I still get goosebumps every time I lace them up, no matter how different my coaching turfs feel from the crisp metal spikes I donned just a short time ago.

It's been a little under a year since I made "The Transition" as its often colloquially called from player to coach. I'd love to tell you it's been easy, but I'd be lying to you if I did. I've cried actual tears that I can't step on that pedestal in the middle of the field and just compete. I've started and stopped writing this no exaggeration about 50 times. Each time slowed by not the memories of failures, but rather the inevitability I will no longer get experience the joyous moments I shared with my parents and so many awesome teammates.

For a short time after I was released from professional baseball, I bitterly wanted absolutely nothing to do with the game. I was thoroughly frustrated. I had given this game every ounce of my time, sprit and soul for the greater part of the last two decades. And what had I gotten in return? Nothing....So I thought.

As I spent time away, I began to understand just how large of an influence a child's game had on my very perception of the world. Everything from what I believe it takes to succeed, to what it takes to maintain long lasting relationships (Shout out to all my catchers out there!), has in one way or another, originated from my experiences gripping those 108 red stitches.

The brutal nature of Americas Pastime allows it to teach more lessons than most of its sport counterparts. Perhaps the greatest of these is the futility of the moment. This became the most apparent as I advanced in this game. While climbing each rung in the ladder, I met competition I hadn't before, equally as talented and, most importantly, equally as willing to work their butt off to get to the next rung. It was in these moments, competing against some of the best players in the world, I realized the overall importance of embracing this fact of life.

In any given moment, there stands a chance you can give your absolute all (in terms of effort, sacrifice, and preparation), yet still find yourself on the wrong side of a desired favorable outcome. This burden is especially heavy on us pitchers due to the amount of influence we exert on so many of these outcomes in a game. I've sweated through brutal weeks of training, religiously completed repetition after repetition of drill work, devoted countless hours of time studying my craft and my opponents.

Yet still, contrary to much of the narrative surrounding success in sports, I've lost A LOT of games for my teams over the years. Sometimes, I just plain stunk it up. Other times, I did everything in my power, executed a nearly perfect pitch, only to watch the ruckus dogpile as a weakly hit line drive lands just mere inches out of the reach of a hustling shortstop scoring the winning run.

It was in those moments of raw emotion and pain, I learned some of the most valuable life skills I continue to use on a daily basis. The first of which being, no matter how good you are at something, you will fail at it, in some cases repeatedly. It's just as inevitable as death or taxes. As an old coach used to phrase it, there are no undefeated champions in life. You're going to get knocked down. You're going to feel discouraged. However, a little scar tissue is always a good thing, because it gives you the comfort of knowing it won't be as bad if you get hit there again.

Allowing myself to feel the pain of my failures lessened the burden I carried out with me each time I found myself in a tight spot again. Every time I failed, I grew a little stronger than I was before. I went from being scared to fail at every turn, to content to come up short if I knew I had put forth my best possible effort. This change in approach undoubtedly resulted in tangible positive improvements in my performance. It's a sentiment I try to get across to all parents of youth players I have the pleasure of coming across.

Recently, the team I now coach was going through a bit of a slump. Needing answers and beginning to fall back into the trap of doubting my own abilities (this time as a coach), I reached out to my first and longest tenured coach, my father. I explained to him our streak of losing in hopes that he might have a prescription for reconciling our woeful record to start the season. He proceeded to stop me mid-explanation with a very simple question: "What do their eyes tell you?". I paused for moment and began trying to figure out where he was going with this seemingly odd tangent. My father, sensing me slipping into frantic contemplation, stopped me again "No you're getting the idea all wrong, what message do you receive when you look into their eyes with your heart?". This time I answered his question with no hesitation "I don't want to mess up".

Grinning, he began to glance at the mantle where all of my career achievements and accolades currently reside, off handedly remarking that he "perhaps knew someone that struggled with a bout or two of that".

He drew my attention back to one of the sentimental moments of my baseball career. In only my third game playing for my dad, I had what might be, to this day, one of my worst performances I can remember. I made error after error, and spent the better part of that afternoon providing a cool breeze to fans from all the swings and misses I had accumulated. It was mortifying, my dad was the coach - what if they didn't believe he was a good coach because of my poor play? Or, even worse, what if they thought I was only getting to play because my dad was the coach?

After my third strikeout that day, my eyes began to welt up as I made the unceremonious walk of shame back to the dugout. My dad, already notorious for rooting out tearful ballplayers, sprinted in from the coaches' box and put his hand on top of my glove as I was picking it up. "You won't be needing that anymore today". My tears grew in number as I thought it was because of my performance, he stuck his hand under my chin and pointed it upward uttering the same speech I now share with the players I coach: "This game is a privilege son, it's for fun and love of the game. If you ever get to the point where your putting so much pressure on yourself that you're moved to tears. You don't deserve to play this game...tears are reserved for special hardships, deaths of loved ones, breakups, rejection, playing your last game ever, not a single game of baseball, this is all fun all the time no matter what the outcome".

While attempting to hold back the ironic thankful tears I had begun to precipitate in the present day, he provided me the answer I came home searching for. "You know what they need?...Your support!" he uttered with strong resolve. Inwardly, I thought of all the times I had been frustrated at a mistake one of my players had made, and quite frankly, I was ashamed with myself. "Tell them you support them, no matter how many times they strikeout or make errors, then sit back and watch the difference it makes in achieving the desired outcome".

Sure enough, like so many others navigating the early stages of adulthood have said, my parents were right. Following my father's advice, I fully embraced being a builder of self- confidence rather than a demolition crew of negativity. As predicted, this manifested itself into a winning streak for my players. But, even more importantly, it opened me up to finally being able to enjoy the game I love once again. Without resentment of making it far, but never getting to put on that big league uniform. Without sadness over all the times I may have let my teammates or coaches down with my performance. Instead, I look at this game with the same sentiment my dad benched me for not displaying as a child, appreciation. Appreciation for all the opportunities to overcome hardship and failure this game provided me with. Appreciation for the teammates, coaches, and supporting staff who shaped me into becoming the man I am today. Appreciation for the lessons I will continue to positively receive from this game till the day I die.

For the parent or ex-player out there, grab your ball cap and go to a field near you. Watch the joy in those young faces, and reminisce about all the ways in which lessons from this game have helped you author your own story. Like a fine painting, up close and personal this game only appears to be exactly that, a game. It is only when you take a step back and renew your perspective, you truly unlock the ability to understand all the beauty which it encompasses.