They sweat when they play — not just 'cause they're actually trying, but 'cause it's damn hot. They're outdoors and it's July and the air is like soup.
They are minor leaguers.
For every eight-figure shortstop in the bigs, there are, like, 27 dozen of these guys. They play 'cause they love the game — they have to in order to put up with low pay, sub-standard living accommodations and cramped bus travel — but also because they, too, hope one day to sign contracts with zeroes that run off the page.
Until then, though, this is their habitat: minor league ballparks with small crowds. Interesting crowds. There are the purist old-timers with their score sheets; they can't afford games at the big league park, or they've simply become disgusted with those greedy, overpaid bastards. There are families seeking an affordable outing. There are couples who — you wonder — are they really on a date? Most everyone basks in the quaintness, the pure Americana, of a minor league baseball game. There might be a Roy Hobbs out there, for goodness sake.
Oh, and the beer and concessions are cheap, especially when compared with the Chardonnay-and-brie prices at Tropicana Field.
All of Tampa Bay's teams — Tampa Yankees, Dunedin Blue Jays and Clearwater Phillies — are Single A affiliates of major league ball clubs. Players face two more levels — Double and Triple A — before they reach the bigs (although some skip leagues). The good news for these guys is that they're no longer in the rookie leagues.
For young baseballers, the minor leagues are the great equalizer. Top prospects can struggle with .230 averages. Unknowns can blossom. Competition is heated. The guys want to win, yeah, but they also want to move on.
—Eric Snider
This article appears in May 17-24, 2001.