal money is yours.

If your organization is a more “one scoop per player” type (Rays, I’m looking at you here) they probably give you more meal money to make up for it, or your spring training accommodations are closer to a grocery store.

This has it’s own advantages. Preparing your own food can save you a ton. If you don’t have a microwave or a mini fridge in your room, ask for it. If you still can’t get one, there is probably a microwave in the lobby. A fridge is ideal because it lets you store milk and leftovers, but a microwave allows you to make just about anything if you buy a Pyrex bowl, and a can opener—both dirt cheap. By doing this at my final minor league camp, I was able to make it a whole month on my first dispersal of meal money leaving me tons of extra money to spend on penny whistles and moon pies.

Choosing a Catch Partner.

Finally, my last tip is about picking the right throwing partner. This is a very simple tip which will sound remarkably racists at first, but you need to hear me out.

Unless you are a Latin pitcher yourself, DO NOT partner with a young Latin pitcher.

Why? Because young Latin pitchers, as a general rule, do not play catch, they play try-to-kill-you-with-a-baseball from near point blank range.

Seriously, if this is not your first sprint training, then you know what I’m talking about. The day you first saw a pair of young Latin pitchers throw max velocity at each other from 20 feet is no doubt etched into your mind. Remember; you couldn’t even see the ball, you could only hear the sound of it hitting leather. You watched from between the cracks in your fingers as you covered your face with your hands in terror. It’s like watching a game of chicken, or Russian roulette, or, well, Dominican roulette.

This has nothing to do with bigotry. It has everything to do with the cultural difference of how throwing is approached. Latin guys, by in large, throw ched (So much so that there was a song written about the matter set to the tune of Marylin Manson’s Beautiful People called Dominican Fastball), Couple that with a language barrier and your catch sessions could easily degenerate into a game of self-defense. For many US players, a Latin catch partner is not a good fit.

This may not be an issue for you. In fact, It might just be that this is the kind of adrenaline pumping thrill you need to get your day started right. You need someone to rifle the ball at you to make you feel like you’re really alive.

If, however, you are more accustomed warming up at a slow, structured, methodical pace, followed by a flat ground pitching session at reduced effort to save your bullets, partnering with a young Latin power arm might give you a heart attack, a concussion, or both.

I tell you this now because the first person you play catch with in spring training is usually the person you will end up playing catch with for the rest of it. If you naively wander out onto the practice field only to find that pal you thought would never leave you is cheating on you with another arm, you will get stuck with the guy with a cannon for an arm, the guy who always wants to work on his split finger at max effort, or the guy who was drafted because the brass believes “he’ll be amazing if he ever learns how to control it.”

Send out some emails now, post on some Facebook walls, let fly a few text messages and lock your partner down well before day one. You’ll be glad you did when you watch those who didn’t head into the training room to ice their shins and palms.

If you do find yourself with a young Latin fire-baller, the most useful piece of Spanish I can give you is, “tranquilo”. It means “chill out”. Put both your hands up and say it over and over again like you were trying to convince the Hulk not to smash you. Yes, he will probably think you are less of a man for not being able to take his flames, but survival is your primary goal.