D1P4

After 120 miles or so, the bus stopped at a small Iowa town restaurant. “We take farming seriously,” the sign said, and the farming décor scattered all around backed that statement up.

I stepped inside the restaurant for a while, but after seeing that the restaurant was willing to charge 13 dollars for a burger, I ambled outside to see what else the town offered. Not much, it turned out. The Starbucks briefly tempted me, but I ended up getting a free hotdog from a man promoting a racecar.

He was a mustachioed man with bare shoulders, and he tended a gas grill, a table, and a racecar in front of a Citi Bank. He was promoting a driver that the bank was sponsoring in a race the next weekend. He was offering free hotdogs. I took one.

A mother came by with two kids, one boy and one girl; the girl was attracted to the free food, and the boy was attracted to the racecar.

“This, this is where it’s at, sis!” He said.

“Do you want me to start the car up so you can hear it run?” The racecar man said.

“We’re actually going to the pool,” the mother said.

“Maybe you can bring some pool to me,” the racecar man said.

After another walk and a visit to the nearby farming museum, I had had my fill of Iowa. We all loaded up on the bus and moved onto Kansas City.

D1P3

The bus continues its barreling run down the freeway. Outside, Iowa looks like Iowa. Inside, Game 1 of the 1987 World Series is playing. Scattered conversations ripple up and down the aisles.

“He was that guy who gave up the home run to Gibson? What’s his name? He was a starter for a long time.”

“Eckersly?”

“Oh, yeah, Eckersly. That’s the one.”

It’s about 70% baseball talk. The rest is simply getting to know everyone.

My seatmate tells me he was a public affairs officer in the Army reserve during the Vietnam era. It’s odd how small and recursive the world seems sometimes.

Bob sits one seat ahead of me, in the front left seat, by the door and driver.

“How’d you get into this business?” I ask.

“It’s something that’s always been a dream for me. My friends and I decided we wanted to go on a trip to see the stadiums,” Bob said. “You know how friends can be with commitments and stuff.”

Bob said that he actually ended up taking matters into his own hands; since he had experience chartering youth baseball buses with the local bus company, he decided to just rent a bus and fill it with paying customers. He found 49 willing participants.

“I had to advertise in the weirdest places,” Bob said.

Seven years later, Bob does multiple trips a year. He’s done trips to 28 major and minor league stadiums. He's shepherded his charges through delays and broken bones.

He must really like baseball.

D1P2

I was still recovering from the effects of my 3 a.m. wakeup when we pulled up to our rest stop past the Iowa border. After a stop in Bloomington to pick up additional passengers, our bus was now full with tired riders.
Bob tries to schedule a rest stop every two or three hours. This particular stop was to a Burger King and a convenience store. I found a nearby bench and began brushing my teeth. It was a habit of mine.
“What do you think so far?” Bob said.
“I’m running on about two hours of sleep.”
“Same here,” Bob said. “I’m about running on empty.”
“That’s a song,” I said.
“A pretty good one too,” Bob said. “Jackson Browne.”

Day 1 Post 1: On the Road

It's 4 a.m. on a clear, starless night in Redwood Falls, Minn., and I'm sitting in the parking lot of a low-rent inn, waiting. Could this be the wrong spot, I wondered? Perhaps I'm supposed to be in somewhere else. Where are the others? I scan the parking lot and wonder if I should check my email again. And then two guys get out of their cars with a luggage in tow and a baseball cap tucked tight.

Yep, I'm in the right place.

I and 17 others had signed up for one of Bob's Baseball Tours, one of those gigs where you hop on a bus and check out seven baseball games in nine days. This particular tour would take us down south - first to Kansas City, then to Texas, further onto New Orleans, and then back through Chicago.

Bob Kaupang, my old history teacher, had offered me a spot on his tour in exchange for a story. I readily accepted, because there's nothing more American than baseball and the open road in the summertime. And so for the coming nine days, I'll be blogging my thoughts and observations on the road.

Right now, it's 4:30 on a Minnesota highway. The bus is loaded, the luggage is stowed, and the journey begins.