After leaving the meat broker company, I landed a job at Comcast — not in a flashy role, but in billing. I only lasted a couple of months in that position before a VP saw something in me and offered me a new challenge: to run a project.
I didn’t hesitate. Just like every challenge I’ve faced in life, I dove in headfirst. I didn’t know what project management was at the time, but I learned fast. I studied, asked questions, absorbed everything I could, and ultimately earned my PMP certification. It felt like stepping into a new version of myself — a version built on communication, structure, and ownership.
I loved the work. There was something deeply satisfying about seeing the impact of my efforts — the results were tangible. Like in baseball, I was once again part of a team, guiding others toward a shared goal. Communication was the heartbeat of my role, and it mirrored my time on the mound or in the dugout — always aware, always engaged with those around me.
But there was one major difference: in corporate life, no one was telling me how I was doing. There was no scoreboard. No batting average. No ERA. And that lack of feedback played into a deep insecurity I hadn’t experienced before. I was a confident athlete, but in the workplace, I became an insecure high achiever — constantly wondering, “Am I doing a good job?” I’d spiral in my own head if I didn’t get explicit feedback.
Still, I stuck with it. I learned to be hyper-detailed, to prepare for questions before they were even asked, and to own the room when I spoke. The pressure was different, but familiar in its own way. It was a new kind of performance.
Around this time, my life outside of work became centered on one thing: my family. I grew even closer to my parents. I visited them every day. I called them constantly — sometimes 15 times a day. If I was driving, I was on the phone with my mom. If she didn’t answer, she’d pick up with a loving, sarcastic “Yes, Jeff — what do you want?”
It was natural to be that connected. Their happiness became my happiness. I know people say that your joy shouldn’t depend on someone else’s, but mine did. I couldn’t help it. They were my world, and I wanted to make theirs as joyful as possible.
During this time, I also started a long-term relationship. It began with friendship — she had moved in while going through a divorce — but it slowly evolved into something more. We were together for 13 years. She was loving, caring, dependable. She stood by my side.
But marriage and children never entered my mind. Maybe it was hearing my friends complain about their wives, about having to “check in” before going out. Maybe I was still, unknowingly, prioritizing my parents over everything else. Or maybe I just wasn’t ready to fully commit to that kind of future.
Despite having a good woman by my side, I still felt a void. I didn’t realize it at the time, but I was seeking external validation. I craved excitement — something that replaced the adrenaline rush of game day. And I found it in secret relationships. I didn’t see them as cheating. I told myself they were just friendships… until they weren’t.
Looking back now, I know I was chasing that feeling of being special. Of being wanted. Of mattering. The rush of knowing someone was attracted to me, of feeling like I was still “somebody” — it was addicting. I didn’t understand why I was doing it, but now I do.
It all goes back to my early years — the discovery of intimacy, the fascination with women, the need to be touched, desired, validated. I can even trace it to childhood moments, like the time a barber scratched my scalp and I felt something unlock. Or the time my friends and I discovered a stash of adult magazines and suddenly the world felt electrified. There were no guide rails. No road map. I was figuring it out on my own.
Nobody ever told me, “This is how you build a life. This is what commitment looks like.” So I made it up as I went. I lived in the moment, not thinking about the future. Not understanding the consequences. I was running on instincts, on emotions, on muscle memory.
This was life after baseball — a journey full of discovery, mistakes, love, and confusion.
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### đź’ Reflection Questions for the Reader
– Have you ever stumbled into a new role or career that ended up shaping your identity?
– How do you balance love for your family with love for a partner?
– What lessons did you learn late that you wish someone had taught you earlier?
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