Experience has its
limits when dealt
in 17-hour doses

After beating the Lincoln Saltdogs for the third time in as many days last week, we all quickly shifted gears and began to pack our bus for a trip we knew would be our toughest ride of the season.

With a scheduled 14-hour bus ride to Winnipeg, Canada, ahead of us, we weren't exactly looking forward to the thought of making a trip so far north that we'd be looking down on Minnesota.

But, if you want to be a minor league baseball player, long bus rides are a part of the deal, as they have been throughout the history of the game. In many ways, sitting on buses is part of the charm of the whole experience.

Fourteen hours of "experience," though, can be a little hard to swallow.

Luckily, the powers that be had us playing an early game that day, giving us some time to make the journey before our scheduled 7 p.m. game against the Winnipeg Goldeyes the next day.

Unlike in college sports, travel days just don't happen very often in the minor leagues. There is no day to get some sleep and regain your bearings the day after a trip, instead, we all have to find a way to fight through the fatigue, suck it up, and basically, be a professional.

Everybody has to do it.

At about 5:30 p.m., we were all packed and ready to go. Unfortunately for us, the entire city of Chicago decided to drive home from work at about the same time, allowing us to finish two movies before we even really got going.

With Gary, Ind., just outside of the Windy City, we always have to cut through Chicago to get to our northern opponents. And with over half a day of drive time already planned, we saw our 14 hours turn into 17 in a hurry.

Undaunted, we all just sat back and watched movie ... after movie ... after movie. So many movies, I can't recall a single title we viewed.

As usual, I had my trusty iBook laptop with me, as well as my iPod, a case full of DVDs, my noise-canceling headphones, a bag full of snacks, and my pillow and blanket. On this trip, I also packed a cooler bag my buddy Darryl Arata lent me for the summer with as many bottles of water, Gatorade and Pepsi as I could cram in there.

Our manager, Greg Tagert, didn't want to pay for too many meals in Canada, so he packed a full-sized cooler with all the turkey meat, iced tea, fruits, carrot sticks, and veggie dip he could find.

Andy Haines, our hitting coach who is saving up for his wedding in September, was determined not to spend a dime north of the border, so he brought enough peanut butter and jelly to last until the next millennium.

Some of our pitchers brought a large cardboard box on board. At first glance, I thought they were trying to smuggle a girl onto the bus. But they promptly flipped the box over, placed a towel on it and used it as a card table.

Alex Taylor read a Star Wars book, and left fielder Steve Haake, a Northwestern alum, brought a novel along as well. Veteran ringleader Anthony Iapoce brought a varied selection of magazines for the readers with shorter attention spans.

As usual, as the hours clicked away one by one, the bus grew quieter, with the guys falling asleep in various positions. A bunch of the guys opted for the floor so they could lay out as much as possible. Others slept with their legs running across the aisle onto the opposite seats.

Being about 5-foot-7, I never quite get as comfortable as I would on a bed, but I manage. I stuff my pillow against the armrest by the window, crawl under my blanket, rest my feet on the seat across from me, and squirm and reposition my feet about every 15 minutes so they don't fall asleep completely.

Watching some of our taller guys try to make do with the same amount of space would make even a contortionist squeamish.

Getting to the bathroom at the back of the bus was, as always, quite an adventure. Imagine getting up, half asleep at 3 a.m., and having to climb over and under 25 other people to get to a bathroom in which one would be advised to hold onto the handle on the wall and not touch anything else. With the bus rocking and swaying as it does, the whole purpose of the journey can resemble one of those sprinklers people use for their lawns.

Every 3 or 4 hours, the bus pulled over at a truck stop so that our driver could relieve himself appropriately, either in the bathroom or with a cigarette. The bus emptied at each stop, with 30 young men walking around like they were 70 years old; limping, creaking, moaning and groaning, as their bodies returned to normal size.

Our first stop was at a gas station in Wisconsin, which not only allowed motorists to refill their gas tanks, but also choose between a convenience store, or the Taco Bell and Subway shops.

Hour after hour, mile after mile, we drove. It seemed at times as though we'd never get there, but after about seven movies and close to a thousand miles, we finally pulled up to the Canadian border. After another hour or so, we were in Winnipeg.

Finally.

As much as I'd like to say the trip was worth the ride, well, it probably wasn't. We lost all three games and put ourselves in a bind with just six games left to go in the half. But we rebounded by taking two of three from the North Division champion Fargo-Moorehead Redhawks, so the second leg of the trip was worth it.

Looking back, I guess the trip wasn't unbearable. Another experience to put into the memory banks. Besides, our return trip home was quite a bit easier.

This time, we'd only wasted half a day driving. Twelve hours to Gary.

No problem.