Finding a Home in Minor League Baseball
This article was written in January. Content warning: this piece discusses transphobia.
Niko Hulsizer hits better when I’m at the game, and I can prove it. He slugged .649 with four home runs in 42 plate appearances when I was in the stands last year, compared to a relatively pedestrian .403 for the entirety of his first full year with the triple-A Durham Bulls.
2023 was my first full year back in Durham, a city I consider to be my hometown despite not having lived there since I was four. Thanks to a very generous gift I also became a Bulls partial season ticket-holder. I’m a person who thrives on routine and predictability, and as the summer went on I eased into the familiarity of those two seats on the first-base line. I began keeping score, which is how I came to recognize myself as Hulsizer’s good-luck charm. I brought my partner along and she listened patiently as I gushed about the ABS challenge system and odd position player pitching scenarios. I reveled in the Remembering Some Guys opportunities (Remember when Avisaíl García was an All-Star? Remember Stephen Piscotty?). I tried and failed to get Adam Wainwright’s autograph during a rehab start. Regardless of what difficulties presented themselves elsewhere in my life, I could rely on those three hours of placid comfort at Durham Bulls Athletic Park, three times a week when the Bulls were in town.
The nature of Triple A is transience, especially with an organization like the Tampa Bay Rays’. Of the Bulls’ 2023 Opening Day lineup, only four players (Hulsizer, Ruben Cardenas, Kameron Misner, and Tanner Murray) appear to be returning this season. All four are entering their final year before becoming eligible for the Rule 5 draft. My other favorites have either been traded, released, or have graduated to the Major League roster. With this level of turnover, it’s hard to develop the player-specific attachments that I am accustomed to as a baseball fan.
I’ve moved nine times across four cities in the decade since my high school graduation. It’s impossible not to feel some solidarity with the late-round draftee or the fringe international signing, all of us pinballing across the mid-sized cities of the South, loading and unloading that U-Haul in the summer heat that’s only going to get worse as the years go by. Just as I was getting settled into adulthood, the pandemic hit and I realized my gender identity needed a complete tear-down and rebuild. I’d like to believe that there’s an age where I won’t feel like a vagabond. My dwindling savings and the ongoing enshittification of the housing market suggest otherwise.
It’s easy to fall in love with Durham. Many writers more talented than I have waxed poetic about the old tobacco warehouses-turned-lofts, the botanical gardens, the craft beer, the Cameron Crazies. House prices are going up around town because, well, lots of folks love living here. It’s also a pretty safe place to be a trans woman, all things considered. There are plenty of local resources and queer-focused events. I’ve gotten the occasional disdainful or confused glance when leaving the women’s bathroom at the ballpark, but that’s about it. This is a city that feels like home, a city where I want to be anchored for the foreseeable future.
Last August, the North Carolina General Assembly overrode Democrat Gov. Roy Cooper’s veto on three regressive laws on the same day as part of a nationwide assault on the civil rights of queer, trans, and gender-nonconforming people. I’d seen similar bills get passed in many other states, including Florida, where I’d lived for seventeen years. It certainly wasn’t the first time such legislation has been passed in North Carolina; everyone around here remembers the infamous “Bathroom Bill” passed under previous governor Pat McCrory’s reign and repealed in 2017. Despite living in a fairly progressive city, despite all of the safety and comfort I’d built in the few years since transitioning, I couldn’t ignore the reality any further.
It happened to occur the day after a major thunderstorm that wiped out power in most of Durham. My house was completely dark when I got home from work and read the news. Summer in North Carolina lasts for about seven months, from mid-April into October. Once you’ve been through May, you already start to get tired of the heat. By August, it’s unbearable. I thought about sleeping another night without A/C. I thought about trying to settle down in a city that’s only going to get more expensive, in a state whose government views my life as expendable. I thought about moving to live with my aunt in New Jersey. I cried and screamed in an empty Target parking lot. A few days later, I was back at the ballpark.
Four days before the state legislature rolled back human rights in North Carolina, and three days before the power went out, I saw what turned out to be Osleivis Basabe’s final game in Durham before being called up to Tampa Bay. I was overjoyed that he got the opportunity, as he was one of my favorite players to watch on the Bulls. I didn’t realize until the next day that his call-up was in large part due to the alleged sexual misconduct of incumbent Rays shortstop Wander Franco. As much as the Bulls are my oasis, I can’t fully disconnect them from the world around me. You can’t see a game at the DBAP without noticing the huge courthouse hovering over center field, the salute to the troops in the middle of the fifth inning, the constant reminders that those politicians are in those state offices because many of the people in these stands share their worldview. Like an aging reliever whose fastball is beginning to lose ticks, I’m wondering how long I can remain untethered to the material world before simple and cruel practicality comes knocking at my door. I love living in Durham, but it’s hard to imagine a future where I can truly feel like I’ve put down roots here.
The 26-year-old Hulsizer fades into the background of the Rays’ deep farm system. He’ll most likely stick around in Durham this year as he tries to amend his worrisome strikeout totals. Barring some change in approach that radically improves his hit tool, he seems destined to walk the lonely road of the minor-league “depth” player. Some day soon, he’ll decide he’s had enough of this career path, or the decision will be made for him. Some day soon, he’ll disappear from my scorebook.
Post-pandemic, post-work-from-home, post-making-all-of-my-adult-friends-on-the-Internet, local community is something I’ve had to actively seek out. As dangerously easy as it is to live entirely within the space between my bed and my home office, I’m making an attempt. I’ve found a local faith community, a local group of like-minded friends, even a queer sandlot team. As I approach and then speed past the average age of big-leaguers, I’m reinventing myself. I’m learning to catch in the last few good years my knees will probably give me. There’s only so much that can be done against the march of time, market forces, reactionary politics, the ongoing contraction of the minor leagues, and climate change, but I’m sticking around as long as I possibly can. Minor-league baseball is my refuge, even if the business of the game is just as chaotic as the world around it.
