Minor League
Minor leagues. The term referred to the vast network of leagues that propped up America's massive baseball ecosystem.
In general, the American baseball world was divided into three tiers. At the top sat Major League Baseball, the most famous and highest-level league in the world. Beneath it were the minor leagues, the backbone of the majors, and finally the independent leagues.
Fundamentally, Major League Baseball, the minor leagues, and the independent leagues all followed the same structure. Take MLB as an example: five teams formed a division, three divisions made a league, and the two leagues combined formed MLB. The minor and independent leagues operated the same way. The only differences were the caliber of players and the flow of capital.
The key distinction between the minor leagues and independent leagues came down to affiliation with Major League clubs. MLB teams supplied promising players to their minor league affiliates. The affiliates took those players, ran them through a season of development, and sent them back up to the majors once they deemed them ready enough. That was the symbiotic partnership.
The minor leagues themselves were divided into seven levels: Rookie (R), Rookie Advanced (R+), Short-Season A, Single-A, Single-A Advanced, Double-A, and Triple-A.
The bottom three were essentially instructional leagues, short-season affairs where freshly drafted players or those needing a bit more seasoning spent time acclimating. True professional life kicked off at Single-A.
I only made it to Triple-A.
Roy Yoo muttered to himself from the back seat of the family car they'd used during their time in Oakland, now heading out from Oakland International Airport with his parents.
Before his regression, Roy had been a bullpen pitcher for the New Orleans Bluehammers, Miami's Triple-A affiliate. He'd bounced around various minor league stops before finally landing there after shining in Miami's Double-A squad and earning a promotion in just one year. He'd even posted solid numbers. But in the end, his right shoulder gave out too, and he was done as a player.
Recalling that chapter of his life, Roy gave a wry smile and shook his head.
Today was November 14th. The MLB season had wrapped, World Series champion crowned. Back in Korea, high schoolers were battling their college entrance exams, futures on the line. Meanwhile, Roy was bound for the Oakland A's home stadium, the O.co Coliseum.
The reason? A press conference.
Oakland had announced the signing of high school pitcher Roy Yoo for $1 million and promised a presser sometime in November. Today was the day.
Once news of Roy's Oakland move broke, American sports media—and Korean outlets too—went into a frenzy. Boston, the LA Robins, and San Francisco could only react with stunned disbelief at Oakland's coup in snagging Roy Yoo.
Boston's owner and GM were especially salty. Roy had turned down their $2 million offer to take $1 million elsewhere. What else could they do?
All the same, Roy's choice left many teams scratching their heads.
In Korea, Lee Young-gon had tracked Roy down personally, gotten the full story on the contract, and penned a column. He'd been hooked from start to finish. He was in Oakland now for the coverage.
Experts who'd heard the details mostly found it intriguing. But they also questioned whether the minor league disparities justified eating a $1 million pay cut for Oakland. Some straight-up called Roy's decision foolish.
Everyone dubbed it the "weird contract," but Roy couldn't care less.
"It's just a rookie signing. Do we really need a full press conference for this?" Roy wondered aloud, gazing out the window at the passing scenery. Jack, loosening his uncomfortable tie in his suit, replied flatly.
"It's not a big production or anything. Plus, the deal's so unusual, the press is all over it."
Roy nodded and turned back to the view. Moments later, the O.co Coliseum loomed in the distance.
Upon arrival, the driver asked Jack for an autograph, which he happily provided. Meanwhile, Roy and Kim Mi-hyun followed the stadium staff who'd come to greet them straight to the front office—and ultimately, the GM's office.
Michael, suited up behind his desk, spotted the trio entering and rose with a warm welcome.
"Come on in, Jack. Been waiting."
He extended a hand to Jack first. As Jack shook it, he noted, "You look busy."
"Yeah, damn. Winter meetings and stove league prep have us running ragged." Michael tsked, hands on hips, shaking his head—then turned to Roy for a handshake.
"Hey, Roy. Great to meet you. Hmm. Taller than I pictured. Grow during senior year?"
As he pumped Roy's hand, Roy nodded.
"Six centimeters."
"Nice. Pitchers love height."
"Anyway, I've been dying to meet you in person. Feels surreal now that it's happening."
He chatted briefly with Roy, then warmly greeted Kim Mi-hyun. Watching him steer the conversation so smoothly, Roy murmured to Jack.
"Guy's got a silver tongue."
"Best talker among GMs," Jack quipped with a grin.
Afterward, the family met Oakland's owner for some talk, then held the press conference. Reporters grilled Roy on his left arm, switch-pitching potential, why Oakland—everything under the sun. He answered earnestly throughout.
The event wrapped with photos after Q&A.
Then Roy had a private sit-down with Michael in the office.
"What do you think of Oakland Stadium?"
Roy grinned. "It's cool."
"Cool? It's the crappiest of all 30 ballparks."
Michael shrugged, half-joking, half-serious self-deprecation drawing a laugh from Roy.
"Reason for this one-on-one? Nothing major. Just your placement next season."
Obviously, Roy wasn't major-league ready yet. In MLB's long history, fewer than thirty players had skipped the minors entirely. Even legends all logged some minor-league time, long or short.
"We'll consult the minor league coaches, but looks like Double-A to start."
Roy sipped his water and replied, "Appreciate the consideration, but place me by merit."
"Hm."
Michael exhaled at Roy's words. Rookies usually begged for spots near the majors. Starting a newbie at Double-A was huge—and tough. Even top-round prospects struggled to stick there.
Roy knew damn well he'd get shelled and demoted fast if thrown into Double-A now.
More surprised than I expected.
Michael felt a twinge of unease. Roy had spoken like he knew his level cold.
"Where do you think you belong right now?"
"By my current skill..." Roy pondered, then chuckled. "R+? Short-Season A? That feels right."
Spot on.
Most rookies overestimated themselves, shocked by minor-league reality. Top picks adapted faster, but limits existed. Michael had never met a high schooler who self-assessed so precisely.
"You sure you're in high school?"
Michael chuckled dryly. He'd floated Double-A as a favor—Roy had picked Oakland despite the pay cut. But Roy turned it down flat.
Would've gotten demoted anyway.
Michael thought, then asked, "So, Short-Season A?"
"No. Single-A."
"That's easy enough, but didn't you just say R+ or Short A fits now?"
"Single-A's next year, right?"
"Ho? Meaning you'll grow into Single-A level by next season?"
"That how it sounds?"
Michael stared silently at Roy's shrug, then said, "Intriguing. Alright. I'll be watching."