Padecky: Anthony Bender relishing minor league experience

This Anthony Bender fella must be a pretty good baseball player.

Bender is a Milkman.

He could be a Canary, but that would mean he’s from Sioux Falls. He could be a Goldeye, but that means he’s from Winnipeg. He might have been a Dog from Chicago. But he’s not a bird, a fish or a hot dog. Bender’s never delivered milk except from a glass to his mouth, but yet he is still a Milkman from Milwaukee. He doesn’t mind if people goof on those team nicknames. Why would he?

Bender, the Casa Grande and SRJC kid from Petaluma, is getting paid to play baseball. Not every guy can say that. In fact, about 90% of minor league baseball players can’t say that. When the minor league season was canceled in April, 160 minor league stadiums were shut down suddenly and approximately a thousand players became jobless as a result of the COVID-19 virus.

Bender, a pitcher, came home and worked out at a gym in Santa Rosa. A minor leaguer in the Milwaukee Brewers’ farm system, Bender, 25, had a brief call-up to the Brewers’ Class AA team in Sioux City last year. This was going to be his breakout year, but the virus had sobered him as it has so many others.

“You never know where it’s sitting,” Bender said.

With millions of Americans out of work, Bender knew better to complain. Fact still: all professional athletes have a small window to jump through. The clock ticks away their youth, their chance, their future. Every pro baseball player at every level eventually will become an ex-pro baseball player, usually sooner than later. So they push hard against the clock.

“You’re so close,” said the 25-year old. “You’re right there.”

Like a thousand of his brethren, Bender winced when he read the announcement that Major League Baseball would be cutting 42 minor league teams in 2021. In MLB’s infinite wisdom to continually make the game less appealing, it wasn’t enough for them to reduce the game to home run, walk or strikeout. Let’s cut part of the supply line to Everyday America, where the game thrives and remains a vital part for people who can’t afford the expense of driving, parking and buying a game ticket to an MLB game.

It was in this environment that Bender worked out, one of a thousand guys wondering what was going to happen next. So when the Brewers called and asked if Bender would like to join an unaffiliated independent league team under their watchful eye, he remained patient. He didn’t interrupt them in mid-question. He waited to say yes.

“The stadium where we play in Franklin is six miles from Miller Park (where the Brewers play),” he said.

It’s a 60-game season and Bender, a reliever, has made one appearance five games into the season. One inning. Three runs. Not exactly a running start. Pay no mind to that, said Paul Maytorena.

“Anthony has a chip on his shoulder after the (Kansas City) Royals released him (after the 2018 season),” said Bender’s coach at Casa Grande.

Hell hath no fury as a 20th-round pick scorned (2016 draft). Something to prove: It’s the marching orders so many athletes use. Into this attitude, mix the health protocols: temperature testing, game preparation, behavior. There’s no handshaking, spitting seeds, gum or saliva. No slapping of hands, or patting on shoulders or butts. Can’t throw a wristband or a baseball into the stands. No autographs permitted.

Of all the major sports, baseball is dramatically the most social. Crammed into a dugout with drinking fountains, phones to the bullpen, buckets of seeds at the ready along with gum, players gather to high-five a player who hit a home run, made a fielding play or pitched a strong inning and railings to catch fielders leaping for a foul pop-up, the sport has not just encouraged contact ― it demands it. They gather pre- and postgame is the clubhouse, a sign of true fraternity.

To all that add this:

“The nose swab felt like they were tickling my eyeballs,” Bender said.

If a player tests positive, the player doesn’t return to the home of his host family. The Brewers have arranged for a special quarantine hotel for the player to be sequestered for 10-12 days. It doesn’t take a NASA mathematician to figure out if four or five players on the same team test positive, the independent-league experience will be a distant memory.

Does Bender dwell on the dark side? It’s his option of course, but he sees the glass as half-full rather than half-empty. He sees his baseball life as a rich experience, from the competitive fires stoked by Damon Neidlinger at SRJC, to being reminded to have fun at a game by Joey Gomes, to being encouraged by Maytorena. He has played for teams in Illinois, North Carolina, Iowa, Mississippi, Wisconsin and Kentucky.

“If I was to ever drive across the country,” Bender said, “and need a place to stay, I could always find someone I knew.”

Bender has been on the classic minor league bus rides, one that lasted 13 hours. He is making $1,400 a month, pre-tax. He is playing for the Milkmen but he easily could be playing for the Barn Owls, Burrows, Cheesers, Cow Tippers, Crop Dusters, War Pigs, Farmhands or Haymakers. These were all nicknames under consideration.

Bender already has been a Blue Rock (whatever that is) and an Explorer, Rattler, Mudcat and Shocker.

He is playing at a stadium near “The Wheel and Sprocket,” which is right across the street for “Mister Car Wash.”

Imagine if Bender missed all that because he had on blinders. If he only saw baseball. If everything else was in small print.

“I’m definitely lucky,” said Bender, a statement not everyone in America can make right now.

To comment write to bobpadecky@gmail.com.