Independent Ball

Derrick Buchanan is normally in the shower of the Four Seasons Recreation Center when the first employee clocks in. Once he’s shaved and toweled off, he puts on his STAFF shirt and clocks in, getting to work sweeping the gymnasium floor, cleaning mirrors in the weight room, and disinfecting treadmills.

The gym officially opens at 5:30 a.m., and Derrick’s shift runs until noon. As an employee, he gets to work out for free, but to find time for workouts he comes in before his shift. Before anyone’s shift. At 4:30 in the morning.

Derrick says he’s learned to love it, which is what people say about things they have no choice but to accept. Like a learning disability.

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Last night, he wasn’t asleep until 12:30 a.m. That’s typical after a Thursday night game.

For a 7 p.m. first pitch, Derrick likes to get to the park no later than 4:30. At the park, he gets in a pregame run—25 trips from foul pole to foul pole—then leads stretches for whoever’s there, takes batting practice, shags fly balls, and finally eats whatever they have in the clubhouse before the game starts. Yesterday they served sub sandwiches from one of the local sponsors. Not one to complain about a free meal, Derrick silently picked the American cheese off his sub.

Games last about two hours. Not having commercials between innings keeps things moving. Post-game stretches take about half an hour, sometimes shorter, sometimes longer, like when someone needs Derrick’s help with some deep stretches. Showering and getting dressed after that goes pretty quick. Which is a necessity when there are four showerheads for 20 guys. Then, of course, players head to a bar.

Going out is non-negotiable. Guys who don’t go out don’t last long. A four-month season doesn’t seem long, at least not to those who haven’t been through the grind. When teammates don’t want to talk to you, the season seems even longer.

So, Derrick goes out after games and drinks one or two or five or six, to be a part of the team. He doesn’t mind it, which is what people say when they don’t have a real choice in the situation. Like being related to a bigot.

Then he goes home, later than he should, and tries to fall asleep as fast as possible. Because the alarm is unforgiving and rings about 4 hours later. And then Derrick wakes up and works out. Lather, rinse, repeat. Arms and cardio on Monday-Wednesday-Friday, legs and core on Tuesday-Thursday. When he’s done, he cleans up and goes to work. There’s always something that needs cleaning.

Independent baseball doesn’t pay great. Right now, the Grizzlies offer $1,000 a month, which is a raise from last year. But it’s not enough to cover rent, so Derrick labors at Four Seasons in the morning. It saves the cost of a gym membership and affords him the luxury of living with just one roommate, rather than four or five.

The Four Seasons hires other trainers with kinesiology degrees, but they all work afternoons and evenings. Derrick does community service for the Griz some afternoons and plays games most nights during the summer. So he’s stuck doing building maintenance on the morning shift.

Derrick finds ways to escape while working, like practicing mindfulness or reciting the signs for bunt and hit-and-run and delayed steal, which is what people do when they don’t enjoy what they’re doing. Like living in the closet.

Each day the last few years has been largely unremarkable. He loves playing for the Springfield Grizzlies, but he’d love even more for it to lead to a bigger break. In his first year he was fighting for his own spot on the team, which made it hard to get noticed by other teams. Last year, at the end of the season, some scouts for the American Association and other leagues were sniffing around, looking for toolsy guys to add to their rosters for the playoff push. Derrick felt he was a good candidate.

It became a competition among Derrick’s teammates to spot the scouts in the crowd. Usually they were obvious. Pretty much all fans spent time on their phones during the game, but no one talked like the scouts. It seemed like all they did was talk. Until they wrote something in their notebook. A few had radar guns, too. That made them easy marks.

In late July, playing the basement-dwelling Bombers, Mitch Loomis spotted two scouts on the visitors’ side, Eric Degans picked out another one behind home plate, and Derrick noticed another a few rows behind the Grizzlies’ dugout. Four was a record number of scouts in Springfield, and the whole team was buzzing. A couple of guys pressed, obviously showing off, but Derrick stayed calm and lined a couple hard-hit balls to left center, a double and a single, and then made a nice double-play from right field, throwing out the opposing first baseman as he tried to tag up.

Pitching, apparently, was what the scouts were looking for, however. Both starters from the Griz and the Bombers were approached by the scouts after the game. Grizzlies’ lefty Shawn Johnson was offered a contract to move to Wichita, which he eagerly accepted.

Derrick slapped Shawn on the back and said he was happy for him, which is what people say when they can’t say that they’re jealous. Like when your ex gets engaged.

This year, Derrick stayed within himself. His routine was better than ever and his numbers were showing the fruit of that discipline. As the calendar ticked on, he kept waiting for the scouts to show up in Springfield, his eyes scanning the couple thousand seats in the stadium hoping to see a sign of someone who could offer the chance to move on and move up.

July ended without any scout sightings. As one of the veterans on the team this year, Derrick had taught the younger guys what to look for. Through the first week of August it was a fun game, a way to liven up the monotony of the pregame routine. After a couple losses, however, the manager blamed their scout-hunting and banned it.

Of course, that didn’t stop anyone from looking. The looking was just quieter. Still, the scouts didn’t come. Derrick wondered if the Grizzlies’ record had anything to do with it, but quickly dismissed that idea. Even the Blaze had a guy who was scooped up to a higher league last year, and they barely reached double digits in wins.

So Derrick resolved to be patient, which is what people do when they feel helpless. Like when a parent is diagnosed with terminal cancer.

On August 10th, Derrick’s phone buzzed with an urgent message. He was showering before work at the Four Seasons. His co-worker had just come into the building and busied herself setting up the front desk for the day. Derrick went through his routine, shaving, drying off, getting dressed, before looking at his phone.

The message was from his mom, it only said “Call me.” It took him a minute to comprehend, the result of dyslexia that he would never fully conquer. Derrick tucked the phone in his pocket and went to work. He didn’t know the text was urgent, and didn’t plan to call until his break at 9 a.m.

By 6:30 a.m., however, Derrick couldn’t avoid his mother any longer. His phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out and saw his mom’s picture flashing. He pocketed the phone and made his way to the supply closet. He often took calls in there on the clock. No one knew, or no one cared. When he got to the closet, he had missed the call. But he unlocked his phone and scrolled to his mother’s name and called back.

He heard her voice come through on the other end. She sounded worried. What’s up, he asked. A long pause followed and Derrick pulled the phone from his ear to make sure the call was still connected. It’s dad, she said. Granular cell myoblastoma. On the tongue. And gums. And lips. And cheek. The result of chewing tobacco for years. Which had replaced smoking tobacco. Not a good prognosis. Treatment not recommended.

Derrick stood quietly in the supply closet, letting the news sink in. Finally, on the other end of the phone, his mom asked him if he’d come home. He hadn’t been home in three years. Not since his dad found him and Jared in the car. Not since his dad told Jared’s dad, and Jared’s dad sent Jared to boot camp. Not since he found the next available baseball tryout and came to Springfield.

He had lived a life his dad would have approved of since then, mostly out of necessity, which he said was ironic. Like how Alanis Morissette thought irony worked.

How long, he asked his mom. Three weeks, she said, maybe. That’s how long the season had left. He told her he’d think about it and went back to work.

Derrick went to his apartment after work. He made a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and sat down on the living room couch to eat. He turned on the old laptop he’d had since college, the sticker for his college team fading on the outside. It made a low growl as it powered up. Some jelly squeezed out of the sandwich, he wiped it off the corner of the laptop with his shirt. As he finished the last bite of the sandwich, he typed Jared’s name into the search bar. He didn’t have to spell it all out, it was a saved search.

The screen blinked and loaded Jared’s profile. In his primary picture he held a girl with his left arm. She held up her left hand, showing off the ring. Derrick closed the laptop and took a nap.

He stirred before his alarm, just shy of 4 p.m., and gathered his bat bag and keys. He stepped into his slides and trudged to his car to depart for the stadium. It was a short drive, just a few blocks down Church Street. Derrick wished it were longer. He kept the radio off.

He parked his car and waved to the general manager, who was setting up cones for parking for the evening. She waved back and continued her work, one of her 50 or so tasks each game day. Derrick continued through the players’ entrance into the home clubhouse.

No one else was there yet, which Derrick appreciated as he tied his turf shoes at the folding chair in front of the locker he claimed at the beginning of the season. He took a corner spot, a veteran’s locker. He earned it. Shoes on, he headed outside to run laps.

Players trickled out onto the field while Derrick ran. He joined a few of them and began stretching after his 25th lap. A couple guys asked for a hand with their quad stretches. Derrick obliged, then headed to the cage for batting practice.

After a good rep, he grabbed his glove from the dugout and headed to the outfield. The sun was sinking to the west, but still in his line of sight, so he put his shades on. Fans began filtering in, buying 25-cent hot dogs, that evening’s promotion, and milling about. A couple guys in polo shirts sat behind the Grizzlies’ dugout. They didn’t have hot dogs.

Derrick wanted to send a couple rookies to get a closer look, but coach banned that. So he went about his routine, forced to inspect the visitors more closely when he came in to get a pregame meal.

As he jogged in, 15 minutes later, he took off his glasses and noticed the logo on one guy’s shirt: Saints. His heart fluttered. Scouts.

After spaghetti, he returned to the dugout to find the day’s lineup. There was his name, fifth in the order, playing right field. As usual. After the national anthem, he jogged to his position. As the first pitch came in, he noticed neither scout had a radar gun.

Derrick played a good game. Nothing but routine plays in the outfield, but at the plate he hit a couple singles to drive in three runs and also scored a run of his own. About as well as he could have hoped. The Griz actually won, besting the Riverdogs 7-5.

As he stretched out in the outfield after the game, he kept an eye on the scouts. They hadn’t left yet. A good sign. Victor Perez asked for help stretching and Derrick agreed. When he looked up again, the scouts were gone. He grabbed his stuff off the field and headed back toward the dugout.

He told himself it was in God’s hands, which was what his parents had taught him the Bible said. Like homosexuality is a sin.

After showering, the manager called Derrick into his office. The manager’s office was not an imposing space—the supply closet at Four Seasons was larger—but Derrick still felt butterflies in his stomach as he closed the door behind him.

He slid a piece of paper across the folding table between them. Derrick grabbed it, it had a number on it. The Saints’ General Manager, his coach said. Wants to talk tomorrow. Derrick nodded. Thanks for playing with us, son. He shook Derrick’s hand.

Only Victor was still in the locker room when Derrick exited the manager’s office. As he cleaned his locker out, Victor came over and slapped him on the back. Congrats, amigo. Derrick nodded, said good luck.

In the car, Derrick called his mom. I can’t come home. I’m moving to Minnesota. Tell dad I’m sorry.