Eight years on buses taught me what I was made of. The answer was: not quite enough.
I played eight seasons in the minor leagues. Made it as high as Triple-A Rochester in 2006, which is one step below the majors and one phone call away from everything I’d worked for. That call never came. My batting average that year was .261, which my manager said was “solid but not undeniable.” I think about that phrase a lot. I’ve been thinking about it for eighteen years. But I’m not bitter. I’m informed.
These kids today don’t understand minor league baseball sacrifice. The buses. The poverty. The overnight drives to towns that smelled like fertilizer. I ate so much Taco Bell in 2003 that I still can’t drive past one without my stomach doing something. That’s not a complaint. That’s a badge of honor. My body remembers the grind even if nobody else does.
What Real Sacrifice Looked Like
Let me tell you about sacrifice. I’m playing Single-A ball in Hickory, North Carolina. We finish a game at 10 PM, load onto a bus that should’ve been retired during the Reagan administration, and drive eleven hours to Greensboro. I sleep sitting up next to a guy who hadn’t showered because the clubhouse hot water was broken. We arrive at 9 AM. Game time is 6 PM. I go 0-for-4 with three strikeouts. The scout who was supposedly there to see me had left by the fifth inning.
I found out about the scout afterwards. My manager mentioned it casually, like it didn’t matter. Maybe it didn’t. Maybe that’s the point. I was always almost good enough, which is its own kind of education. These kids signing $400 million contracts before their first full season—they’ll never learn what “almost” feels like. I’m not saying I’d trade places with them. I’m just saying I think about it sometimes. Often. Most days.
They Call It Load Management Now
Load management. That’s what they call it when a guy making $30 million sits out because he’s “tired.” I played 138 games one season with a fractured finger because I couldn’t afford to miss the paycheck. That’s $800 a month, by the way. Before taxes. I made more working at Home Depot during the off-season, which is where I met my ex-wife. She said I talked about baseball too much. She said I needed to “move on.” We divorced in 2014. She’s remarried now. He sells insurance. Never played a sport in his life. Seems happy. I don’t understand it.
My current girlfriend says I bring up the minors too often. She counted once—eleven times in a single dinner. I told her those eight years shaped who I am. She asked who that was, exactly. I said a guy who understands sacrifice. She got quiet after that. I think she was impressed.
The Bus Was The Real Tryout
People ask me if I regret it. Eight years, exposed to chemicals in those old buses, exposed to mold in those motel rooms, exposed to the reality that wanting something badly enough doesn’t mean you get it. I tell them no. I tell them the bus was the real tryout and I passed. I tell them most of these pampered stars today wouldn’t have lasted one season in Hickory.
They nod politely. Then they change the subject. My therapist says I use baseball as a “protective narrative.” I told her I didn’t need a narrative—I have a .261 average in Triple-A, which is one phone call away from the show. She asked how long ago that was. I said eighteen years. She wrote something down.
I still have my Rochester jersey. It’s in a frame in my apartment. My girlfriend asked if I could move it somewhere less prominent. I said it reminds me of what I sacrificed. She said it reminds her of something too, but she didn’t finish the sentence.
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Derek “Deke” Masterson played eight seasons in the minor leagues (2000-2007), reaching Triple-A Rochester before retiring to become a regional sales manager. He is working on a memoir titled “Almost: One Phone Call Away,” which he has mentioned to three literary agents who have not responded.
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