Tucker Colton
You ever hear someone say “the job of a lifetime” and think, yeah, sure—but for real, this might be it. I talked to my guy Tucker Colton, who spent four years as a Phillies bat boy during college. What he saw, what he did, who he cleaned cleats and carried coffee for—it’s the kind of behind-the-scenes magic fans never get to see. From folding towels just right to handing Josh Beckett game-used balls from his no-hitter, Tucker was big league in every sense. And yeah, we even talked about “the ass.” You’ll see. This one’s a gem.
How many years were you a bat boy for the Phillies?
Four years—from 2013 to 2016.
What was the job really like? People think it's just handing bats to players.
I tell people it was the best college job ever. I'd go to class from 8 to noon, be at the park by noon, and stay until midnight. It was 12-hour days of hanging uniforms, scrubbing dirt from pants, steaming suits, making coffee, folding towels just right. All so the players could focus only on baseball.
You had to be “big league” in everything you did, right?
Every single detail mattered. We steamed suits for players on travel days so they looked fresh walking to the plane. Folded towels perfectly. Had backup helmets fitted and numbered. One prank from Cliff Lee involved him tossing gum where I’d sit—four pieces by the end of the game.
What do players say when they first make it to the big leagues?
A lot are blown away. In the minors, they do everything themselves. Up here, they’re like, “Wait, I get tickets for free? Someone handles my walk-up music?” We’d track player milestones, like 100 hits or 20 doubles, and make sure the ball was saved and framed. That stuff matters.
You were on the field for Josh Beckett’s no-hitter. What do you remember?
Everyone noticed after six innings—no one said it, but we knew. I kept a few game-used balls and gave them to Beckett afterward. I wanted him to have a piece of it. That’s what being “big league” is—thinking ahead so the moment lasts.
What’s the vibe like in a clubhouse after being no-hit?
Honestly, it feels like any other loss. You're not mad about being no-hit—you're mad you lost.
Any big-league players who took care of you?
Chase Utley. Quiet guy, led by example. Gave me a check before All-Star break, and again at season’s end. I used it for rent, meals, even bought the laptop I’m on right now. AJ Burnett, too—loud, charismatic, but respectful. Took me out to lunch, checked in about life. Treated me like a person, not a bat boy.
You mentioned how hard the job was. Did it teach you anything about life?
Everything. You're low man on the totem pole, but you learn to be dependable, to anticipate needs, to work as a team. I use that every day—at work, in relationships, everything.
Alright, real talk: what is “having the ass”?
It's when a player’s in a mood. One time I used a vet’s bat slot when he was injured. He tossed every bat out of the rack 15 minutes before first pitch. I cleaned it all up. You just take it. You're not there to talk back.
Got any cool on-field impact stories?
One time a batter got hit on the foot but the ump didn’t see it. I picked up the ball—it had a red mark. Showed it to the ump, he gave him first base. Angel Hernández was behind the plate that day—and he was the only umpire who ever tipped me. Gave me a bottle of wine every time.
What about language barriers in the clubhouse?
Most Latino players spoke a different kind of Spanish. I spoke enough to get by—“pega” for pine tar, stuff like that. Freddy Galvis would help translate. One pitcher, Roberto Hernández, didn’t speak any English, but his wife made Dominican food and we’d share meals. We connected without language.
Anything else that sums up what this job meant to you?
Everyone understood: if I showed up, worked hard, took care of them—they had my back. That meant the world.
NOTE: The above was edited for clarity and length.
You can read the full transcript here.