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By Geoff Young
You arrive at the complex a little after 9 a.m. The game doesn’t start until 1 p.m., but in March, the games don’t matter. Well, they do, but not in the same way that they do in August, and not for the same reasons. Several dozen young men in uniform are stretching out on a baseball field. There might be a hundred or more of them – too many to count. Even if you wanted to, they’re in constant motion and you can’t be sure that you didn’t already count #45 – especially since there’s another #45 at the opposite end of the field. A coach serves as master of ceremonies, calling out instructions. The players jog forward, jog backward, stretch their legs, stretch their arms. They do whatever the coach says until it’s time to move onto the next thing. Then they shuffle off to various other fields, where they do whatever various other coaches tell them to do. Some stay on the first field and play pepper. One player tosses a ball lightly to another, who taps it back with a bat. They get their bodies in motion, their reflexes working. From beyond the fence, you watch the spectacle. There are no frenzied crowds, no neon scoreboards, no salary arbitration, no congressional hearings. There is only the field, the ball, and the players. There is only the romance of the game. It’ll be gone soon enough, because baseball is a business, and businesses can strip the romance from just about anything. But for now, in the quiet of a March morning, you bask in the illusion that this is how your game once was, how it should be.
You wander over to one of the other practice fields. A gaggle of pitchers line up behind the mound and prepare to throw imaginary pitches. The first one winds up without a ball and simulates his delivery to the plate. A coach hits the ball toward first base, and the man stationed there picks it up, flipping to the pitcher covering the bag. If the ball isn’t hit sharply enough, the pitcher grabs it and runs to first base himself.
Each pitcher does this in succession, while several first basemen rotate in. Eventually it comes back to the first pitcher and the process repeats itself. First the coach hits the ball directly at the first baseman, then to his right, then down the line. Then the coach hits “tweeners” – balls that aren’t easy for the first baseman or the pitcher to field and which could cause confusion in a game situation. At the next field, pitchers are fielding bunts. And one field over from that, they’re practicing pickoff moves. Runners are stationed at first and second base. A batter stands at the plate. The pitcher throws to first and then runs to cover the bag as the first baseman chases the breaking runner. After the pitchers are done, the catchers take their turn. They snap throws to first, second, and third. There is a batter and a runner to distract them, as there would be in a game. They work on rundowns. The coach hits grounders to drawn-in infielders, who throw home as a runner breaks from third. The catcher sprints down the line, chasing the runner back until the third baseman yells “now.” The catcher then tosses the ball to the third baseman, who tags out the runner. Two or three catchers rotate in for this exercise, and you get exhausted just watching these kids in full gear jump up from a squatting position and bolt into a sprint time and time again. Several other practice fields teem with activity as well. Some players work on base running, some on tracking fly balls. Everyone is doing something to help prepare himself for the days, months, and with luck, years to come. You hear the clack of metal spikes against concrete as groups rotate from field to field. There is some chatter, but not enough to distract from the tasks at hand, from refining one’s baseball skills to the point of being able to earn a comfortable living at playing America’s national pastime. In the strips of grass between the fields, fathers play catch with their kids. Perhaps they have their own dreams. Perhaps you had dreams as well. In March, everyone has dreams. It’s 11:30 or so by now. A crowd has gathered at the other end of the complex, where big leaguers are taking their hacks. These are the familiar names and faces, the players you see on television. You move toward them. By the time you get there, you will be closer to these players than ever. Perhaps this is now your dream. Maybe someone will sign an autograph or give you a moment of their time, make you feel special in some way. The players have a job to do, but for the amount they’re being paid, the least they can do is give you a moment of their time. Then again, at these prices, their time is precious, so maybe they can’t. It’s a complex equation that has no easy solution. You begin to understand how a simple gesture might be misconstrued as something else and how fans might feel jilted when players don’t give them the attention they feel is owed them. You buy tickets to see them play. You are at least partly responsible for the lifestyle they lead. Well, yes, of course, they have talent, but still… Remarkably, many of the players are very personable even as they work. Some will sign autographs right there, others might ask you to wait until a more opportune time. Some will even chat with you while they’re waiting their turn to bat. Then maybe you think back to the anonymous kids from the other fields who you just saw working on fundamentals. They haven’t made it yet, and you relate to them in a way that you don’t relate to the stars. So when one of the stars chats with you while waiting to take batting practice, you feel extra special. Maybe he owes you, maybe he doesn’t; either way, you got something that most people don’t get. What will you do with these moments? You can sell an autograph on eBay. No offense to anyone who signs or collects, but that’s a simple commodity. It could be soybeans or pork bellies for all anyone cares. But what kind of price do you put on a conversation or even a look? You don’t worship heroes, and yet, here you are, worshipping heroes. Or maybe you’re living your dreams vicariously through them. Whatever the case, there is some kind of connection here in the Arizona spring. Eventually a game is played. The stands fill with people. Most of them have never seen what you’ve seen, and it’s debatable whether they even care. But when you watch the players take the field, you remember the hours they spent preparing. You have some awareness of the steps they’ve taken in pursuit of their dreams. You’ve only seen a small slice of that process, of course, but it’s more than you’d seen before. And now maybe you’ll view these heroes – these people – in a different light… at least until the romance of spring has faded from your mind.
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