A Typical Day (Mike)
"What the hell," I've been asked, "is a clubhouse manager? What do you do?" These are fair questions since relatively few people have actually spent time watching the ballplayers off the field. I'll try to explain (by the way, if you're not interested in the minutiae of my day, you can skip this).
A regular day for me began between 12:30 and 1:00 PM as I barrelled off of Highway 220 and into the (largely) gravel parking lot of historic Bowman Field. The time of my arrival varied, however, depending on a) whether the team had just come off a road trip (meaning I should get there at 10:00), b) what time the game ended the night before, and c) how much stuff I got done the night before before recognizing that I'd better go home before I get too tired to drive safely. Princey (when in doubt, you can guess a ballplayer's nickname by adding a "y" onto the most appropriate part of their name) would usually arrive a few minutes before I did and would be seated behind his desk, yelling insults at Dave Lundquist (our pitching coach) and finishing paperwork.
The first thing I needed to do was to start a couple loads of laundry. Invariably, I left a load or two of towels in the dryer that needed to be folded and some towels in the washer that still had to be dried. Every now and again, there was still a load of towels that had yet to be washed. Every day at Bowman Field began and ended with laundry. Indeed, the one constant throughout my day was the need to see if there was any laundry to do; the more I did during the day, the less I'd have to do that night.
After getting the laundry started, I would take my shopping cart full of towels and cleaning supplies over to the visitors' side. I'd lay out a towel in each of the deep red lockers, and it became an island of cleanliness in a metal cage of dirty spikes, equipment bags, and uniforms. I would also vaccuum the red floors (if I hadn't done so the night before). You have no idea, by the way, how much dirt gets tracked in on baseball spikes, especially after it rains and the dirt clumps under the cleats. I'd sweep up the bathroom floor. Every few days, I'd mop. I'd clean the filthiest of surfaces with my industrial chemicals, and as I breathed in the fumes, I'd think I'm really going to develop a neurological disorder from this.
I'd also stop by the umpire's room to return the umpires' uniforms (only two umps per game) and restock their towels. Every couple of days, I'd do a massive cleaning, vaccuuming, sweeping, mopping, cleaning surfaces. I found it's far easier to clean up after just two people than 32. The room itself was a comparatively dingy, little, J-shaped room, with a single strip of rug down the long hallway. There were two lockers down this hallway, and a door leading to the field. The bathroom and shower were on the short side. Basically, the room was an afterthought in the construction, and the team had used leftover everything to throw a usable space together in the last place in the ballpark where it would fit.
By the time I got back to our clubhouse, players would be filtering in. They'd need new bats and new socks (I was the keeper of both). They'd tell me their pants had a rip in them and ask me whether or not I could mail a package for them (it's 2:00 in the afternoon and you drove to the ballpark! Are you telling me you didn't have time to go by UPS this morning? What, were you working this morning? Oh, wait, you're a BALLPLAYER! Sorry, had to vent.) I'd bring them their mail and meet whatever needs I could.
I finished the laundry and I drove to Wegman's to buy food. If you are ever lucky enough to become a clubhouse manager, you will inevitably begin to notice just how many resources a baseball team consumes. Drinking Water. Gaterade. A meal before the game. A meal after. The water for the laundry. The water for the showers. The water for the field. The water for the whirlpool (filled and emptied every day). The water for scrubbing their shoes and shaving and a million other little things. And, of course, the electricity for the lights (both the indoor and the stadium light banks), the washer and dryer, the air conditioning. It's remarkable, really. I think the 'Cutters could have supported the entire country of Ghana for a month. Every day, I bought $40 worth of groceries from the store. Peanut butter, 3-4 loaves of bread, a watermelon (though, truly, they would have eaten 5 watermelons in 9 minutes if I'd had the money to do it), pineapple, plums, oranges, apples, chips, salsa, pretzels, jelly, mayo, turkey, ham, cheese, cookies (sometimes), carrots, broccoli, cauliflower, Ranch dip. And that's the stuff I provided. They also bought chicken tenders, chicken sandwiches, cheeseburgers, fries, gatorades, slushies, and sodas from the concession stand (these were delivered by our bat boys).
I'd get a break after they went out onto the field. I'd put out the pre-game spread and go watch them hit and field. Sometimes I'd read. Sometimes I'd talk to the staff. It was a nice time of day. It almost felt, for those 45 minutes that I had free, that they were playing ball for a private audience. I was almost alone in the stands and watching them hit singles, doubles, and homeruns; and watch the second baseman and shortstop turn double plays, their hands and feet moving so fluidly, so rapidly, so beautifully as they caught the ball, transferred the ball from one hand to the other, flipped it to their counterpart who would catch it, transfer it, and push off the bag in a single motion before firing a strike to first. When practice ended (every day at 5:15), I would return to the clubhouse to tend to more needs and begin doing laundry again (ballplayers like to shower before the game).
When they returned to the field at 6:40, I stayed behind. I continued to wash towels. I vaccuumed the red floors. I tidied up the bathroom sinks. I laid out towels in their lockers. I cleaned up the food from earlier. I set out the postgame gatorades. I took out the trash.
As ballplayers came in they'd give me updates until I had finished all my chores. Then, I'd go out and catch an hour or so of the game each night. Eventually, though, I'd have to return to the clubhouse to meet a delivery man who was bringing our post-game meal. I'd set out utensils and prepare individual plates for the coaches and for Princey. By then, I'd head back out to catch the last inning or two.
When the game ended between 9:15 and 10:30 (but usually 9:30-9:45), I began doing laundry immediately, putting in the first loads of uniforms and personals (underwear, t-shirts, socks, etc.). While the 'Cutters milled around and ate, there was little I could do in the clubhouse. So, I waited. Once it had cleared out, I vacuumed our side, continued doing laundry, returned uniforms and personals to their appropriate lockers, emptied our garbage, cleaned up the post-game food, wiped down the bathroom, mopped (sometimes), traveled to the visitors' and umpires' side to collect their laundry, squeegie their floors, empty their garbage, and (sometimes) vaccuum.
I'd generally leave between 12:30 and 1:30 AM, beginning my hour long drive back to my house. I'd listen to George Horry on Coast to Coast AM talk about ghosts, crystal skulls, psychic abilities, aliens, and "shadow people". If laughing didn't keep me awake, I twirled a dingy, batting practice baseball in my right hand, practicing grips and feeling the laces. It felt comfortable, but it also kept me from being hypnotized by the dark road and monotonous yellow stripes. I'd get home between 1:30 and 2:30 (except on nights before a road trip, when I'd spend the night in the clubhouse), sleep until 8:00 or 9:00, do some chores, then return again, leaving an hour before whatever time I felt I needed to arrive in order to finish the work that I couldn't do the night before.
These were long days and long nights, but there never was enough time to get everything done. Moving only as fast as the washers and dryers can work is difficult and frustrating at times. It's a great job though, especially because of the people that you can work with. I'll talk much more about them as time goes on.
The most important thing to realize, to be a successful "clubbie," is that you are not one of the players. In fact, no matter how close you get to some of them, you will never have the same status as one of their teammates. You may be their den mother, their confidante, their sounding board, their consultant, and even their friend. But you'll never be their teammate. You cannot sit in and play a game of cards with them, especially when there's work to do. You cannot comment on a negative play. You can mess with them a little, but never busting on them for their play or their skill level. They may see you as an equal, but you are not the same. From what I understand of how I did my job and the descriptions I've heard (and seen) from less successful clubbies, this is a line that must not be crossed if the team is going to continue to respect you. I never knew a professional wrestler could be so right, but as The Rock used to say, you have to "know your role" as a clubhouse manager.
A regular day for me began between 12:30 and 1:00 PM as I barrelled off of Highway 220 and into the (largely) gravel parking lot of historic Bowman Field. The time of my arrival varied, however, depending on a) whether the team had just come off a road trip (meaning I should get there at 10:00), b) what time the game ended the night before, and c) how much stuff I got done the night before before recognizing that I'd better go home before I get too tired to drive safely. Princey (when in doubt, you can guess a ballplayer's nickname by adding a "y" onto the most appropriate part of their name) would usually arrive a few minutes before I did and would be seated behind his desk, yelling insults at Dave Lundquist (our pitching coach) and finishing paperwork.
The first thing I needed to do was to start a couple loads of laundry. Invariably, I left a load or two of towels in the dryer that needed to be folded and some towels in the washer that still had to be dried. Every now and again, there was still a load of towels that had yet to be washed. Every day at Bowman Field began and ended with laundry. Indeed, the one constant throughout my day was the need to see if there was any laundry to do; the more I did during the day, the less I'd have to do that night.
After getting the laundry started, I would take my shopping cart full of towels and cleaning supplies over to the visitors' side. I'd lay out a towel in each of the deep red lockers, and it became an island of cleanliness in a metal cage of dirty spikes, equipment bags, and uniforms. I would also vaccuum the red floors (if I hadn't done so the night before). You have no idea, by the way, how much dirt gets tracked in on baseball spikes, especially after it rains and the dirt clumps under the cleats. I'd sweep up the bathroom floor. Every few days, I'd mop. I'd clean the filthiest of surfaces with my industrial chemicals, and as I breathed in the fumes, I'd think I'm really going to develop a neurological disorder from this.
I'd also stop by the umpire's room to return the umpires' uniforms (only two umps per game) and restock their towels. Every couple of days, I'd do a massive cleaning, vaccuuming, sweeping, mopping, cleaning surfaces. I found it's far easier to clean up after just two people than 32. The room itself was a comparatively dingy, little, J-shaped room, with a single strip of rug down the long hallway. There were two lockers down this hallway, and a door leading to the field. The bathroom and shower were on the short side. Basically, the room was an afterthought in the construction, and the team had used leftover everything to throw a usable space together in the last place in the ballpark where it would fit.
By the time I got back to our clubhouse, players would be filtering in. They'd need new bats and new socks (I was the keeper of both). They'd tell me their pants had a rip in them and ask me whether or not I could mail a package for them (it's 2:00 in the afternoon and you drove to the ballpark! Are you telling me you didn't have time to go by UPS this morning? What, were you working this morning? Oh, wait, you're a BALLPLAYER! Sorry, had to vent.) I'd bring them their mail and meet whatever needs I could.
I finished the laundry and I drove to Wegman's to buy food. If you are ever lucky enough to become a clubhouse manager, you will inevitably begin to notice just how many resources a baseball team consumes. Drinking Water. Gaterade. A meal before the game. A meal after. The water for the laundry. The water for the showers. The water for the field. The water for the whirlpool (filled and emptied every day). The water for scrubbing their shoes and shaving and a million other little things. And, of course, the electricity for the lights (both the indoor and the stadium light banks), the washer and dryer, the air conditioning. It's remarkable, really. I think the 'Cutters could have supported the entire country of Ghana for a month. Every day, I bought $40 worth of groceries from the store. Peanut butter, 3-4 loaves of bread, a watermelon (though, truly, they would have eaten 5 watermelons in 9 minutes if I'd had the money to do it), pineapple, plums, oranges, apples, chips, salsa, pretzels, jelly, mayo, turkey, ham, cheese, cookies (sometimes), carrots, broccoli, cauliflower, Ranch dip. And that's the stuff I provided. They also bought chicken tenders, chicken sandwiches, cheeseburgers, fries, gatorades, slushies, and sodas from the concession stand (these were delivered by our bat boys).
I'd get a break after they went out onto the field. I'd put out the pre-game spread and go watch them hit and field. Sometimes I'd read. Sometimes I'd talk to the staff. It was a nice time of day. It almost felt, for those 45 minutes that I had free, that they were playing ball for a private audience. I was almost alone in the stands and watching them hit singles, doubles, and homeruns; and watch the second baseman and shortstop turn double plays, their hands and feet moving so fluidly, so rapidly, so beautifully as they caught the ball, transferred the ball from one hand to the other, flipped it to their counterpart who would catch it, transfer it, and push off the bag in a single motion before firing a strike to first. When practice ended (every day at 5:15), I would return to the clubhouse to tend to more needs and begin doing laundry again (ballplayers like to shower before the game).
When they returned to the field at 6:40, I stayed behind. I continued to wash towels. I vaccuumed the red floors. I tidied up the bathroom sinks. I laid out towels in their lockers. I cleaned up the food from earlier. I set out the postgame gatorades. I took out the trash.
As ballplayers came in they'd give me updates until I had finished all my chores. Then, I'd go out and catch an hour or so of the game each night. Eventually, though, I'd have to return to the clubhouse to meet a delivery man who was bringing our post-game meal. I'd set out utensils and prepare individual plates for the coaches and for Princey. By then, I'd head back out to catch the last inning or two.
When the game ended between 9:15 and 10:30 (but usually 9:30-9:45), I began doing laundry immediately, putting in the first loads of uniforms and personals (underwear, t-shirts, socks, etc.). While the 'Cutters milled around and ate, there was little I could do in the clubhouse. So, I waited. Once it had cleared out, I vacuumed our side, continued doing laundry, returned uniforms and personals to their appropriate lockers, emptied our garbage, cleaned up the post-game food, wiped down the bathroom, mopped (sometimes), traveled to the visitors' and umpires' side to collect their laundry, squeegie their floors, empty their garbage, and (sometimes) vaccuum.
I'd generally leave between 12:30 and 1:30 AM, beginning my hour long drive back to my house. I'd listen to George Horry on Coast to Coast AM talk about ghosts, crystal skulls, psychic abilities, aliens, and "shadow people". If laughing didn't keep me awake, I twirled a dingy, batting practice baseball in my right hand, practicing grips and feeling the laces. It felt comfortable, but it also kept me from being hypnotized by the dark road and monotonous yellow stripes. I'd get home between 1:30 and 2:30 (except on nights before a road trip, when I'd spend the night in the clubhouse), sleep until 8:00 or 9:00, do some chores, then return again, leaving an hour before whatever time I felt I needed to arrive in order to finish the work that I couldn't do the night before.
These were long days and long nights, but there never was enough time to get everything done. Moving only as fast as the washers and dryers can work is difficult and frustrating at times. It's a great job though, especially because of the people that you can work with. I'll talk much more about them as time goes on.
The most important thing to realize, to be a successful "clubbie," is that you are not one of the players. In fact, no matter how close you get to some of them, you will never have the same status as one of their teammates. You may be their den mother, their confidante, their sounding board, their consultant, and even their friend. But you'll never be their teammate. You cannot sit in and play a game of cards with them, especially when there's work to do. You cannot comment on a negative play. You can mess with them a little, but never busting on them for their play or their skill level. They may see you as an equal, but you are not the same. From what I understand of how I did my job and the descriptions I've heard (and seen) from less successful clubbies, this is a line that must not be crossed if the team is going to continue to respect you. I never knew a professional wrestler could be so right, but as The Rock used to say, you have to "know your role" as a clubhouse manager.