This spring, for $12, I attended my first High-A Asheville Tourists baseball game, the minor league affiliate of the Houston Astros based in North Carolina. Within a few minutes, I had been given a baseball by an opposing team’s player, eaten a hot dog or two and thrown a mightily impressive 63-mile-an-hour fastball into the fan’s speed pitch booth. Despite a rain delay and only being able to catch a few innings, I left hooked on Minor League Baseball.
The opposite is the case for Major League Baseball. The first game I attended, my dad –– on a high school teacher’s salary –– spent over $500 on tickets for him, my siblings and me to sit in the nosebleeds of Fenway Park. Before going, I confidently declared that I disliked America’s pastime. Not being able to see the ball, nevermind the strike zone, did not help the major league’s case. Sydney Sweeney threw the first pitch and the Red Sox went on to lose the game in historic fashion 28-5. After the game, riding the T home, I imagined every Bostonian was going to throw all of their Red Sox paraphernalia in the Boston Harbor.
Fast forward to this summer, and despite having written off baseball fandom after my Red Sox experience, I grew obsessed with the Tourists and Minor League Baseball in general. I found my favorite players. I still despise the Bowling Green Hot Rods for being the best team in the South Atlantic League. My 21-year-old brother looked forward to the dollar beers that Thirsty Thursdays had to offer, a Tourists invention — not to mention the home plate umpire with height-boosted soles and the opposing teams’ catchers, who were clearly unaccustomed to such heckling from minor league fans like my brother in the first inning.
Obnoxious fun aside, something about the minor leagues has soul. Being a fan was affordable. Scalpers weren’t trying to rip us off. With tickets deep in the stands, we snuck behind home plate nearly every game — even though the difference between the best seats in the house and the worst was just $9. I cheered when Chase Call, my favorite Tourist player, got promoted to Double-A. My friend spent hours making an edit for Kyle Walker anticipating his return from injury. I also felt guilty when a player was released with their dreams cut short. Just days before, I had looked over at my brother, sighing about their poor performance.
Even the players and coaches themselves would interact with us. I remember Cal Stark, a Hub City Spartanburger, gave my brother a thumbs up after being hit by a pitch, signifying he was OK and we could continue to chirp him. The manager of the Hot Rods shrugged in ambivalence when we called him out for bunting too much, asking him to stop ruining the game we loved. One time my friends and I even took the blame for a Nathan Flewelling home run and a then Hot Rod lead when minutes prior, he endured our taunts for an entire inning as the catcher. He hit a first-pitch home run 426 feet into the overlooking mountains, and as a self-punishment, we reserved our shouts for 15 minutes.
The minor leagues feel accessible. Living on less than one grand a week, minor leaguers have their livelihoods at stake. This is visible during their games: Outfielders, unlike their major league counterparts, have yet to lose their middle-class enthusiasm for chasing down fly balls. It was awesome seeing an All-Star pitcher and opening day starter for the Chicago White Sox on rehab assignment give up three runs in the first inning to a lineup anchored by Alejandro Nuñez, who signed to the Astros organization for a comparatively measly $10,000; Brandon Nigh, who weeks prior was playing Indy ball; and John Garcia, a 19th-round draft pick fighting to keep his dreams alive after five years in the minors.
Nearing the dog days of summer, I attended my last Tourists game. Kyle Walker, a player for the Ts, sincerely thanked us and shared that he and the entire clubhouse appreciated our support for the team.
Minutes later, I walked to the gas station down the hill from the stadium to see an opposing team’s player buy a drink before hustling into the team bus for the ride home. He still had his eyeblack on, but the year of wearing sunglasses left him with a noticeable tan line under his eyes. And contrary to what his large Cuban chains might have suggested, his demeanor of exhaustion from working all summer (with only one day off a week) demonstrated a relatability for the people of rural western North Carolina.
At Fenway, I couldn’t have felt less connected to the game. The jumbotron disproportionately shows fans closest to the diamond. No player was going to launch a baseball into the nosebleeds of the stadium for me. Moreover, watching a game on television is just as inaccessible as going to the game for the majority of middle-class viewers across the country. Who has all of Disney+, MLB.TV, ESPN, Netflix, Peacock and Apple TV+, all of which are now necessary to watch all 162 games? America’s pastime no longer feels like it belongs to everyone. The MLB has become a club where initiation has one condition: money.
The problem with Major League Baseball is that the middle class can no longer see themselves within the game. The game that previous generations of middle-class Americans grew so fond of has lost its soul. In all of its glory of dollar beers, one-off mascots and really short umpires, Minor League Baseball has stepped up to the plate to take Major League Baseball’s place as America’s pastime.
Spencer Thompson PO ’29 quit his job in sales this summer to run a fan account for the Asheville Tourists. Go follow @iheartashevilletourists on Instagram.
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