We’ve all been there: the sky is gray and lumpy, rain is coming down in buckets, the countryside is speckled with standing puddles. It’s been non-stop precipitation all day, and if you were a betting man you’d put your chips on a weather assisted off day. As you watch the parking lot outside your minor league hotel turn into a river, you think to yourself, “why even go to the park since I’m just going to sit around and do nothing? Why can’t people look at the radar and make the obvious decision, and not waist my time? Look a this mess! Tonight is an off night, no doubt about it.”
Unlike most normal folks, minor leaguers tend to get euphorically happy about bad weather. You don’t get many off days in this sport, and when the weather turns nasty, there is always that chance you’ll get a free evening to spend at the bar instead of the bench. Players will turn into crash meteorologists about the matter, charting the movement of radar masses, checking the wind’s direction, going outside to report on the issue live. They’ll convince themselves there is no chance of playing to the point that random sarcastic shouts like, “traps off,” or, “suns’ out,” or, “game on,” successfully freaks out fellow teammates who’ve already made post cancellation reservations.
However, just like we players are praying for the rain to win out, the folks in the stadium front office—the ones who need the gate to open to turn a profit—are praying for a an opening in the storm’s window… and there is always the potential of a window.
Unfortunately the player doesn’t have a say in the matter. It is his responsibility to play when told to play, not negotiate the conditions he wants to play in. If he’s told to wait three hours for a delayed 10 pm start, then that’s what he’ll have to do. The more a player resists this fact, the more probably that, as the night draws out and the clubhouse cards and coffee start to go stale, the window will finally come. The game will start in front of ten die-hard fans, the players will take the field with absolutely no desire, and then, in the muck and mire, something stupid will happen.
Someone will get hurt. Someone will have a terrible day at the plate. Someone will pitch like ^%&#. When it’s all over, when pants are wet and eyes are tired, all that will be left are excuses about how none of the bad would have happened if man and nature hadn’t conspired to screw the club when they should have been at home, splitting a case of buds, fantasizing about life on the big club.
There is a lesson to be learned here: there is always a window. Hell, even when there isn’t a window, you should prepare like there’s going to be. This game can be a lot of fun, but it can also be a lot of BS. Ironically, preparing for the BS ensures the fun comes more often. You should know by now that you can’t predict the weather, but, you can prepare for it. You should also know that playing in the minors is synonymous with getting screwed. So, if you don’t want to feel like the weatherman is your coach, write your diligence off as a veteran move. It doesn’t matter if you see an ominous red blob on the radar that would make Noah’s Ark shudder, get to the park with a purpose. Warm up, stretch, throw in the batting cage, take some hacks off a tee— do something. If you do play and you get your ass kicked, the stats won’t say anything about how the weatherman screwed you over, it will only say that you didn’t get it done.
As a wise man once said, “prepare yourself for the opportunity that may present itself,” and that’s some good advice. If the sun pokes through and you do get that window, you’ll be glad you were ready. Besides, you’re going to be at the park until the front office is absolutely convinced there is no chance of getting something out of the day, you might as well get something out of it too.