Dirk Hayhurst's Blog

When you go to your first career-level job interview after baseball, you’ll most likely get asked this question:

“What’s your passion.”

You could say baseball. You wouldn’t be lying.

But, look, unless this is a baseball related job, the interviewer will most likely wonder why you aren’t pursuing a job in baseball—if that’s your passion.

Why are you in this room, with them, right now, if you don’t have a passion for something related to the job you’re applying for? How do they know you’ll stick at the job? How do they know you won’t burn out?

Relax, you say, it’s not that big of a deal.

Maybe. Maybe not.

The world is full of people doing jobs they have no passion for because they need the security and gainful income provided by a job.

No shame in that. No judgment from me.

But you haven’t been one of those people for a long, long time.

Maybe in the off-seasons you did a couple of just-a-job gigs, but you knew they would always end. You knew they were just to support your real passion. Just a little side hustle to tide you over until it was passion season again.

But that won’t be the case this time, will it?

There is no passion season coming up.

So, do you really want to do this job you’re applying for if you don’t have a passion for it? Do you really want to commit to anything until you know what it is that actually matters to you? Do you want to stay for a few months and then bail on them, and jeopardize a recommendation from an employer—it’s not like you have a lot of them to pull from?

 

Not Just Another Job

I applaud you for bearing down and diving into the job search, but we need to be clear on something: You can find a job.

You found them before and you can find them again.

There are plenty of them out there and most of them are built to serve a short-range purpose. They aren’t great jobs and most employers don’t expect you to stay for long. But they’re jobs.

What you want is bigger than that. Bigger even than a career.

You want something that you can put down roots in and grow to the top of, like what you had.

Something wherein the return on the investment of time counts. Evolves into more. Evolves YOU into more. Translates into more. Wherein you build skills and those skills go with you when you go.

And hey, wouldn’t be nice if you could feel good about it while you did it?

If you could find work that will make you feel fulfilled?

Wouldn’t it be nice if you could find another pursuit that you were passionate about?

Because you can.

But you need to know what that is—that, job, career, or pursuit—before you start looking at employment listings. Don’t let the listing tell you what you’re interested in, know what you’re interested, in then find a listing to match.

Bottom line: Yes, you could do a lot of things. But what do you want to do?

Do you even know?

 

Why Passion Matters

If you ask me, passion matters.

It will for you.

It did for me.

It matters because you and I have tasted it in action. We lived it out. We’ve felt it driving us.

We were part of the lucky few able to live a passion and, brother, let me tell ya, there is nothing quite like it.

Basically, we were spoiled.

You might have been able to slide into a just a job-job and stick with it before you knew this passion-propulsion feeling, but, if you take on that kind of job now, you’ll burn out.

You’ll compare the new job to the old, and, as you do, you’ll become more fixated on what you don’t have than on what you do have—and you’ll burn out.

You’ll realize that, no matter how hard you push yourself, there are mechanisms in place that will not allow you to reap the direct benefits of your performance—and you’ll burn out.

You’ll get impatient, competitive, bored—and you’ll burn out.

You’ll realize that your co-workers are satisfied with their just a job arrangement, while you are not. The chasm this creates between the two of you will frustrate you and make you burn out.

Until you re-calibrate your expectations, there are lots of things that can burn you out.

Believe me when I say that the wrong job can be worse than no job at all.

 

Remember What Made you Passionate

You may have noticed that almost none of the things I listed as burn out inducers are about your qualifications to do the job.

They are about who you are and what you expect working life to be like.   

Now, I don’t want to argue about the semantics of the word “passion”. You can call it an inner drive or whatever other terms your generation feels palatable, but, there are pursuits out there that some of us— the brave and/or foolish of us— go after because we simply must in order to satisfy ourselves. It gives us direction, meaning, purpose.

Think about how much time and energy you put into your baseball journey.

Think about how shitty the pay was, how meaningless some of the leagues were, how long the travel, hours, nights, and days were.

Think about how many years you gave it and what it gave you in return.

Think about how much you loved it—even when you hated it.

Think about whether you’d do it again…

Everyone gets tired of work. Everyone feels drained after a long day. Everyone occasionally hates their job and envies someone else.

Passion is the difference.

It allows you to find joy, even when you are deep in the bullshit of a job, grinding it out.

Passion makes a big cost seem small, a long road seam short, a great sacrifice feel worth it.

Passion makes you feel like you have a purpose and, even if it’s just a feeling, I’d rather have it than not.

Given that you’ve spent your life to date connecting purpose to a job, you’re going to miss it badly if you don’t have it.

 

Planning Your Next Career Move

Okay. Okay. You’ve read all of the above and you’re still feeling a little down about your next move. A little confused. “But, Dirk,” you say, “Every job I look at looks like dog shit compared to pro baseball. If they are all dog shit I’m going to have to eat, why don’t I just pick the one with the best paycheck attached to it?”

Don’t tie on your bib and pinch your nose. Not just yet.

My point isn’t that you’ll never have another passion. It’s that you just don’t know what other passions you might have.

You may be feeling rushed to find one because you feel like you’re losing in the game of life. You may feel rushed to get a job because you need cash flow. You may feel rushed to get back to school and you’re already lining up a loan.

Stop.

No, seriously. Stop now.

You’re an athlete. If you made it to the pros, you are one of the best in the world. And athletes at your level have this little voice in their head that does not allow them to quit. If you didn’t, you’d have never made it.

You will keep going even if you don’t something because you’re accustomed to living in a world where adversity is a constant.

But what you do for the rest of your life should not be grind it out, bro, grind it out.

You, specifically, are in danger of making a dumb choice and not quitting it, even when it’s clear you should… you kinda have a track record of it.

Instead of hitching your wagon to something you think you’ll like and damning yourself to the above, ask yourself the following questions:

 

What do you value?

Is it money? Is it freedom? Is it the competition? Is it respect? Creative release? Comfortable routine? Freetime to be lazy, enjoy family, see your kids?

Are you looking at jobs that will provide this value?

Are you looking in the job field that will provide it?

 

What is the desired outcome for your next endeavor?

If you want money, as much as you can earn, that’s going to narrow the field, help you focus. If you want respect or power, then a title that grants you such things may be in order.

Is it relocation? Work-life integration? Maximum fun?

Do you want to feel like you’re competing, testing yourself?

Do you want freedom or creativity?

You can have more than one, you know. Indeed, you should.

 

How much do you need to make now?

Right now. In this moment. How much do you need to sustain yourself? Not how much do you want to make because the answer to that will always be more, but how much do you need.

Knowing what you need to make now, to live, to sustain a reasonable quality of life is detrimental. If you know this, you can find a just a job-job to get you through until you figure out your next career/passion move.

Teach baseball lessons. Work construction. Sales. Freelance.

A job is a stepping stone to a career. You may do many jobs in the course of your career. A career is not a job. It’s a pursuit. You should have a passion for a pursuit. When you identify your chosen end goal, think about the fuel that will propel you along this pursuit: think about your passion.

You may even find that the jobs you do while discovering your passion help you discover it.

 

What makes you feel like you’re living?

Don’t say baseball.

Because, if you’re honest, it was not baseball. It was something about it. After all, not every kid that plays baseball wants to become a pro, right?

Believe it or not, while baseball is a unique job, there are things you can extract from it if you break it down into its parts.

Maybe it was the journey to get to the top. The chance to refine a craft. Being around a team and the dynamics of that. Being on a stage. Working with your body, being physical. The training elements. Seasonal work with travel included. Integrating with other cultures. The nobility of a grind that requires discipline and commitment.  

There are other careers out there that offer these elements. Some may offer larger portions than others, but…

 

What can you replace with a hobby?  

Want to keep coaching? Maybe doing so as a volunteer or a high school assistant is the way to go.

Want to keep training? Maybe that’s an itch scratched with a CrossFit membership.

There are things you know you are good at, that you enjoy. Some of those things will fuel your career search. Others will be better served in a hobby form. In fact, a big mistake a lot of people—not just athletes—make is turning something that is/should be a hobby into a life change linchpin. When it breaks, they are discouraged and they no longer enjoy the hobby.

 

What are your strong suits?

You have more than you think.

Maybe you’re the guy that is just ridiculously good at working out, and weights and training have always just been easy for you.

Maybe you’re bilingual and have been the translator for multiple teammates.

Maybe you’ve always been your team’s peacemaker, problem solver, comforter and interpersonal relations are a gift.

Maybe you’re a natural tech guru.

These are things that are in your wheelhouse, and if you pursue a job in them, you’ll most likely find yourself thriving instead of coming home frustrated, AKA, avoiding burnout.

 

What compels you?

Tricky question. What do I mean by “compel”?

Well, when you were pursuing your passion, what was eating up your free time. What did you ravenously consume and become an expert on, and why?

DId you write, as I did? Maybe you started designing websites, or learning code. A natural interest that you felt compelled to learn, even though you didn’t know what you wanted to do with it, even when it was frustrating.

Whatever it was, you have a strong gravity to it.

Knowing these things are important because, as I said previously, you can experiment with them in a job format. You can test them. Volunteer in them in exchange for more information.

You may not get paid a lot, but you won’t be paying for them, like if you committed to a college course.

 

What do you hate?

Super important. Self-explanatory, and super important.

If you hate it, why do it? Why even go near it? There are things you can tolerate, work-through, endure. But things you hate… Come on, dude. This is your chance to shape a future so please don’t let this slip in from day one.

 

Mapping out Your Next Passion

Put some of this stuff down on paper and read it back to yourself.

What you’ll start to see is many things have a strong overlap. This should give you a better picture of what you value, what you are attracted to, and what you could see yourself investing blood and sweat— and counting it as joy— to pursue.

However, if you don’t. If you’re list is very fragmented, or just not very long, this is a screaming sign that you need to experiment.

Take on a few jobs you think could help you decide on a career. Volunteer. Shadow a friend or professional acquaintance.

Take your time. There really is no rush.

How can I say that? Because finding out why you are doing something is more important than doing something. Even if the art of finding out is just as simple as “I like myself better here.”

There is profound wisdom in that.

Heck, you may realize that your primary reason for doing any kind of work at all is because you just want to cover bills and maximize time with your kids—and maybe you only want to do that until they are in school full time, then do something else.

Perfect, and a great use of your time.

Do you want to miss all that time trying to get certified to become an entry-level thing you don’t even know if you want to do? Money gone. And, more importantly, time you’ll never get back.

 

A Word of Advice.

There are a lot people out there that got into their careers because they needed a job and, in time, it became their career. Life dictated that they work and so they do.

There is nobility in that. Nobility you don’t fully understand, so don’t act like you do. 

They didn’t grow up wanting to do it. They simply did it because they had to.

There is nothing wrong with what they do or how they got there. They’re making their way, just like you are making yours.

However, they will struggle to relate to you, and you to them.

I dare say, they may even be negative and discouraging to you, or worse: they may treat you like this aimless, depressed, drifting you’re doing is your comeuppance for all your time thrill chasing.

Happens to anyone that’s chased a dream. Haters gonna hate. 

Not everyone got to do what you’ve done, so not everyone will connect with your situation. When they don’t, understand why. Don’t get angry. Don’t reject them. Don’t build a wall. Don’t defeat them.

And don’t let them defeat you.

 

The post Hang Up Your Cleats, 4. Finding Your Next Passion appeared first on Dirk Hayhurst.

Right now, a lot is changing for you. That driving, all-consuming force that propelled you is gone. The sun is gone. The seasons don’t change. You have no sense of direction.

Where are you?

What are you?

Your first instinct will be a fear reaction. Flight. Run to safety. Run back to what you know: baseball.

Already started looking up semi-pro leagues? Out of country leagues? Retirement leagues?

Yeah, you could do it. Some of it. Maybe. If you’re still throwing hard. If you’ve got enough pop left in your old war club. If you’re a seasoned catcher, and, by seasoned I mean you’re a good game caller who can still contribute and not a wizened old wreck looking to sit the bench, catch a few bullpens and talk shop for a paycheck.

They’re not looking for Crash Davis.

If you can’t help you’ll be a waste of money. Their money. Of which they have a limited supply, not the endless sea of money like the MLB.

And those leagues play to win now. It’s like right now. Not after you’ve developed, or when you heat up. Now.

Produce or die.

Sadly, any league that would have offered you real money to play would have done so before this ended.

That leaves you with retirement leagues. Paid vacation, leagues. See-the-world, leagues.

Not all of those leagues will be run at a level you’re used to.

Let’s put it this way, I went to Italy for 1 week and played with a guy who said he lost his virginity to a cow.

Limited Time Offer

Why, exactly, do you want to run back to baseball’s embrace?

It used to be you played to get to the Bigs. You had a big, hairy, audacious goal driving you on, so big that, after years invested in it, it pulled you forward by its own gravity.

But that dream is over, and you’re free.

Why go back?

I know why.

Baseball is a system, one that you matter inside of. And now that system is gone and all the credit you’ve accumulated, all the years you’ve invested in it, are valueless.

If you don’t get back in, what will you do with it all? Freedom is great, but absolute freedom is scary as fuck.

So you decide that you need to become a coach.

Minor League Coaching

But let’s do the math on that.

There are 25 minor leaguers on every minor league club. There are 3 coaches per team. In total, there are about 21 full-service minor league coaches per organization. A few more, counting rovers. A few more still with extended spring training instructors.

Of those coaches, how many of them get big league jobs?

Not very many.

And this coaching pool includes old major league coaches and players, too, not just coffee cup callups like you.

The odds are slim that you’ll make a career out of coaching in the minors—if you can even start one. A career wherein you’re still trying to make it to the big leagues, but by influencing 25 proxies instead of your own talent.

College Coaching

Always wanted to do this. Can’t tell you how many pitching positions I’ve applied to…

But these positions are rare, and, let me tell ya, you have to give to get.

Years of minimal, seasonal pay— if you’re paid at all. Years of scouting and traveling and wooing players to pick your school over some other, bigger, better program.

Years of setting up and tearing down BP.

Years of keeping notes, running reports, and video work.

And maybe, just maybe, years of winning.

Because if you’re not winning, you won’t be a coach, at least not one that matters. And if you don’t get your masters while your winning, you certainly won’t be a head coach— which is where the real money is.

Did you even finish your undergrad yet?

High School Coaching

Don’t bother.

If you aren’t going to teach there, then you shouldn’t waste your time coaching there. Schools rarely hire coaches just to coach. At least not for a wage that matters.

Finish your degree, get your teacher’s licensure, then we can revisit this coaching thing as a reimbursable hobby— if you’re even interested when you’re done.

Scouting

Do you want to caravan around the country, looking at talent and putting down the same notes as everyone else? Do you want to visit backwater high school leagues sniffing out players like a pig sniffs for truffles?

You will be a nomad.

You will do this for the love of the game, and be compensated accordingly.

Pass.

Let it Go

I’m not saying you can’t do these things. I’m not saying you shouldn’t do these things.

I’m saying, there is a cost involved. And do you really want to be back in this situation again when you’re in your mid 30’s, no degree, and no real world experience?

Lots of guys pop out of the pros each year and think they’ll sidle on into a coaching or a scouting position. They think that there isn’t a long line of other people trying to snag the same job.

There are.

They think they’ve already paid their dues for these jobs because they played.

They haven’t.

You tell me you love the game, but do you love it enough to let it go?

The thing about all of these coaching positions is, there is not one of them you can’t do better if you’re a more complete, more educated, more experienced, more balanced individual.

But you’re not going to become that person unless you can let go of baseball.

Hell, you owe it to yourself to step outside of that world, even for a little while, just to see what else you’re made off.

I don’t want to confuse you: this isn’t about doing a baseball job better. This is about doing life better.

I’m talking about feeling better. Feeling confident about your future. Feeling confident about you. Feeling like you can do more—so much more.

It’s about self-discovery.

It’s about self-defense.

Sucker

Years back, in Padres minor league spring training. An older coach, so old he looked like he was completely made from the baggy, cracked skin of your grandmother’s elbow, was talking to the entire minor league pitching staff.

He was trying to coach on mental toughness by writing out all the reasons why pitchers fail before they take the mound on a whiteboard 25ft wide in our lunch room.

Every player had to say a reason. No reason was supposed to be wrong, as evidenced by all the stupid shit that was on the board, like “got caught cheating on your girlfriend,” or, “haven’t sobered up yet.”

I was in the back. One of the last to give a reason. “Overconfidence,” I said.

That old fucker stared me down like I just told the room I lost my virginity to a cow.

“How the hell can you be overconfident? This game is about confidence, son.” Sniggering washed over the crowd of peers.

“I mean, that’s pretty stupid.” He finished.

Mine was the only comment that did not make the board.

Today I can tell you several examples wherein overconfidence can fuck you before you reach the mound. Or an interview. Or a presentation. Or your next career move.

You think your curveball is better than it is, and it gets crushed. You think you know the client better than you do, and you get crushed. You think you can survive on instinct alone… crushed.

You think you don’t need to train or study or prepare.

You’d rather look strong and sure than look weak or anxious by over-preparing.

You think you know what you don’t know.

You think all you’ve done translated into what you will do.

You think there aren’t people out there relying on your overconfidence, waiting to crush you.

In It for the Thrill

I’ve got good and bad news.

Good news: You know more than baseball.

Bad news: You also know what it’s like to chase thrills and long-shot odds, gamble on dreams.

You know it too damn well, honestly.

Hell, you don’t feel like you’re alive unless you’re doing exactly that.

This makes you a sucker. Temptable. Allergic to facts that don’t fit your world view.

Think about your situation, here, now. You just completed a long odds success story, so, of course, you thinking about hopping into another one. It’s not running back to baseball but it is running back to what you know.

And, friend, there are people out there who know this about you.

They love this about you.

They will come for you.

Financial experts with unique investment opportunities.

Friends and family with business ideas and unique investment opportunities.

Pyramid schemes. Partnership schemes. Kick-back schemes. Unique. Investment. Opportunities.

You’ll be a big leaguer in the X-Y-Z business. Better than a big leaguer.

They’ll turn words, your baseball gospel, into a weapon. “You’ve beaten long odds and are an achiever, this will be easy for you! We just need an investment to get started and—”

You’ll lose everything.

Money. Friends. Family. Future.

You’ll find yourself in a legal battle. Maybe divorced. Maybe destitute. Maybe dead.

You don’t want this. Please, don’t do this.

Cast a Wide Net

If you make an investment, make it in yourself.

Upgrade your gray matter, because one day it may matter.

Finish your degree. If you’ve not started, start.

Volunteer at a company. Volunteer at a non-profit. Volunteer.

Offer to take way less money so you can learn. About them. About their business. About the skill. About you. About your business. About your skills. If it works out, stay. If not, ask them for a recommendation.

Then do it again.

Send out kind emails. Send out inquisitive emails. Respond to the kind and inquisitive emails.

Leave reviews on Linkedin. Ask for reviews on LinkedIn.

Remember things about other people and make them feel special. Follow up to make sure they know how special you think they are.

Workout. Journal. Study. Stay active. Network.

Increase your knowledge of self.

And in those moments when you feel afraid, when you doubt, when you have no sense of direction. Know that we all end up here from time to time—baseball player or not.

Keep casting your net wide. Keep throwing out every hook.

Something will bite.

And when it does, make sure you have a firm grip on the line.

The post Hang Up Your Cleats, 3. Run Back To Baseball appeared first on Dirk Hayhurst.

The day of the interview, you may feel a slight sting.

That’s just pride, fucking with you.

Fuck pride.

It only hurts. It never helps.

You interview through that shit.

Because a year from now, when you’re kicking yourself in a cubicle, you’re going to say to yourself, “Bud Selig was wrong, I should have taken steroids.”

 

Hard Skills

When you go into your first interview, you won’t even know how to talk about yourself.

Not in the professional sense. I mean, I recognize that you’re probably pretty good at talking about yourself at this point.

I know I was.

Think about it, how many years has the whole pro ball thing been your easy-entry, conversation trump card, and social dominance play? Who else was doing something so fascinating, so central to the fabric of Americana?

Sure, yeah, maybe one of them might be a little interesting or something. But were they rubbing shoulders with the folks on last night’s game? Did they go to spring training with superstars?

Did they have stats to look up?

A trading card?

No.

You, my friend, had a dream job. Rock Star, Astronaut, Professional Athlete — These are things people want to hear about. And you offered an inside look.

Then you get into that first job interview.

You think the same rules apply. You think that once the opportunity comes up, you can drop the pro-baseball thing and everyone will just clamor over having you work for them. They’ll give you a job. The best job. Whatever job you want.

“Wow. That’s amazing. What was that like? Did you play against Jeter? Did you pitch to Bonds? Did you do pilates with Mike Trout?

“Wow. Well, obviously you’re hired. In fact, just take my position—if you want it, of course— and I’ll report to you from now on.”

It doesn’t work that way.

That’s not to say there aren’t jobs where your background is a factor. But those jobs are rare, and your background is a decoration, an intangible, proof of character— it is very rarely a hard skill.

Too Much Baseball

Get this…

So, If you go into a panel interview and you want to know things are going poorly, they won’t tell you.

People are insidiously nice that way.  No one wants to tell you to your face that you’re a waste of their time.  But after you get rejected for, oh, say, a dozen or so jobs, you’ll catch on.

There is this moment when the conversation will just change.

The last question will be, “how much do you know about Critical Path Methodology?” and the next one will be, “What’s your favorite movie?”

That’s code.

That’s an interviewer’s way of letting everyone else on the panel know they’re over you and the group should work to wrap things up.

Oh, no. It doesn’t have to be a favorite movie.

Song. Sports team. Sport. Team. Stadium you played in. Memory from playing…

The stuff you used to really pride yourself on wowing with is now the line of conversation brought up to help ease the time before you’re rejected.

I know, It sucks—this big part of you, this thing you naturally want to talk about… it’s just not relevant to implementing rigid processes for industrial lighting projects as a project manager, now is it?

If you find yourself talking about baseball too much, it’s probably over.

And honestly, what the fuck are you thinking applying for this job anyway? You’ve got zero years of industrial light project management skills.

Did you think they wouldn’t notice that?

Picking Your Job Class

I see what happened here. You looked at a job at a company that you liked. That you knew. Kinda like how you applied to colleges. You saw it on television. You saw the logos on trucks. You went to their job openings page and chose a job like it was a class in an MMORPG.

You looked at the job and you thought, “I like robots. I like Iron Man. I could do a job as a robotics designer at Stark Enterprises.”

No. No, you couldn’t.

“If I can play in the Big Leagues, I can do this. I mean, do you know how hard it is to make it to the big leagues?

Yes. And, no. No, you couldn’t do this.

“They could train me. I’m an achiever. Look at all the things I’ve done in my lifetime! Look at my high level of excellence. I’m a team player. A team leader. Look at the high level of competition I’ve overcome. If they trained me, I could easily—”

No. No, you couldn’t And no, no they wouldn’t.

This interview is about can do not could do.

You can’t do. So what you could do with training is irrelevant.

This is a job. Not a trained internship. Not a college curriculum. Not a boot camp. You have nothing to offer these people besides your favorite movie.

And “all of the things you’ve done” in your life is really not something you need to boast because you’ve not done that much. If we’re being honest, you’ve basically done one thing.

Do you want to take a guess at what it is?

You need to learn what you’ve got, honestly, and what they want, honestly. Because you’re wasting your time applying for things you have no chance of getting. Precious time. You are, honestly, really behind in the professional development track.

Yes, you are.

Hey! This is real, man. Unemployment is real. This isn’t a joke. You’re not special anymore.

Don’t look at me like I just kicked your puppy. You’re not.

You’re just not.

I’m not saying you didn’t do something special, I’m just saying that shit has a venue and this ain’t it. Grinding to the top of baseball is not a wild card that can be played as a stand-in for any job experience requirement.

How did you even get this job interview in the first place?

Oh for fuck’s sake….

Liar for Hire

There is spinning. And there is lying. Don’t lie on your resume.

Knowing how to swear in Spanish does not make you “bi-lingual.”

Negotiating a bad roommate situation does not make you a “creative problem solver.”

The kids in your group at a pitching clinic are not “direct reports.”

And modding your teammate’s Nintendo Wii to emulate classic video gaming consoles is not “computer programming experience.”

Whaddaya mean, What gives me the right to tell you all this?

Okay. Well. For starters, because I did everything I just told you.

Even the lying part.

I mean, after getting rejected for positions that I knew I was overqualified for—nearly 100 times— you get a little desperate.

Think about it from my perspective: Best selling author, got my degree finished up while playing in the majors, retired and went directly into broadcasting. I even made an app for the iPhone.

I still got rejected for entry positions, associate positions, assistant coaching positions. Everything. I was too much this and not enough that. I was a risky proposition. Unproven. A guy like me, with my background of individual accomplishments, screams “will not conform.”

Can you believe that shit? Will not conform...

…Probably not.

Not forever.

But when I was just out. Fragile. Afraid. In shock. No Identity. Yeah, I’d take the bit and plow, man. I’d plow.

But no one was offering.

What I had done, ALL I had done, worked against me, not for me. And if that’s not humbling enough then try this:

Stare into the face of someone younger than you, who tells you that you’re not qualified to do a job that you know, in three months, you’ll most likely be out working that motherfucker interviewing you because that’s how you’re built?

And when he rejects you, I dare you not to let that voice inside, the one that pushed you to the apex of a sport, eat you up with egomania, whispering things into your soul like, “that bastard could spend the rest of his life trying to do what you’ve done and not come close, but you just need a few months to surpass him?”

Bring that attitude into an interview and you’ll never get hired. Never.

We’re our own worst enemy here. We really are… What made us love who we were can really make us hate who we are.

I’ll tell you what, dude. Baseball has taught me a lot about handling failure… but rejection like that. TIme after time after time after time.

Fuck.

It makes you question yourself.

It makes you question hard.

I’ve known players—like you—that couldn’t bounce back from this kind of thing. They couldn’t move on, couldn’t let go, couldn’t find help… couldn’t find a reason to keep trying. Keep going.

They felt weak for feeling weak, and then…

Well, let’s just say I don’t want to see that happen to you, Okay?

The post Hang Up Your Cleats, 2. Job Skills: Baseball appeared first on Dirk Hayhurst.

If you want to play at the Major League level, you’ll need to start specializing early.

We’ll be generous and say 10 years old is when you started.

At 10 you realized you could throw thunderbolts. Pills. Ched. Heat. Smoke. Fuzz. Gas.

You could throw hard.

Ridiculous when you think about it. It’s such a trivial thing to set the sails of your life to, but, there it is. You can throw hard. Hard for 10. Maybe hard for 20, but it’s going to take you 10 years to find out.

And you’re left handed.

Oh shit. Now you just have to play baseball, right?

Hard and left-handed? Your parents have probably already started looking up the odds of this miracle.

People who know your family are uttering “you should make him a pitcher” like witches at a seance, “he could pitch in the majors.”

“you should make him a pitcher. He could pitch in the majors.”
“you should make him a pitcher. He could pitch in the majors.”
“you should make him a pitcher. He could pitch in the majors.”
“you should make him a pitcher. He could pitch in the majors.”

This prophecy must be fulfilled!

Can you throw strikes?

Irrelevant.

You throw hard. You’re left-handed. You could pitch in the majors. Full speed ahead, captain! 

Throw Until Your Arm Falls Off

From here, you’ll need to play a lot of games. Because other kids will be playing a lot of games (Other kids that want to play at the top, that is). And because it’s as much a competition as it is an audition.

You get better from playing a lot. You get seen from playing a lot.

You get hurt from playing a lot, which is something else you’ll need to navigate.

Injuries to young kids are real, but, young lefty, If you don’t take every chance you can to showcase your stuff, you might get overlooked.

I mean, we’re doing this to get you to the big leagues, right? To fulfill the prophecy.

If we’re doing it for fun, then, well, go ahead and believe all that stuff about throwing limits and curveballs. Getting hurt is not fun.

But since this is for ascension, for glory, you can get around those rules and limits by joining multiple leagues at once, and ping-ponging around to find all the innings you can to pitch.

Your competition will be.

You Don’t Know What You Don’t Know

If you’re still afraid of getting hurt, or not being showcased, don’t worry. There are literally thousands of hucksters and has-beens that will gladly take your money to teach you how to stay healthy and get noticed.

They come in all sorts and sizes.

They run showcases and clinics.

They run scouting camps and all-star camps and boot camps.

They preach mechanics that are “groundbreaking”.

They preach mechanics that are as fundamental as neutrons and protons.

The preach.

They preach and you pay and you hope.

I’m not saying good coaches aren’t out there. I’m not saying all-star leagues aren’t scouted.

What I am saying is, how the fuck would you know?

You’ve never done this before. And let’s just assume your parents haven’t either.

Mine didn’t. Mine were poor. Blue collar, middle American, conservatives with a kid who could throw hard. But sadly, only from the right side.

And they still did everything they could. Everything. And doing everything you can takes a lot of money, a lot of gas, and a lot of time. A lot of time.

So much time.

But you’re willing to put that time in. You are and so are your parents.

And the opportunity cost of that time is missing out on summer events, and turning playing trips into tournament/vacations. You’ll need to quit the math team and poetry club and theater guild and that part-time job.

You’ll need to focus your time on one thing—one skill—and you develop it.

Meanwhile, you’ll develop a family brand around it. A circle of friends around it. A wall of trophies around it.

It, you, the baseball. They are one. A siamese twin stuck to you and you to it, and every day the bond gets stronger.

Majoring in Baseball

I, for one, am proud of all that you’ve been able to accomplish—you and your siamese twin. Some people might tell you you suck because you didn’t get drafted out of high school, but not me.

College is nice. A nice place to discover yourself. And the girls are hotter.

Besides, you just weren’t ready yet. Didn’t hit your growth spurt at the right time. Didn’t project to throw much harder at your current size. Your parents were just too average to really get a gauge on you. No one really knew you’d blossom.

But that’s okay, a college will help. It’ll put meat on your bones and thoughts in your head. The right program could all but guarantee you get drafted.

Just don’t do anything stupid.

Drugs? Drinking?

No, silly. That’s fine. If you’re talented enough that won’t matter.

Don’t do anything stupid like picking the wrong major.

You need something that will work around your practice schedule, travel schedule, and won’t load you down with so much homework you run the risk of getting yourself an academic suspension.

Let’s be clear: You’re here to play baseball. The degree thing is just a bonus, if you even get it.

So forget about labs and studios and practicum and rehearsals. Get a plain, vanilla, degree that won’t rock the boat.

Business is good.

Marketing is better.

Communications? Perfect.

I would have also accepted History, if you really want to piss this whole higher ed thing down the toilet.

Speaking of pissing—do not piss off your coach.

Yes, I know that he recruited you to be there, but he did that to a lot of young boys. He’s kind of a serial offender that way.

Just know that you need him to like you because, while I’m sure you have talent, so do a lot of the other kids he has the hots for.

Obey, behave, and hope that you get some playing time. Then maximize it.

Unless you have skills so potent that you’re going to push everyone out of your way— which you don’t because you weren’t drafted out of high school.

So keep your nose clean.

Make sure you always have a designated driver.

Make sure she’s sober and you have consent.

Make sure you know what’s in those supplements.

Make sure you go to class—or have a good lackey that takes notes for you.

It’s not that hard, so don’t fuck it up.

If you help your coaches, they will help you. They have jobs to protect, and if you’re borderline draftable but keeping your coach up at night, when the scouts come to ask for the truth about your makeup, he might just tell them.

It’s about projection, friend. You produce for your coach. You project for scouts. That’s how you get yourself a contract. Stay healthy, stay productive, and project.

Your First Contract

This is what you wanted, right? You wanted to spend the last 10 years of your life pushing your body to the limit and beyond, playing politics, auditioning, learning to evaluate your future through stats so you could make a few grand signing for a team in a late round?

Well, enjoy it. You’ve earned it.

And, just so you know, you have to do it.

You have to sign. You fucking have to.

If you stop and think about doing something else, even for a split second, you will literally be the biggest idiot ever—ask any of your friends that would trade places with you in a heartbeat. Ask all the seniors from your college team that wept minutes after the final out was made on their playing careers.

Ask your mom and dad who sweated blood over your performances for a decade straight.

Ask your siamese twin who wouldn’t know what to do without baseball.

Ask your girlfriend who only likes you because you’re a letterman.

Who walks away from this chance to be the thing that so many people covet? Not you. Hell no.

You need to commit to this now. If not for you, then for all the other people who have been on this journey with you.

I know. I know. It all felt so glorious a minute ago. Why did I have to go and piss all over it?

I dunno, kid. It’s just what I do. But enough about me. Let’s focus back to that contract.

If you made any money at all to sign. Any money. Buy the following three things first.

Shower shoes
Noise canceling headphones
A glass Pyrex bowl with a microwavable lid

Forget the SUV. Forget the Lexus. Forget the toys and devices. You don’t need them.

Open a Vanguard account, put your money in a low-cost ETF with a little left in cash, and forget you have it until this is all over. Because it’s going to end. I know you don’t want to think about that, but it will. Save your money.

Yes, yes, I KNOW: you’re going to make so much more, and soon. But, you know, just in case you don’t, save it.

That’s assuming you got any. Chances are you didn’t.

If you got a thousand bucks or less. Dude, blow it all!

It’s going to be a while before life is this good again so blow it all—right after you get those shoes, headphones, and the bowl (do not forget the lid).

Welcome to the Grind

Word of advice: No one cares about how good you were in college.

Well, your college will when they ask you for donations, but that’s about it.

You’re in the minors now. It doesn’t matter if you were a Tiger, a Husker, a Tide, a Yellow Jacket, a Tarheel, a Flash, A Golden Flash, a Dirtbag, a Bear, Beat or Battlestar Galactica.

It all resets here, so buckle up.

Years are going to pass. Hard years. And I’m not going to shit you, you’re going to start to hate baseball.

You may have loved it back when you were 10, but you will think of it very differently when you start to starve because of it. When you see your paychecks are less than a part-time fast-food worker.

When the sleep deprivation hits. And keeps hitting.

When you do well and get passed over for promotion because a higher rounder has too much invested in him to not get promoted first.

When the folks who cover the sport start to mention you as roster filling fodder.

When the same folks that encouraged you to start chasing start asking why you suck, “because I read your numbers online and they aren’t good.”

You will think of it differently when you see the reality of it: a mill of talent burned up in sacrifice to the game, all waiting to get their shot. All believing they will. All waiting to get a shot at a shot. Waiting to get healthy. Waiting to get in. Waiting to get seen. Waiting to get promoted.

Waiting for you to get released so they can pass you.

And while you wait, you will become institutionalized.

Not that you weren’t already. I mean, what do you think has been happening all this time?

You made a religious conversion 10 years ago and just didn’t know it. You changed your diet to please the Baseball Gods. You changed your friends, your hobbies, your major, your body and your interests.

You changed.

You’ve been changing. Growing inside a baseball-shaped jar. You’ve been trying to widen an opening so dogmatically that others have shut, many of them just as enriching, fulfilling, and easier to attain.

Pull back for one second and look now at all you’ve done. Consider the math of it all. The odds you beat. All the instances when it could have gone wrong, horribly or nominally. Just a titch wrong. A near miss. A near miss and you are not here. Not now.

And where is here, now?

How old are you now?

Do you really want to be here now?

You’ve been in the minors for years now.

What else can you do now?

You can hold on.

Because that’s all you know, now.

Hold on.

Because, because… hehehehe…. If another left-hander goes down, and the guy in front of you gets hit by a bus, and the big club trades that bullpen guy (because they’re having a shit year and he’s having a career year), then there is a chance you could have a September call up as a back filler. Assuming, of course, you keep pitching the way you are right now for another month against a favorable schedule.

Yes, the odds are astronomical, but your entire world is astronomical odds.

This is just a normal Tuesday night conspiracy theory for you.

The Call Up

And then, it happens. All of it. A meteor gets struck by a lightning bolt, twice, and you’re heading to the big leagues.

You go into the office of the skipper. He tells you you’re heading up. There has been an injury. A trade. A vacuum. A bus accident. You’re 26 and heading to the show.

You’ve done it. You’ve finally done it.

Done what?

It.

It. You’ve done it.

Not out talent-ed the competition, or outplayed them… you’ve outlasted them.

It’s as good as anything, so don’t waste it.

Now off you go. Off to The Show. Jets and hotels and big paychecks. Groupies and autographs. Off to the biggest most emotional, most validating moment of your life.

You have spent 16 years— if you started at 10 years old— and let’s be honest, most kids start way before this—and now it’s real.

There will never, ever be anything better than this because what else could you dedicate 16+ years to accomplish? 16 years that spanned from childhood to adulthood.

This was the singular guiding force of your existence. Where does it stop and you begin?

Can you even tell anymore?

It was the ultimate sacrifice, which makes it the ultimate achievement.

And in your second outing, your arm blows out, and your career is over.

Just. Over.

No consolation prize. No job to pivot into. No road back. No funeral. No closure.

You don’t throw hard anymore. You don’t fool anyone now.

It’s over.

Good luck, old lefty. You had a good run.

Clean out your locker, and take your dead identity with you.

Welcome to the End Game

What you’re feeling now is shock. Shock, with maybe a bit of post-traumatic stress for flavor.

I mean, when you think about it, you just witnessed a murder. 16 years of you, dead in one office meeting.

I know what you’re thinking: did this really just happen? I mean, just one second you were there, actually there, and the next you were nowhere.

Yes, it happened. I don’t give a shit what they say, listen to me. Listen. You won’t miss baseball because you love it. You’ll say you do, but you won’t.

You’ll miss it because you rewired your brain to depend on it.

I dunno. Maybe that’s what love is.

But ask yourself, how would you really know the difference? You ever even took the time to feel this way about anything else?

….

Hey, bartender, 2 more of whatever Lefty here is drinking.

Mmm… Remember back when all those other kids were doing other things besides just playing baseball?

Remember when you used to talk about how they didn’t want it as bad as you. Remember when they quit to do something else and you said that was a shame because they had real talent?

Well. Where is the shame now, huh?

…..Too soon? Sorry, dude.

When you retire from baseball it’s not the same as retiring from a job. People will talk to you like it is, but it’s not. I mean, you just got fired, but you’re saying retired… ever think about that?

It’s more like an amputation. A part of you— A big part— lopped off and put in a jar. Or a picture frame. Or a shadow box.

You pick.

There will be no other occupation like it. You’ll try and find one, but you won’t. And that’s going to be hard.

And you’re still going to feel baseball. Maybe for the rest of your life. That phantom pain gnawing away in your brain. That urge to migrate in the Spring. The feel of leather in your hand. The smell of sunscreen and fresh cut grass…

Fuck. I can feel it now. Just talking about it.

This is why I drink now, you know.

This is the cost of playing… one of the costs of playing. When it ends, it ends. No resuscitation. No prosthetic. There is no time stone to reverse the effect. It ends.

Someone once said to me that playing baseball is like being an entrepreneur.

Yeah, I know. It isn’t at all, but that’s what I mean. People will say things based on what they know. They’ll project on you. They’ll say things like, “you took a big risk. You knew the chances of it happening were slim. Why didn’t you have plan B?”

Exactly. Fuck them. It’s nothing like being an entrepreneur.

You could finish this drink and go be an entrepreneur. Sell doilies on eBay. Make a storefront on Amazon. Start a donut shop. Mow lawns. Consult about mowing lawns.

You can’t go play professional baseball. It’s over. It’s not coming back.

Not for any of us.

I get that you’re feeling lost. Alone. Hollow. Everything you’ve ever known, now a wrecked ship in an ocean with no stars. That’s par for the course. You’ve injected yourself with baseball for years. Consumed it, and only it, until your body can’t take in anything else.

You’re toxic now. It’ll take a while to get it out of your system. And it’s not going to come out without a fight.

You can keep telling me you weren’t ready for it to end, and I hear you, but, hey, no one ever is.

No one is ever ready for something like this to end. It’s the end of a life. The end of an era.

But it doesn’t have to be the end of you.

Did you save any money?

I know you have bills, but, didn’t you save that money, in that ETF, like I…. yeah, that’s right. You signed for nothing. Nevermind. And I know you didn’t put anything in your minor league 401k because you were never paid enough to save anything.

What about your Big League salary? Did you keep any of that?

I see.

So you’re house poor.

Well, Sell that car and pay that off. Get something economical. And maybe sell the house, too? I know, it’s hard, but you have to practical. The sooner you start understanding that “for the love of the game” doesn’t apply to you anymore and start realizing that “for the lack of any other employable job skills ” does, you’ll get through this.

Incidentally, have you ever written a resume before?

Google it.

You’ve got a lot of catching up to do.

The post Hang Up Your Cleats, 1. The Long Out appeared first on Dirk Hayhurst.

If you want to play at the Major League level, you’ll need to start specializing early.

We’ll be generous and say 10 years old is when you started.

At 10 you realized you could throw thunderbolts. Pills. Ched. Heat. Smoke. Fuzz. Gas.

You could throw hard.

Ridiculous when you think about it. It’s such a trivial thing to set the sails of your life to, but, there it is. You can throw hard. Hard for 10. Maybe hard for 20, but it’s going to take you 10 years to find out.

And you’re left handed.

Oh shit. Now you just have to play baseball, right?

Hard and left-handed? Your parents have probably already started looking up the odds of this miracle.

People who know your family are uttering “you should make him a pitcher” like witches at a seance, “he could pitch in the majors.”

“you should make him a pitcher. He could pitch in the majors.”
“you should make him a pitcher. He could pitch in the majors.”
“you should make him a pitcher. He could pitch in the majors.”
“you should make him a pitcher. He could pitch in the majors.”

This prophecy must be fulfilled!

Can you throw strikes?

Irrelevant.

You throw hard. You’re left-handed. You could pitch in the majors. Full speed ahead, captain! 

Throw Until Your Arm Falls Off

From here, you’ll need to play a lot of games. Because other kids will be playing a lot of games (Other kids that want to play at the top, that is). And because it’s as much a competition as it is an audition.

You get better from playing a lot. You get seen from playing a lot.

You get hurt from playing a lot, which is something else you’ll need to navigate.

Injuries to young kids are real, but, young lefty, If you don’t take every chance you can to showcase your stuff, you might get overlooked.

I mean, we’re doing this to get you to the big leagues, right? To fulfill the prophecy.

If we’re doing it for fun, then, well, go ahead and believe all that stuff about throwing limits and curveballs. Getting hurt is not fun.

But since this is for ascension, for glory, you can get around those rules and limits by joining multiple leagues at once, and ping-ponging around to find all the innings you can to pitch.

Your competition will be.

You Don’t Know What You Don’t Know

If you’re still afraid of getting hurt, or not being showcased, don’t worry. There are literally thousands of hucksters and has-beens that will gladly take your money to teach you how to stay healthy and get noticed.

They come in all sorts and sizes.

They run showcases and clinics.

They run scouting camps and all-star camps and boot camps.

They preach mechanics that are “groundbreaking”.

They preach mechanics that are as fundamental as neutrons and protons.

The preach.

They preach and you pay and you hope.

I’m not saying good coaches aren’t out there. I’m not saying all-star leagues aren’t scouted.

What I am saying is, how the fuck would you know?

You’ve never done this before. And let’s just assume your parents haven’t either.

Mine didn’t. Mine were poor. Blue collar, middle American, conservatives with a kid who could throw hard. But sadly, only from the right side.

And they still did everything they could. Everything. And doing everything you can takes a lot of money, a lot of gas, and a lot of time. A lot of time.

So much time.

But you’re willing to put that time in. You are and so are your parents.

And the opportunity cost of that time is missing out on summer events, and turning playing trips into tournament/vacations. You’ll need to quit the math team and poetry club and theater guild and that part-time job.

You’ll need to focus your time on one thing—one skill—and you develop it.

Meanwhile, you’ll develop a family brand around it. A circle of friends around it. A wall of trophies around it.

It, you, the baseball. They are one. A siamese twin stuck to you and you to it, and every day the bond gets stronger.

Majoring in Baseball

I, for one, am proud of all that you’ve been able to accomplish—you and your siamese twin. Some people might tell you you suck because you didn’t get drafted out of high school, but not me.

College is nice. A nice place to discover yourself. And the girls are hotter.

Besides, you just weren’t ready yet. Didn’t hit your growth spurt at the right time. Didn’t project to throw much harder at your current size. Your parents were just too average to really get a gauge on you. No one really knew you’d blossom.

But that’s okay, a college will help. It’ll put meat on your bones and thoughts in your head. The right program could all but guarantee you get drafted.

Just don’t do anything stupid.

Drugs? Drinking?

No, silly. That’s fine. If you’re talented enough that won’t matter.

Don’t do anything stupid like picking the wrong major.

You need something that will work around your practice schedule, travel schedule, and won’t load you down with so much homework you run the risk of getting yourself an academic suspension.

Let’s be clear: You’re here to play baseball. The degree thing is just a bonus, if you even get it.

So forget about labs and studios and practicum and rehearsals. Get a plain, vanilla, degree that won’t rock the boat.

Business is good.

Marketing is better.

Communications? Perfect.

I would have also accepted History, if you really want to piss this whole higher ed thing down the toilet.

Speaking of pissing—do not piss off your coach.

Yes, I know that he recruited you to be there, but he did that to a lot of young boys. He’s kind of a serial offender that way.

Just know that you need him to like you because, while I’m sure you have talent, so do a lot of the other kids he has the hots for.

Obey, behave, and hope that you get some playing time. Then maximize it.

Unless you have skills so potent that you’re going to push everyone out of your way— which you don’t because you weren’t drafted out of high school.

So keep your nose clean.

Make sure you always have a designated driver.

Make sure she’s sober and you have consent.

Make sure you know what’s in those supplements.

Make sure you go to class—or have a good lackey that takes notes for you.

It’s not that hard, so don’t fuck it up.

If you help your coaches, they will help you. They have jobs to protect, and if you’re borderline draftable but keeping your coach up at night, when the scouts come to ask for the truth about your makeup, he might just tell them.

It’s about projection, friend. You produce for your coach. You project for scouts. That’s how you get yourself a contract. Stay healthy, stay productive, and project.

Your First Contract

This is what you wanted, right? You wanted to spend the last 10 years of your life pushing your body to the limit and beyond, playing politics, auditioning, learning to evaluate your future through stats so you could make a few grand signing for a team in a late round?

Well, enjoy it. You’ve earned it.

And, just so you know, you have to do it.

You have to sign. You fucking have to.

If you stop and think about doing something else, even for a split second, you will literally be the biggest idiot ever—ask any of your friends that would trade places with you in a heartbeat. Ask all the seniors from your college team that wept minutes after the final out was made on their playing careers.

Ask your mom and dad who sweated blood over your performances for a decade straight.

Ask your siamese twin who wouldn’t know what to do without baseball.

Ask your girlfriend who only likes you because you’re a letterman.

Who walks away from this chance to be the thing that so many people covet? Not you. Hell no.

You need to commit to this now. If not for you, then for all the other people who have been on this journey with you.

I know. I know. It all felt so glorious a minute ago. Why did I have to go and piss all over it?

I dunno, kid. It’s just what I do. But enough about me. Let’s focus back to that contract.

If you made any money at all to sign. Any money. Buy the following three things first.

Shower shoes
Noise canceling headphones
A glass Pyrex bowl with a microwavable lid

Forget the SUV. Forget the Lexus. Forget the toys and devices. You don’t need them.

Open a Vanguard account, put your money in a low-cost ETF with a little left in cash, and forget you have it until this is all over. Because it’s going to end. I know you don’t want to think about that, but it will. Save your money.

Yes, yes, I KNOW: you’re going to make so much more, and soon. But, you know, just in case you don’t, save it.

That’s assuming you got any. Chances are you didn’t.

If you got a thousand bucks or less. Dude, blow it all!

It’s going to be a while before life is this good again so blow it all—right after you get those shoes, headphones, and the bowl (do not forget the lid).

Welcome to the Grind

Word of advice: No one cares about how good you were in college.

Well, your college will when they ask you for donations, but that’s about it.

You’re in the minors now. It doesn’t matter if you were a Tiger, a Husker, a Tide, a Yellow Jacket, a Tarheel, a Flash, A Golden Flash, a Dirtbag, a Bear, Beat or Battlestar Galactica.

It all resets here, so buckle up.

Years are going to pass. Hard years. And I’m not going to shit you, you’re going to start to hate baseball.

You may have loved it back when you were 10, but you will think of it very differently when you start to starve because of it. When you see your paychecks are less than a part-time fast-food worker.

When the sleep deprivation hits. And keeps hitting.

When you do well and get passed over for promotion because a higher rounder has too much invested in him to not get promoted first.

When the folks who cover the sport start to mention you as roster filling fodder.

When the same folks that encouraged you to start chasing start asking why you suck, “because I read your numbers online and they aren’t good.”

You will think of it differently when you see the reality of it: a mill of talent burned up in sacrifice to the game, all waiting to get their shot. All believing they will. All waiting to get a shot at a shot. Waiting to get healthy. Waiting to get in. Waiting to get seen. Waiting to get promoted.

Waiting for you to get released so they can pass you.

And while you wait, you will become institutionalized.

Not that you weren’t already. I mean, what do you think has been happening all this time?

You made a religious conversion 10 years ago and just didn’t know it. You changed your diet to please the Baseball Gods. You changed your friends, your hobbies, your major, your body and your interests.

You changed.

You’ve been changing. Growing inside a baseball-shaped jar. You’ve been trying to widen an opening so dogmatically that others have shut, many of them just as enriching, fulfilling, and easier to attain.

Pull back for one second and look now at all you’ve done. Consider the math of it all. The odds you beat. All the instances when it could have gone wrong, horribly or nominally. Just a titch wrong. A near miss. A near miss and you are not here. Not now.

And where is here, now?

How old are you now?

Do you really want to be here now?

You’ve been in the minors for years now.

What else can you do now?

You can hold on.

Because that’s all you know, now.

Hold on.

Because, because… hehehehe…. If another left-hander goes down, and the guy in front of you gets hit by a bus, and the big club trades that bullpen guy (because they’re having a shit year and he’s having a career year), then there is a chance you could have a September call up as a back filler. Assuming, of course, you keep pitching the way you are right now for another month against a favorable schedule.

Yes, the odds are astronomical, but your entire world is astronomical odds.

This is just a normal Tuesday night conspiracy theory for you.

The Call Up

And then, it happens. All of it. A meteor gets struck by a lightning bolt, twice, and you’re heading to the big leagues.

You go into the office of the skipper. He tells you you’re heading up. There has been an injury. A trade. A vacuum. A bus accident. You’re 26 and heading to the show.

You’ve done it. You’ve finally done it.

Done what?

It.

It. You’ve done it.

Not out talent-ed the competition, or outplayed them… you’ve outlasted them.

It’s as good as anything, so don’t waste it.

Now off you go. Off to The Show. Jets and hotels and big paychecks. Groupies and autographs. Off to the biggest most emotional, most validating moment of your life.

You have spent 16 years— if you started at 10 years old— and let’s be honest, most kids start way before this—and now it’s real.

There will never, ever be anything better than this because what else could you dedicate 16+ years to accomplish? 16 years that spanned from childhood to adulthood.

This was the singular guiding force of your existence. Where does it stop and you begin?

Can you even tell anymore?

It was the ultimate sacrifice, which makes it the ultimate achievement.

And in your second outing, your arm blows out, and your career is over.

Just. Over.

No consolation prize. No job to pivot into. No road back. No funeral. No closure.

You don’t throw hard anymore. You don’t fool anyone now.

It’s over.

Good luck, old lefty. You had a good run.

Clean out your locker, and take your dead identity with you.

Welcome to the End Game

What you’re feeling now is shock. Shock, with maybe a bit of post-traumatic stress for flavor.

I mean, when you think about it, you just witnessed a murder. 16 years of you, dead in one office meeting.

I know what you’re thinking: did this really just happen? I mean, just one second you were there, actually there, and the next you were nowhere.

Yes, it happened. I don’t give a shit what they say, listen to me. Listen. You won’t miss baseball because you love it. You’ll say you do, but you won’t.

You’ll miss it because you rewired your brain to depend on it.

I dunno. Maybe that’s what love is.

But ask yourself, how would you really know the difference? You ever even took the time to feel this way about anything else?

….

Hey, bartender, 2 more of whatever Lefty here is drinking.

Mmm… Remember back when all those other kids were doing other things besides just playing baseball?

Remember when you used to talk about how they didn’t want it as bad as you. Remember when they quit to do something else and you said that was a shame because they had real talent?

Well. Where is the shame now, huh?

…..Too soon? Sorry, dude.

When you retire from baseball it’s not the same as retiring from a job. People will talk to you like it is, but it’s not. I mean, you just got fired, but you’re saying retired… ever think about that?

It’s more like an amputation. A part of you— A big part— lopped off and put in a jar. Or a picture frame. Or a shadow box.

You pick.

There will be no other occupation like it. You’ll try and find one, but you won’t. And that’s going to be hard.

And you’re still going to feel baseball. Maybe for the rest of your life. That phantom pain gnawing away in your brain. That urge to migrate in the Spring. The feel of leather in your hand. The smell of sunscreen and fresh cut grass…

Fuck. I can feel it now. Just talking about it.

This is why I drink now, you know.

This is the cost of playing… one of the costs of playing. When it ends, it ends. No resuscitation. No prosthetic. There is no time stone to reverse the effect. It ends.

Someone once said to me that playing baseball is like being an entrepreneur.

Yeah, I know. It isn’t at all, but that’s what I mean. People will say things based on what they know. They’ll project on you. They’ll say things like, “you took a big risk. You knew the chances of it happening were slim. Why didn’t you have plan B?”

Exactly. Fuck them. It’s nothing like being an entrepreneur.

You could finish this drink and go be an entrepreneur. Sell doilies on eBay. Make a storefront on Amazon. Start a donut shop. Mow lawns. Consult about mowing lawns.

You can’t go play professional baseball. It’s over. It’s not coming back.

Not for any of us.

I get that you’re feeling lost. Alone. Hollow. Everything you’ve ever known, now a wrecked ship in an ocean with no stars. That’s par for the course. You’ve injected yourself with baseball for years. Consumed it, and only it, until your body can’t take in anything else.

You’re toxic now. It’ll take a while to get it out of your system. And it’s not going to come out without a fight.

You can keep telling me you weren’t ready for it to end, and I hear you, but, hey, no one ever is.

No one is ever ready for something like this to end. It’s the end of a life. The end of an era.

But it doesn’t have to be the end of you.

Did you save any money?

I know you have bills, but, didn’t you save that money, in that ETF, like I…. yeah, that’s right. You signed for nothing. Nevermind. And I know you didn’t put anything in your minor league 401k because you were never paid enough to save anything.

What about your Big League salary? Did you keep any of that?

I see.

So you’re house poor.

Well, Sell that car and pay that off. Get something economical. And maybe sell the house, too? I know, it’s hard, but you have to practical. The sooner you start understanding that “for the love of the game” doesn’t apply to you anymore and start realizing that “for the lack of any other employable job skills ” does, you’ll get through this.

Incidentally, have you ever written a resume before?

Google it.

You’ve got a lot of catching up to do.

The post Hang Up Your Cleats appeared first on Dirk Hayhurst.

No player, in all my time in baseball, has ever said to me that they play because they simply can’t wait to get fat off their sweet minor league paychecks, and coast.

When I started writing about the minor leagues so many years ago, I was often told—among other things—that I was a whiner.

When my work started going public, the blow-back was near instantaneous, from teammates and fans alike.

I had committed heresy. 

I was told I was “living the dream” of playing a kid’s game for a paycheck. How dare I complain about the treatment or compensation? Did I not realize how lucky I was? How dare I not revere evey single sweet, sweet second of it? 

The funny thing is, when I was playing, I didn’t complain about the money. It sucked. It still sucks. But I didn’t complain about it.

Who was I going to complain to? My coaches? The League? My teammates all making the same abysmal wages I was? The first and second round prospects, all making the same despite signing bonuses with oodles of zeros? The bottom of a brown bottle?

I worried about money. I needed money. I hoped to make more money. But I did not complain about it because there was simply no point.

The only way to change what I was making was to play better.

Indeed, that was the answer to most minor league bitching: “Don’t like it? Play better.”

Don’t like bus trips?

Don’t like peanut butter and jelly?

Don’t like peanut butter because we’re out of jelly?

Don’t like being poor?

Don’t like starving?

Don’t like dim lights and 10 person crowds?

Play better. It fixes everything.

…Except for systemic exploitation.

Contrary to what you might think, the blunt and brutal logic of “play better” became a badge of pride among players. Hell, we loved this kind of talk. I think we still do. 

The minors are grueling. Only a fraction of the minor league lifestyle is displayed on-field for public consumption. The rest is duct tape and chewing gum-style survival.

When I played, we were proud of our ability to survive. It made us men. It made us grinders. It made us real pros.

The more shit you could endure while playing, the sweeter the payday when you finally made it.

Never mind that 95% of us wouldn’t make it, and, of that 5%, most of us wouldn’t recoup the investment of time in any credible fashion outside a glory day tale. But, assuming we beat all those odds… then it would be awesome. Totally awesome. 

Some argue this fantasy, mansplained, macho-logic made us stupid. But what could we do besides make it an axiom of our life? It was immutable, unchangeable. You lived or died by it. 

Minor League Economics

The economics of the minors are just plain shitty. Even with a 50% increase in pay, they’re still shitty.

Talk of unionizing is a laugh. No one has the money, influence, or time to pull that off. And, even if you did, you’d be released before you gained any traction.

As a player, you have two options: complain about it, or suck it up, take it like the man you boast you are, and revel in mocking those whiners who can’t, even when the system holds you back from playing better.

It should come as no surprise that, If you can’t afford to eat well, you won’t eat well.

Sometimes in the minor leagues, you won’t eat at all. And this goes for when you’re in and out of season.

If you can’t afford a gym membership, you won’t train as well as those who can.

If you can’t afford a trainer, you won’t get one.

If you can’t afford a car, you won’t get to your throwing sessions. 

Someone who can afford those things will. Do they have an edge? You betcha. 

If you can’t support your family by playing, you’ll quit grinding and wash out of the league. No one will feel sorry for you because, as much as this sucks, as dangerous of a pit as it is for all minor leaguers, you just thinned the herd.

See you, space cowboy.

Economics plays a role in culture, and in the minors, survival of the fittest is more like survival of the ones that can afford to get fit. Debt of the others who want to keep up.

I often hear criticism that, if minor leaguers are given more money, they’ll be less incentivized to play hard, or they’ll waste what they are given because they’re stupid with their money.

In essence, I’m told—by fans and players—that better wages are worse for the game.

I suppose this argument would be remotely true if the underlying assumption was true—that players only play hard because of the fear of starvation or destitution. They play hard to avoid it and they play hard to escape it.

Without it, how do you know they are really playing hard? Therefore, you can’t alleviate it. 

Stop Exploiting Minor League Players

Take it from a player who’s made a living out of talking about the minors: Players play hard because they have been romanticizing the concept of life at the top of a game they’ve watched since they were little children.

They play because they enjoy the game. They play because they believe that “real world jobs” are the worst thing that could ever happen to you.

They play for reasons you and I will never know, and a few you and I do know.

They play because they have a shot at a lottery ticket payout. They play to see their name in lights. They play because this is what they’ve spent the bulk of their life doing and they don’t know what else to do if they stop.

Money—specifically their current salary in the minors—is not the central reason. At best it’s one part of a portfolio of reasons. 

No player, in all my time in baseball, has ever said to me that they play because they simply can’t wait to get fat off their sweet minor league paychecks and coast.

And when I tell you this, your response should not be, “well, then let’s just pay them nothing since they obviously don’t care about money,” which is pretty much what that piece of shit “Save America’s Pastime Act” was. I mean, the audacity to even title it that? The linear and myopic thinking. It boggles the mind. 

Now, before you go economist on me and bring up inflation, price elasticity, and reduced margins, let’s just remember that we’re talking about wages that are way below minimum wage. Not a little. Not a few bucks below. WAY BELOW. ludicrously below. For half a year. 

Most of the players who endure those wages did not and will not get a signing bonus. About 98% of them will not get paid, in a full season, what an entry level marketing employee will get after their first three months cleaning up spreadsheets.

This, despite the fact that our rookie marketer has the same degree as tens of thousands of other colleges kids while the player drafted has beaten the odds of a lightning strike to get where he is. 

A lot of folks just don’t want to hear this. They don’t because we’re talking about young “kids” here, playing a kid’s game for a little money, and a big chance at something great—something most folks never get in their 9-5’s, working under the boot of a corporate overlord.

Hey, I hear you. The 9-5 can really blow if you’re in the wrong job, and most people are. Hell, whaddya think I’ve been doing now that I’m retired. Every job that’s not big league baseball feels wrong. Every. Job. 

However, though this is not currently my dream come true, it is funding other dreams: Family. Security. Love. Groceries. Utilities. Baby formula. A peaceful home without crushing debt. These were all things that I didn’t have, not dependable, and often not at the same time, while I was in the minors. 

You may hate your job, but that’s not the player’s fault. I didn’t inflict that on you when I was riding the pine in the bush leagues. 

And you can tell me baseball is not exploitative in the minors. You can tell me it’s my choice to be there. If you do, point to that other market wherein people with top-level baseball skills get paid full wages for their craft.

You can tell minor leaguers they knew what they were getting into. If you do, please tell those stupid kids that want to be big leaguers starting at age 10 that they’re, statistically speaking, setting themselves up for massive disappointment and ridicule.

Please God, tell them early because just getting a shot at the pros requires a ridiculous investment of time in ’round the year leagues, training, and private coaches. 

Or just show them that air-tight math on how minimum wages for minor leaguers would irrevocably break the game. I’m sure that will convince them… 

When you have a monopoly and you argue that improving living wages despite a balanced market equivalent is folly, you’re not arguing because you’re worried about maintaining quality. You’re arguing because you can. Because you have to so as not to look like a complete asshole for reaping the benefits of a system that’s broken in your favor. 

One Last Thing

When guys in the minors washout and the dream ends, they’re behind. Way behind. Financially, educationally, and in skill development. Even emotionally.

I’ve been to too many job interviews to count where I, the best selling author with an MBA, broadcasting expertise, and 2 years in the show, can’t get an entry-level position because I have no experience and too many years doing things that are too “self-starter.”

That matters, folks. When players leave the game—and far more go the hard way than via big league farewell season tour—they’re qualified to do virtually nothing. They have saved nothing. They have nothing. There is little to no support. And let me tell you, Holy shit there is a big difference between entering the workforce in your late 20s/early 30s with no experience versus straight out of college.

And, you know what, when you’re not playing anymore, you can’t play better to fix it. I know some guys who couldn’t get past this fact. Or rather, I should say, I knew some guys who couldn’t get past this past. I still mourn their passing… 

The ethical thing to do—and this is just my humble opinion—is pay these young men for their services as if they’re on par with the folks making your fucking coffee.

Give them a chance to improve their quality of life. And when I say life, I mean whole life; now and what comes after. 

Until you do, MLB, I don’t want to hear one word about how much you care about empowering the next generation of baseball dreamers. Make an investment in the ones that are dreaming now.

Help them, and I promise they will help you. 

The post Stop Exploiting Minor League Players appeared first on Dirk Hayhurst.

**Unedited Proof**

“I need some ice.” I said, tapping myself in the arm and leaving The Panther to search for it. When I arrived at the locker room, an athletic assistant serving the team as part of a college sports internship said that we could get it for me. What he got me was a plastic bag of ice and air, sealed with a knot. It was like trying to ice my arm with a bagged goldfish won at the county fair.

“Do you have wraps? I asked, motioning as if to lash the bag on my arm.

The trainer took the bag and popped a hole in it and shoved it up my jersey sleeve. Then he stepped back, hands wide, smiling as if he’d fixed it. I frowned and pulled it back out from my shirt sleeve and placed it on my back, on my scapula, where I needed it. Then I laid down on one of the old training tables and waited for the ice treatment to run its course.  

Players mixed in and out of the lockers as their respective hitting groups rotated. This is common in any country, with any league. However, in Italy, the players just finishing up the harrowing experience of taking batting practice came in to have a smoke. In fact, during the course of the practice, several players and coaches came into to burn one.

One of the smokers was a pitcher, older than me with a firm enough understanding of English to start a conversation between sucking on his menthol.

“[Luigi Vampa].” He said, clamping his cigarette in his lips and reaching out his hand.

“Dirk Hayhurst.” I said, reaching out mine.

“You play big leagues?” Asked Luigi.

“Yes.”

“I play in minors. Years a go. For XXXXXXX.”

“Oh, yeah? Great. How long?”

“Mmmmm…”—toke, toke, exhale—“No long. I was no very good.” He laughed at himself. I chuckled at his chuckling. “Also, I miss Italy.” He said. “I have family. You have family?”

“I have—”

Another player walked into the locker room. He was one of the younger players on the Italian player age spectrum. He considered the fact that Luigi and I had only now just met and had so many exciting things to learn about one another. Elated by the prospect of sharing old stories with new ears, he interrupted and declared, “Ohhh! You know what he do?”

I looked back and forth between the pair, smiling stupidly in my confusion. Luigi’s eyes rolled back and he took a loooong drag off his cigarette, saying nothing.

“No…” I said at length, “What he do?”

“He fuck a… a… err… No sheep… no goat….uh… uh… “ The young, excitable player shook his head as if the word he was searching for were buried under so much mental trash that it just needed to be swept aside. Still he could not find it, so he snapped his fingers and stomped his feet and asked, “How you saw mooooo? Moooooo?”

“Oh, a cow!” I shouted.

“Si! Si, si, si, si, si, si, si. HE.”—both arms fully extended and shaking vigorously at Luigi—“FUCK A COW. He-fuck-a-cow.” Smile, head nod,  one more time for good measure, “He fuck a cow. Si.”

It took me a moment to process what I’d just heard. Obviously, this youngster was referring to sleeping with a fat woman, which, for the record, was nothing new to the baseball community. It was sexist and chauvinist, and real. Sadly real. Whether you call them “Slump Busters,” “Heavy Machinery”, “Big Love,” or Cows, baseball players sleep with them because of that reason.

According to baseball lore, when a fat woman is applied to a baseball player’s sexual organs, they are known to cure all manner of baseball-related ailments, including but not limited to; batting slumps, stretches of bad pitching luck, the dreaded Yips, and lack of a timely promotion. It’s hard to quantify the direct scientific connection a fat woman has to the health and success of baseball players (though I’m not really sure if science has tried), but there is enough of a correlation that the slogan “big girls need love, too” is held as a fundamental truth among ballplayers.

Still, it was rather amazing that the perceived curative properties of the obese female baseball fan transcended cultures. Who would have thought that fat girls would my Italian locker room Rosetta Stone?

“Atta boy!” I sad, clapping Luigi on the back. “How big was she?”

Luigi took a drag from his cigarette and held it pensively. He looked me over, unsure of my meaning, then glanced to the excited youngster who was also unsure of my meaning.

“No, no” said Luigi, “no big girl. Cow.”

“Si. COW.” Repeated the youngster.

“I fuck a cow.” Said Luigi, smoke swirling lazily around his head.  

Apparently my thinking about certain similarities in the culture being transmitted through the medium of baseball where a little off. I’d seen and heard tell of a lot of crazy and wild shit in my playing days, but I had never played with a cow fucker.

“How? No,—” I stopped and shook my head and waved my hands frantically as if that question were a cloud of second-hand smoke I could make disappear “—for God sakes, why?”

“When I was a young boy my brothers tell me I need to break my bushel. You know this expression?”

“Yeah,” I said, my eyes closed tightly now, while I kneading the madness building behind my forehead with the butt of my hand, “I think I get your meaning.”

“So, I go out to barn, I go to cow, and I”—he made a series of pelvic thrusts punctuated with little puffs from his cigarette. The Italian youngster giggled impishly at this. “I break my bushel.” Luigi shrugged.

“Jeessssuussss…” I said.

“Wha… it was was not big cow.” Said Luigi. “Small cow. Calf. Si: calf.”

“Ooohhhh….” I said, nodding along intensely. “It was only a calf. Now I get it.” Luigi and his depraved young Italian friend nodded at me as if all was now understood.

My mind immediately went back to the conversation Luigi and I were having before we got sidetracked onto cow sex. The one where we were about to talk about family. I envisioned Luigi and his cow wife, waiting for him back at home, with a bushel of little half cow half human centaur-like hybrids.

[Kempner] walked into the locker room while I contemplated. “Hey Kemp, this guy fucked a cow.” I said, flipping a thump at Luigi.

“Oh, yeah? How big was she?” Said Kemp, punching Luigi in the shoulder as he walked by.

The post Half Man. Half Cow. All Baseball. appeared first on Dirk Hayhurst.

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