10, 12, 97 strikes and you're out

After months of drought, Durham has enjoyed rain every day or so lately, and no day has been more suitable for rain, than days when we go to the ball park. Last week we were treated to an endless supply of fried chicken and beer under that patio awning in right field (a Beowulfian approach to the game, or a Henry the eighth approach - depending on the gluttonous revelry that you might fantasize about). It rained the whole time, though not so heavily that they delayed the game. This last Sunday thunderstorms were looming and the powers that be (the umpires, the team officials, the league?) delayed the game two hours - that's the time lag between the first and last photograph above. Our friend Paul came along with us this time, and we were fortunate enough to secure seats under the canopy. By the time the game began, we were all squeezed under the canopy behind third base, along with all the remaining souls in the park. Unfortunately most of the vendors had begun closing down. In spite of this hardship we managed to have some good beer, hot dogs, brautwurst, bar-b-que, and funnel cake. The new Bulls park is much better than the "historic" park that we went to 18 or more years ago; this one has the feel of Turner Field but scaled down, cozier. My only regret is that I'm not watching the Braves prospects but Rays prospects. This had been the Braves' double A or single A affiliate. Now it's triple A, and a much improved quality of play. Richmond should play a series here. I'll check the schedule.
One interesting thing about minor league games is the presence of managers and coaches who recently were players. Players I hadn't seen in a while were on the roster. I thought, "so this is where Tomo Okha wound up." Five years ago, when the Braves dominated the National League, Okha was one of those rookie pitchers who had the best game of their season against the Braves. I think he might have played for the Expos. Such is the fugitive life of the aging fringe prospect. A while ago I spoke with my friend Bob about lifetime minor leaguers. They must love this game to endure such obscurity. You might figure that by the time a player is over thirty, they're not likely to be called up. But they soldier on, minor league free agents, with the heart of a child and the marketable skills they've managed to acquire while possibly attending a college in the off season.
Walking behind the stands the former major league affiliations of the Bulls are listed. The Tigers, Mets, Red Sox, Braves and Philies at one time or another have had players who've played in Durham.
Minor league history is the history of most of America. Atlanta, which feels like a major league city, was once as minor league as any. That was in a slower time when Atlanta still had trolley service through most of the city. Today Ponce de Leon (ponce-a-lean) park is underneath the parking lot of Borders and Home Depot. No more Crackers or Black Crackers for Atlanta. I suppose the sense of a major league city is that the team affiliation doesn't change on a whim or the vagaries of market forces (although major league teams have switched cities and Kansas City, Seattle and Milwaukee have had two different major league franchises) ; their ball parks don't sit empty for a decade (as Durham's park did according to wikipedia for most of the 70s), and they don't combine with teams from other cities. Minor league ball has more a sense of how transitory life is. Sitting in Turner Field I can think that all this is permanent and will continue into the future. For most of its history Durham has gone to games not knowing if the team will be playing there the next year. The team hangs on like an afterthought.
The minor leagues are a consolation. The players still live among ordinary citizens. They don't have no-trade clauses or guaranteed contracts. Only a few have more than enough money to last till next year or to cushion the blows of fate. Although as I suspect that even the minor league minimum now is more than a professor at Duke or UNC makes, the players have little control over their careers and they mostly hope that they may play in the majors one day. That they will walk onto the big stage, produce some hits, score some runs, eat up some innings and win a few games. The hope of the majors is that there is nothing more to be desired (playing on a championship team, perhaps); the shift from minor to major isn't a subtle shift: a person moves from being a peon to an aristocrat.
Yet even the majors weren't always like that. At one time, in the 60s the major league minimum was around 30K - a still princely sum in its day, but not extraordinary. I remember in the 1970s that players still had off season jobs. The minor leagues must have been miserable back then.
Now minor leagues are an asset. The city built a new stadium and a triple A franchise now plays here: a double upgrade. Restaurants and cultural events are proliferating in town. And neighborhoods are gentrifying.
The major minor shift remains. I notice the shift from major to minor whenever we return to Atlanta. I really notice it when we go to New York or Boston or London. Each place has its own quality: energy vibrates up from the street and among the people. Creativity springs up everywhere.