by J. Brooks Terry
Staff Writer
I open the doors leading into the Suns administrative offices Monday morning.
“Good morning,” says the woman behind the front desk.
“Hi,” I say. “I’m supposed to be a batboy today.”
“Oh sure,” says the woman, rising from her chair. “Pedro is expecting you.”
The day before, Suns manager Peter “Pedro” Bragan called me to tell me what to do.
“Try and get here around nine in the morning,” he says. “And bring some good shoes, cleats if you’ve got ‘em.”
So here I am.
“Just this way,” says the woman, pointing down a short hall.
I am quickly greeted by Bragan.
“Good morning,” he says, right arm extended. “Follow me.”
Bragan leads me through the Baseball Grounds of Jacksonville.
“Good, you brought shoes,” he says, briefly looking me over. “Did you bring sunscreen?”
“No.”
“Well, you’re going to burn. Is that all right?”
“Sure,” I say, shrugging.
Bragan laughs.
“You’re going to have fun,” he says. “OK, Shannon will take care of you now. I’ll be watching, though.”
Shannon Leach, director of stadium operations, approaches.
“Hi,” he says as Bragan moves on.
We exchange a quick handshake. I’ve already forgotten his name.
“Follow me,” he says. “What was your name again?”
I feel a little better now so we reintroduce ourselves.
“Do you know what you’re supposed to do?” he says.
Of course I don’t. I’ve seen hundreds of baseball games, but I draw a blank, partially because I’m still a little nervous and more so because I realize that I’ve never really thought about it.
Leach quickly lets me know that being a batboy requires more than just, well, handling the bats.
“That’s the first misconception that many people have,” he says. “That and every batboy is the coach’s son.
“These kids love the game and there’s a lot that has to be done and they’re responsible for it. You have to be sure the umpires and the players have enough water to drink.
“You need to be sure the coolers are full, that the players have gum and sunflower seeds and that everything is ready in the dugout before the game even starts.
Leach also informs me that batboys are required to make “decent grades.”
“We strive for a B average,” he says. “And they’re required to bring their report cards.”
Tom “Tonto” Kackley, the team’s clubhouse manager, overhears our conversation. He stops on his way to the locker room and looks me in the eye.
“The most important rule to being a batboy is pretty simple,” he says. “Stay awake and keep your eye on what’s going on. If a ball were to come into the dugout it would be pretty dangerous. We play with pro balls and believe me, they’re fast. People do get hurt.”
He moves on.
I nod and turn to Leach.
“So how old are bat boys, usually?” I ask.
“It depends,” he says. “Fourteen is the minimum age and there are a lot of high school kids who do it, but every once in a while we’ll get somebody a little older.”
“How much older,” I ask. “What’s the oldest you’ve ever gotten in here?”
“Well,” he says. “I guess that would have to be 22. I know because that was me.”
Leach is a former Suns intern who was called into batboy duty after someone fell though.
“Anything older than that and, I’ll be honest with you, we could probably find something else for them to do,” he says.
I fail to mention that I’ve got three years on the current record.
“Sound good?” he says.
I nod.
“Let me introduce you to the other batboys,” says Leach.
I’m a little relieved to hear that. Leach informs me that I’ll be sitting in the Suns dugout, which is good. There’s more work to do, but I’ll be working with a partner.
“This is John, he’s been doing this for a while,” says Leach. “He’ll fill you in on the rest.”
John Glasgow is 16 and a sophomore at Englewood High School. This is his seventh game.
“We need to get you a uniform,” he says. “Let’s go to the locker room.”
Glasgow appears more nervous than I ever was. I learn later that he is skipping school to do this.
“Batboys do get paid,” he says, “fifteen dollars, but I just like watching the games. I think it’s pretty fun and there are a lot of perks.”
Among them, Glasgow said he enjoys meeting all of the players.
“Yeah,” he says. “It’s exciting because you might be sitting next to someone who’s moving up to the majors and never even know it. That makes it a little more interesting.”
He stops before we enter the locker room.
“What size pants do you wear?” he says. “I think we have your size.”
John pushes open the heavy metal doors.
Most of the team is dressing for the game, but few notice me. They’re too busy giving Kackley a hard time.
“Tonto,” one says. “I don’t know about you. Yesterday you didn’t even bring us bagels and today you bring bagels, but what are we supposed to drink with them?”
Kackley shrugs and looks at me.
“Can you believe these guys?” he says. “That’s what I get for being the den mother.”
Glasgow taps me on the shoulder and hands me a jersey, belt and pants.
“These should fit,” he says.
The uniform is a replica of what the players wear, except for the two large “Bs” that are where a number should be.
I quickly change and await further instructions.
“We gotta get out there and see what they need,” says Glasgow. “We have about an hour before game time.”
Glasgow leads me out of a second set of doors and through a dimly lit hallway that runs under the bleachers.
This is when things start to get more exciting.
As we exit the bullpen and walk onto the recently raked clay, the crowd, which is larger than I thought it would be, begins cheering. They think we’re players.
“That’s another perk,” says Glasgow. “You almost feel like a celebrity when you do this. Everyone is watching you and you get asked to sign stuff all the time, sometimes even after you tell them you’re just a bat boy.”
In the next hour we fill water coolers, bring out boxes of baseballs — I find out later that the umpires will be asking for them frequently — and make sure the players have gum and sunflower seeds.
I look at Glasgow.
“What do we do now?” I ask.
“I guess we wait,” he says.
We do more waiting after the game starts, too. As home team batboys, we’re mainly on call when the Suns are up.
“I tell you what,” says Glasgow. “I’ll get the bats during the first inning so you can get a better idea of what to do. Does that sound good?”
I nod even though I barely hear him. Not only has the crowd been given inflatable “cheer sticks,” Glasgow and I are both required to wear batting helmets for the duration of the game, house rules.
“They don’t want us to get hurt,” he says.
The first inning comes and goes and Kackley approaches.
“OK John,” he says, “I know you’re a hard worker but let Brooks go the next inning.”
I learn another rule, an obvious one, but a good one.
“Don’t give out any foul balls if you catch them,” says Glasgow. “People ask all the time, but you have to tell them ‘no.’ I guess they’re pretty expensive.”
I nod again.
“Oh yeah,” he says. “Make sure the play is over before you run out there.”
More nodding.
So far there hasn’t been much action. It’s the top of the second inning and no one has gotten a base hit. Chattanooga goes down and it’s the Suns second at-bat.
“Remember,” says Glasgow. “It’s your turn.”
My hands are a little sweaty. Later I realize that no one would be watching me over a decent play, but all I can think is, “don’t screw up. Keep your eye on the bat.”
Finally, I get my cue. There’s a base hit and Glasgow taps me on the back.
“Go get it,” he says.
Without thinking, I do. I run 30 or so paces grab the bat, turn and make my way back to the dugout.
“Good job,” says Glasgow, motioning towards a large subdivided box. “They go in here.”
“That was easy enough,” I thought. “When do I go again?”
I don’t wait long. I go again and again and again and again.
This, I soon realize, makes the game go by very quickly. After two hours and seven innings, I’m hardly tired or thirsty, despite facing the sun for the entire game.
“What’s the longest you’ve ever been out here?” I ask.
“Usually the games last about two and half hours,” he says. “But they’ve gone pretty long before. A while back we had one go for 14 innings.”
I’m a little worried, especially after the Suns fail to break the tie in the ninth inning.
“Extra innings,” says Glasgow.
I think: ‘I can’t just leave, so I better get comfortable.’
The crowd, however, isn’t as vigilant as I am. Now a fraction of its original size, Glasgow informs me that, during morning games, field trips and business socials rarely last longer than a few innings.
I also learn another batboy lesson.
“Don’t talk to the coaches if we’re losing,” he says. “They don’t like that.”
Two more innings pass before Chattanooga finally scores.
“We better do something,” says Glasgow, “or it’s over.”
We don’t and the team slowly exits the dugout.
“Grab the coolers,” says Glasgow. “We need to empty them and put them away.”
We also we pick up towels and grab any leftover sunflower seeds.
“Hey, hey number 88,” a voice says.
I turn and its three kids no older than nine or 10.
“Will you autograph this,” one says, holding a foul ball caught during the game.
I do, but I can’t help thinking that this kid is getting ripped off. I’m not even a real batboy, much less player.
“OK we’re done,” says Glasgow. “When you get to the locker room, just throw your uniform in the basket. Then you can leave.”
“How’d I do,” I ask.
“You’re way better than a lot of kids who come through here,” says Glasgow. “We’ve had some who don’t even know how to put a helmet on. At least you could follow the game.”
“I guess I’m a natural,” I say. “But I’m not quitting my day job.”