I went into spring training with the Astros full of belief. I’d spent years learning the mental side of the game, and I was ready. My first outing? I struck out the side on ten pitches. I was in the zone — calm, focused, and in complete control. I knew I belonged.
But baseball can be ruthless.
Weeks later, after the drills and scrimmages, I walked into the clubhouse and saw the red tag hanging from my locker. Just like in the movie Major League. I was being released. No explanation about development. No critique of my stats. Just a quiet message from the GM: “We don’t think you have what it takes to move up.”
I had just struck out all three batters I faced. I didn’t even know how to argue. I was stunned.
Hours later, I was on a plane home — back in Studio City at my grandfather’s house, as if nothing had happened. One minute I was a pro pitcher. The next, I was just… back.
Still, I wasn’t ready to quit.
I went to a tryout for the Chico Heat. Got released again. At that point, I started to understand what professional baseball really was — not just a game, but a business. And I was a number.
Then the Evansville Otters called.
With no better options, I boarded a bus from Los Angeles to the Midwest. I can’t even explain why I didn’t fly — maybe I needed the long road to gather myself. Either way, I was headed to Indiana, and I was hungry to prove I still had it.
Evansville was special. I played in Bosse Field — the same historic stadium where A League of Their Own was filmed. There was something about the old-school vibe that lit a fire in me.
I brought the same mindset and discipline that had gotten me this far. No one had to believe in me — I believed in myself. I became an All-Star that year and helped lead the Otters to the championship series. We didn’t win, but I showed everyone — especially myself — that I was still a dominant pitcher.
But by season’s end, the silence from other teams was loud. I didn’t want to go back to Evansville — not because I didn’t love it, but because I knew I was capable of more. Still, no calls came. No offers. And the grind of chasing teams, hoping for a shot, wore me down.
Eventually, I made a decision that most athletes never see coming:
I walked away.
Not because I didn’t love the game. But because I knew there was more to life than spinning my wheels in the minors. I didn’t fail. I just chose a different path — one that would later lead to my greatest challenges and deepest growth.
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