A Bus Ride
“Get the fuck outta my seat,” he grunts. I know the routine. I look up, avoid eye contact, and search for a new seat immediately. Two rows ahead, I spot one. I get up, grab my travel bag, and slink past my Brute teammate. I slide into my new seat beside Alex, a Venezuelan player, oblivious to everything except for the music coming from his headphones, and tuck myself against the window. I mumble, “Gracias, Alex.” He nods in acknowledgement and goes back to listening to the bachata sounds of Aventura.
I’m 19 years old and in the Cincinnati Reds minor league system, playing at their Midwest League, low minor league level. Joining professional baseball out of high school was my dream. I was a skinny, shy, passive Canadian kid. I knew almost nothing about the rigors of the professional sports world but was finding out quickly.
Whether in the team’s locker room, at the hotel, or on the field. I found myself feeling out of place. Maybe it was my introverted nature or my lack of high-level competition. Maybe it was because I ended every sentence like a question, eh? I had no friends on my team, and most of the time, I kept to myself. I was so scared of making a mistake and looking foolish out loud. As weird as my teammates must have already thought I was, I worried opening my mouth would make things worse.
I felt most out of place on the bus. Imagine these Greyhound-style buses. Carpet seating with cigarette holes and old gum stuck on them. Broken armrests, missing headrests, and non-existent A/C. Massive windows that were dangerously unsealed. They would open and flap like an uncaged bird as we flew down the freeway. And the smells. Smells that come to mind: smoke, urine, feces, ammonia… How, why?
Our bus was a landfill. Empty Gatorade bottles, snack wrappers, soiled Kleenex, why is there a used condom on the floor? Random stinky socks, stained underwear, wet towels, dirty everything, everywhere. God forbid you must use the bathroom because getting there was a labyrinth of legs, bodies, bags, speakers, and card games. Oh, and if you’re really lucky, fist fights with slumping players in foul moods. When you finally make it, if you ever do, imagine a port o’ potty straight out of Ghoulies. Soap? Please, we didn’t even have running water. Most times, it was just you and a toilet full of monsters. While other times, they showed up at the bathroom door at 3 a.m.
While everyone was asleep one night, I desperately needed to use the restroom. I plug my nose and try to get in and out as fast as possible. Still holding my breath, I turn the door handle to open the door. No luck. Confused, I push harder. Nothing. There’s a sinister chuckle on the other side. “Hey, come on, I’m tired. Let me out”, I say. “Fuck you, pussy”. I realize what’s happening now, and I panic. I want out, but the Brute is trapping me inside the bathroom. I’m screaming on the inside. My eyes well up with tears. I want to go home and feel safe. A different teammate approaches the restroom and tells the Brute, “Hey, I need to piss.” The door opens. I brush past my hero teammate, avoid eye contact, and return to my seat.
Everyone did what they could to make their time in this hell more bearable. Sometimes, I’d bring my pillow, while others would travel with things to put in their mouths.
Sunflower seeds, gum, energy bars, and, of course, tobacco. Tobacco, AKA my kryptonite. How could anyone like that stuff? The guys used it all day, every day. Dip or chew, as they would call it. Scan a professional baseball room back then, and you’d have seen nothing but brown drool oozing from lumps in lips and cheeks. It would stink up every location we shared. Every bottle, cup, can, or container needed to be double-checked before drinking from it; if not, you could drink someone’s special blend of tobacco and warm spit. I tried tobacco once and immediately threw up. I stayed as far away from it as possible, which, on the bus, was nearly impossible because of how many of my teammates thrived on it.
With the amount of competing and traveling we did on the road, sleeping on the bus was inevitable. Sitting two by two, some would fall asleep on their neighbor’s shoulder and some, cramped against a flapping window. Then there was the third option, sleeping on the floor. Between your seat and the seats in front of you, there is a small space where you can slip into and get a flat surface. This area is HOT; you can feel the heat from outside, off the vents, and even from the engine. But the big reward was that you could stretch your legs across the aisle. This was the luxurious route I would take. I can’t tell you how much real sleep I got down there. It was as if the heat, the vibration of the bus, and the enclosed space were perfect for rest. No matter how hot and sweaty, the minute I hit the floor, I was off to LaLa land. This was my spot, my den, my backup bed for the four years I rode those buses. I also knew every minute of sleep was necessary to achieve my big dream of reaching the major leagues.
The best part of bus travel was when we traveled through varied terrain or cities and towns I would’ve never encountered. Sometimes, I felt like I was watching magic happen out of the front window as the bus drivers would safely navigate us to our next stop.
One night, while traveling through winding and hilly roads, our bus driver and I were the only ones with our eyes open. I’m standing in the aisle in awe as we rumble and screech on to our next destination. We drive down a steep hill with sharp curves, and it feels like, right before every curve, we’re going to fall off the cliff. I watch Gatorade, water, and juice bottles drop to the floor and roll around the bus as we curve left and right. The lids would oftentimes be half-tightened, and the contents would spill open and cascade across the floor. Finally, I snap out of the hypnotizing dance of the bottles and realize it’s time to tuck myself into my nook on the floor and get some sleep. I find my usual spot, and it’s hot as soon as I get down there. Like, REALLY hot, but almost immediately, I’m sleeping so well.
I dream of standing on the field in packed stadiums, being interviewed, bright lights, signing big contracts, and accepting awards. These grand dreams were a stark contrast to my current reality. Because although I was trying my best, nothing seemed to be going right on the field. Joining the minor leagues was nothing like I expected. I thought I would perform better, move faster up the ranks, and have more fun with my teammates. Instead, it was isolating, unglamorous, and humbling. I felt like a fool.
My dream suddenly cuts out when a smell wakes me up… It’s distinct and all too familiar. Tobacco. Groggy and nauseous, I feel my face soaked in sweat. The sweat flows down my nose and lips. I rub my face and look at my hand. My hand is covered in a brown liquid, black even. I give my hand a curious look: brown, black!? What is this? I sniff the sludge. It’s not sweat. I’m covered in someone’s tobacco spit! I look at the floor next to me and realize I’m lying in a pool of it.
The bottle still rolls and bumps around me as tobacco drips into my mouth. I wipe my face again; it’s soaked, and my face is completely covered. Gross. No. Disgusting. In the dark, I see Brute’s grinning teeth and eyes loving what he’s seeing. I pause for a second…But there is no processing. No asking: What should I do? What am I going to do? There is no panic, no anger, no longing for something different. I don’t know if it was because I had just woken up from visions of my future or if I was too exhausted even to react, but at that moment, there was nothing else: this was my life, my calling, everything I wanted. I needed to live through and accept all the intimidating, lonely, uncomfortable, insurmountable, and vomit-inducing parts that come with it. I lift my shirt and wipe my face, turn my head in the other direction and go back to falling soundly asleep. We’re headed to our next stop. I should rest up; I have a dream to get back to.
