Culture Shock.

A motley crew.

A career in baseball can teach you a thing or two about the world. About life in general.

At one point in time, I thought I had stumbled upon the concept of diversity. Diversity meant a private university in New Orleans that attracted a wide variety of folks, most of which looked, talked, and believed nothing like I did. If my observations were more specifically honed in on my sphere of influence, it looked like a locker room full of lower-middle to upper-middle class white guys (and 1 upper-middle black guy from Orlando) who spanned the reaches of the country from Washington state to Connecticut to Florida to SoCal, and everywhere in between. Some of the best high school players in the country had been collected into one place; each one accompanied by unique interests, unique stories, unique personalities, and very unique egos.

I could get into the personalities and egos of these gentlemen, and it would actually make for some really fantastic reading, but I’m not. I’d be happy to tell you stories with a huge smile on my face for hours over a couple of finely crafted adult beverages. In fact, I bring up that locker room, merely to frame the next step in my journey. This journey and its accompanying lessons, however, can really only be understood through the reliving of past experiences. So let’s start with day one:

6:00am- Alarm goes off. Not mine, but my newest roommate’s. Some God awful nuclear siren of an alarm tone that makes me bunker down under the sheets for a few seconds. My alarm doesn’t go off until 6:03, a subtler, more considerate “sonar” tone. The odd minute alarm is one of the quirks I’ve collected over the years… never been a fan of round numbers, I guess.

6:25am- Walk down front for the 6:30 bus. Just my roommate, myself, and 4 other new draft picks are out front of the hotel. Here we are. The motivated crew. The select few who care more about making it to the big leagues than hitting snooze. I always knew I had phenomenal work ethic, this proves it. San Francisco, here I come.

6:30:00am- 15 passenger van is spotted pulling into the parking lot. Our chariot is here. I pick up my bag and start walking to the curb.

6:30:15am- 20 dark skinned young men come flying out of the hotel lobby, grabbing, clawing, yelling. Initially, I am convinced that I am being ambushed by auctioneers. An absolute storm of confusing banter and mild violence like nothing I have ever seen. Then I manage to pick out a few profanities I learned while attending Texas public school. Ah yes. Spanish. A complete bumrush is taking place, and I can do nothing but watch.

6:30:55am- What.The.Hell? The van is leaving the parking lot. I am not on it. Thankfully it wasn’t just me. 4 of the 5 other gringos were stranded out front as well, all of us with our mouths wide open. One of the new guys had chosen fight over flight, and as the van pulled away, we were able to see his face smushed against the glass, backpack clutched in his lap.

6:58 am- An American guy comes out front, newspaper in hand. Bed head, breath like a decomposing rodent, clearly opting for the no hygiene route, and by the look (and smell) of things, this wasn’t day one of such behavior. He looks at his feet, paying no attention to our existence, and unfolds his paper.

7:00am- Two vans show up this time. Noted.

I have yet to even pull into the complex for day one, and have already learned two very important lessons. Lesson #1: I have absolutely no idea WHAT I have just gotten myself into. Lesson #2: There are 3 ways to arrive early. Feet, taxi, or battle royale.

Day 1 was a long day, full of physical examinations, MRI, blood work, and hours of waiting in line.

Day 2 was our first day of practice. I have never seen anything like what I saw that day. Seventy guys on a ballfield, representing Australia, Venezuela, Curacao, the Dominican Republic, Japan, Nicaragua, Canada, and every corner of the USA, all speaking the universal language of baseball, without having a clue how to ask each other what they had for lunch. I will wrap it up for today with this-- the first piece of advice I received from my new Dominican teammate Jose.*

"New guys... takey chower! Don't be afriend...(eerie smile)... the water's free." Whatever that meant, I'm here to tell you... it was absolutely horrifying.

(*Note- you will hear several stories involving Jose, as he might be one of the most unique, and insane teammates I have ever had. And no, Jose is not a generic Dominican/Spanish name. It is his actual name, and it has not been changed for this reason: Jose narrows it down to one of about 30 people in the organization.)