Bush League

Holly Hill, Orangeburg, Columbia, Clinton--the exits along 1-26 in South Carolina loom in the muggy night like guideposts to ghost towns as the 1958 General Motors coach grinds west. Its odometer creaks past 620,000 miles. The Spartanburg Phillies of the Western Carolinas League--25 eager minor league baseball players--are heading home after losing a night game to the Charleston Pirates. They have not eaten since they left Spartanburg nearly twelve hours ago for the outbound leg of the 420-mile, one-day road trip. Pitcher Jerry Houston and Infielder Raul Nieves are asleep, crammed into the overhead luggage racks. Centerfielder Lonnie Smith has his radio pressed against the window, searching through the static for rock music. Up front, Manager Lee Elia stares at the embers of a cigarette as he flicks it to the floor. It will be 2 a.m. before the day ends. Fourteen hours, more than seven of them on the road, for a 1-hr. 58-min. baseball game.

Proud Anachronism. The trip in a way is a journey backward through time. Minor league ball is a sporting way of life that most of America has left behind --doomed by the onset of jet travel, domed stadiums and exorbitant salaries. How much longer it lasts depends on the major league franchises, which still use farm teams to ripen talent. Victims of TV broadcasts from major league cities, which give fans painless access to top-quality play, the minors have lost too many fans to pay their way; most clubs are now supported in red ink by big-league teams. Last year the Philadelphia Phillies alone poured $2 million into their farm system--including Spartanburg. Even so, the bush leagues continue to die off. From a peak of 59 leagues, 448 teams, and 42 million spectators in 1949, the minors withered to 18 circuits, 145 teams and 11 million fans last summer.

In Spartanburg and other survival towns, the minors are a dusty, dilapidated but proud anachronism. Here a kid fresh out of high school can still dream of making the big leagues, and a fan can see the color of a player's eyes from a $1.25 seat. At decaying College Park in Charleston, the mosquitoes outnumber the fans, the floodlights leave the centerfielder groping in the dark, and a park employee has to run out into rightfield every half-inning to update the Scoreboard. In Greenwood, Dave Fendrick, the young general manager of the Braves, has to collect tickets at the front gate, the dugouts are too small to shelter all the players, and in Spartanburg, Charlie ("Doc") Royals wears four hats as the Phillies' bus driver, clubhouse manager, laundry man and trainer.

No matter. The 400 or so fans who rattle around in the 3,000-to 4,000-seat ballparks are not looking for fancy entertainment. "I just love to watch 'em play," says Marvin Butler, 67. As the Braves take on the Phillies at Legion Stadium in Greenwood, he is looking on from the back-row seat he has occupied for 20 years. His father, Dave Butler, 89, sits next to him. Both prefer the live game to the TV set at home in nearby Ninety Six, where they could watch the Atlanta Braves. "I'd rather be out here where I can see what's going on," says Dave. At Duncan Park in Spartanburg, B.C. Pate, 70, yells at the umpire when he is not working on his chaw of Red Man tobacco. "I come up here to holler," he says. "I just love to get on them umps."

The brand of play is not bad, despite the Class A status of the league --one notch above rookie teams but far below Double A or Triple A ball. Dressed in hand-me-down uniforms from Philadelphia (with the major leaguers' names removed from the back), the Phillies play a crisp, aggressive game that by last week had given them a commanding seven-game league lead.

For the players, who make $500-$600 a month plus a skimpy $6.50 per diem on road trips for a grueling schedule of 146 games in 140 days, what really matters is the chance of making it to Veterans Stadium in Philadelphia. "I can see myself standing at home plate," says Spartanburg Catcher P.J. Carey. "The Star-Spangled Banner is playing, and it's the seventh game of the World Series. That's what it's all about."

Rightfielder Rich Meily, for one, will only get to "the Vet" as a fan: he was released by Spartanburg earlier this month. One day he was strutting up to bat, blond curls flowing below his cap --"Cool Breeze" Meily at the plate. The next morning he was standing stunned under an oak as Manager Elia told him Philadelphia no longer needed his services.

Real Pleasure. The Philadelphia roster is full of players who fared better than Meily in the farm system: Sluggers Dick Allen, Greg Luzinski and Mike Schmidt, Shortstop Larry Bowa, Catcher Bob Boone. Centerfielder Lonnie Smith, 19, could be another. Signed for an estimated $75,000 bonus as Philadelphia's first draft pick in January, Smith, a welder's son from Compton, Calif., is hitting a hefty .315. "Maybe some day I'll be a superstar," he laughs. "Right now, I'm just trying to hit those hard sliders and big breaking curves."

For knowledgeable fans, the real pleasure is watching the 19-and 20-year-old players grow. "The greatest thing," says oldtime Greenwood Braves Broadcaster Larry Gar, "is seeing a kid who has been fooled on 100 breaking pitches hit the 101st out of the park."

This file is automatically generated by a robot program, so viewer discretion is required.