Baseball in My Blood
Baseball was my first love, the sport that shaped my childhood and my identity. But decades later, life looks different, and now my story is about becoming a runner again—finding a way back to the athlete I once was.
Baseball came naturally. My grandpa had played in the minors for the Cardinals and Giants, my dad loved the game, and I wanted nothing else.
My dad and I would head to Cardinals games whenever we could scrape together the money. We’d grab $4 bleacher seats and park blocks away to save cash. As soon as that last out was recorded, we’d sprint to the car to beat traffic. I didn’t enjoy that running, but I loved everything else about baseball.
At home, baseball consumed me. My parents’ story-and-a-half colonial sat high on a corner double lot. To a kid, the foundation felt like a wall, the house like a fortress. The wood siding became my sparring partner. I’d hurl tennis balls at it until my arm ached, fielding grounders, chasing pop flies I launched off the second floor, diving headlong across the slope of the yard to see if I could still get my glove under the ball. My favorite challenge was throwing the ball at such an angle that I had to cover impossible ground just to try to catch it. That’s where I learned to track pop-ups, where I became fearless about diving, and where my competitive streak sharpened like steel.
I carried that edge into every practice. I was the kid sliding and diving in drills, hitting balls farther than anyone expected for my age, striking out hitters who never stood a chance. By seventh grade, I was the best player on just about every field I stepped on. Baseball was my identity.
Running as Punishment
But there was another side of sports I hated. Basketball. Not the game itself—I was good at it—but the running.
Grade-school practices were brutal. Endless Z’s across the court, laps until kids were throwing up in the corners. One practice, the coach told us to start running, walked out of the gym, drove to Hardee’s, came back with a bag of food, sat down, ate it in front of us, and then told us to keep running. Afterward, we went straight into Z’s. I was a talented basketball player, but by the end of eighth grade I knew I’d never play again. Not because I couldn’t, but because I refused to spend another season running myself sick.
To me, running was punishment. Something to be endured, not chosen. Years later, when I faced my first college baseball practice, I realized running could be different. I had never run more than a mile in my life, and the coach told us to run two. I braced for the misery I remembered from basketball—but this time, I wasn’t running just to run. I was running for baseball, for something I loved. The rest of the team had already been training for months, but it was my first practice — And I wasn’t last. That mattered to me.
Golf Creeps In
By middle school, golf entered my life. What started as curiosity became obsession. The summer after seventh grade, I’d leave home at six in the morning, walk to the course, and not come back until dinner.
At first, it didn’t replace baseball. But by high school, my golf swing began sneaking into my baseball mechanics. My coach didn’t know how good a hitter I’d been, so he kept me primarily on the mound. I became “okay” at the plate instead of dominant. Senior year, I fought my way back, hitting well enough in Legion ball to earn a full ride to play shortstop at a junior college in Ohio. I turned it down. To this day, I don’t know why. It is still one of my greatest regrets.
A month later, I accepted a golf scholarship. Looking back, I let outside voices push me into the wrong decision. If I could go back, I’d grab my younger self by the jersey and scream: Baseball. Don’t give it up.
Almost a College Ballplayer
I played golf freshman year, but the itch to return to baseball never left. That spring, I walked into the coach’s office, and he already knew my name. He brought me in as a pitcher.
I never saw game action, because the plan was to redshirt me—something nobody told me up front. But I practiced, lifted, ran, and worked alongside everyone else. For years, I avoided telling people I played college baseball because my name never showed up in a box score. But the truth is, I was good enough to be there and had a full ride offer elsewhere. And that counts.
When I transferred to SIUC, I thought about trying out as an infielder. I was ready to fight for it again. But because I had waived school insurance—my parents had great coverage—I wasn’t allowed to step on the field. Just like that, my baseball career ended.
I played a year of club ball, a season of men’s league years later, but for the most part, it was over. Meanwhile, the weight started creeping in. The “Freshman 15” turned into 30. Then came the “Sophomore 15,” and it did too. The body that once felt quick and athletic grew slower, heavier.
The First Real Run
The turning point came during an internship in Chicago. My girlfriend at the time—who I now realize treated me terribly—told me she wasn’t attracted to me anymore because I had gained weight. Those words crushed me, but they also lit a spark.
So I started running. Every morning, loops around the subdivision. Too much, too soon, and shin splints hit hard. I searched for answers, and eventually found a stretch—toe up on a curb, heel down, leaning forward—that worked like magic. I still use it before every run.
I started that summer at 266 pounds and finished it at 199. The first time I had ever intentionally lost weight. The girlfriend didn’t last (thankfully I ended it), but running stayed.
Becoming a Runner Again
In 2007, I came back to it again, this time with more purpose. I bought a pair of Nikes with the little chip you slipped into the sole to track your runs—cutting edge at the time.
I ran 5Ks, got my wife to join me, even roped her parents into running with us. We’d head out in the evenings, the four of us jogging through neighborhoods, and I was the pacer. Steady, unwavering, the one they trusted to hold the rhythm. For a while, I was a runner.
My wife and I trained for a half marathon, building up to 12 miles. We were ready. But all the races I’d ever run had been small—show up on race day, grab your bib, and go. I never received the email explaining that this race worked differently, that bibs had to be picked up at the expo days beforehand. The night before the race, I got another email saying bib pickup was closed. That’s when I realized the mistake.
I tried calling, emailing, anything—but it was too late. Months of training, gone in an instant. Within a week, I had stopped running.
Over the years, I signed up for more half marathons—St. Louis, Las Vegas, Oregon. I finished them, but mostly walking. The medals hang in my office today, not as symbols of accomplishment, but as reminders of the failure to become what I wanted to be.
Standing at the Bottom of the Mountain
And that brings me to now. Forty-four years old. Three hundred twenty pounds. There are days when standing up from the couch is harder than it should be, when climbing out of a low car feels like a workout, when sprinting seems like something I left behind decades ago.
It’s embarrassing. But it’s not the end.
I want to be an athlete again. My goals are simple to say, difficult to do: lose 100 pounds, run a half marathon. But it’s more than a number on the scale or a medal at the end of thirteen miles. I want running to be my hobby, my outlet, my way back to myself.
I love traveling. I love the hum of race day, the nervous energy at the starting line, the strangers cheering you on because for that morning, you’re all in it together. To combine those things—to run a half marathon in a new city every year—would be a dream.
Right now, it feels like standing at the bottom of a mountain. The climb ahead looks impossible. But I can already imagine the view from the top: lungs burning, legs aching, sweat running down my face, but knowing I made it. I can already picture that finish line coming into sight, the relief of crossing it, and the quiet pride of proving to myself that I didn’t quit this time.
I’ve never had much interest in running a full marathon. But if I can fight my way back to thirteen miles, maybe—just maybe—that thought will creep in.
Either way, I know what I’m chasing. The athlete I was. The runner I still can be.
Catch up on all my other post here.
