Life in the Indpendent Leagues -the Pros

Ahhhhhh, life in the independent leagues … the pro’s. It’s got to be great ….playing ball all day, smelling the fresh air, plenty of sunshine, listing to the crowd cheers you on…. kids lining up all over the place just to get your autograph…I mean , is this great or what!!!

Sure is… especially when:
You’ve been riding in a bus for the last seven hours – a bus with no air ventilation whatsoever, and the five guys around you were out drinking all night.

You check into your motel room at Budget-Bunks and find a sign stuck in the ground outside your room’s window that says YOUR TAX DOLLARS AT WORK. Yeah, the town fathers decided to build a sewage treatment plant about fifty feet from your window…---- dedication ceremonies are today.

You’re the visiting team and as your bus pulls into the drop-off point you can’t help but notice the large metal tank on top of the visitor’s locker room. As you and your teammates are taking your cold showers you’re told that that tanks catches rain water – then the rain water is gravity drained into a large pipe – then the large pipe drains into a lot of smaller
pipes. Just by coincidence those small pipes happen to have shower heads screwed onto them.

Your bus is pulled over by the local cop and the bus driver and he get into a shouting match. For one reason or another he lets your bus driver go with just a verbal warning. That evening while going over the ground rules at home plate your skipper returns to the dugout shaking his
head… Come to find out the home plate up looks awfully familiar – oh geeesssh… it’s the cop!!!

The stadium manager was kind enough to place a bucket of chewing gum
in both dugouts. Somehow, yours got stuffed with jalapeno’s.

The water fountain in your dugout has MR. BUBBLE in it.

The opposing team’s captain wants a picture with your clubs starting pitcher for the local daily newspaper. After the picture your guy takes the mound. A few giggles latter … your guy discovers a sign was stuck to his back. It reads;;;;;;;;;;;;; HIT ME.

In the dugout your bullpen phone rings. It seems that some joker in the stadium found the wires and tapped into them. As your coach answers the phone he hears, “” Will the losing team accept a collect call from the winning team?”

One of your coaches came out of men’s room just in time to take his spot in the third base coach’s box, when you notice he forgot to zip up. After a lot of yelling and signaling… finally the third base umpire takes over and things get back to normal. In the next days sporting section… “the final score was 6 – 2 and the third base coach of the visiting team FLYS OUT!

No matter where you sit in the dugout… the darn bench has cracks in it, and every time someone moves — yeeeeeoowwww… you all move.

No matter where you sit in the dugout… when it rains… that darn leak follows you everywhere!!!

You’re new to the club and so you ask for directions to your locker. You’re told that your locker is five lockers up from the hanging bug strips, two
lockers across from the water heater on the cinder blocks, and next to the laundry chute. When you look rather perplexed that you’d be next to a laundry chute you told not to worry about it – they don’t use the laundry
chute anymore … note since the leak…that’s why ya gotta be careful of the buckets.

You’re told that one of the owners of the franchise has a chain of funeral
homes … and try and avoid jokes using the term… dead territory.

Coach B.

If you’re young it’s Disney, ain’t nothin better, if you’re a little older it’s “God, why doesn’t the big team see me…this is great”, still older it’s “how many more years can I hang around ain’t this great”, older still…it’s “my dad says I can go in partners in his painting business…maybe one last shot…”

Looks like some body spent some time around the outskirts of the Sunshine League or the, Talaco League, ??? Tough way to make a buck - but I’ve never heard any guy complain about his day in the sun.

It’s amazing how the definition of hunger pains seems to change when the horizan dawns every moring with a full plate that’s … j u s t ---- o u t ------------ o f-------r e a c h …

I could always tell these guys – burnt to a crisp from the neck line up to the rim of their caps… arms tanned like rawhide from the elbows down to the fingers.

Great post JD !