The decision to walk away was mine—made not because I couldn’t compete, but because I no longer wanted to wait on someone else’s opinion to determine my worth. Baseball had taught me that you could perform well for years and still never make it to the major leagues. One scout told me outright: “It doesn’t matter how good or bad you do—it’s not up to you.” That resonated, and I knew my life was more valuable than gambling on a maybe.
I had eight years of education under my belt and student loans to pay off. At some point, I had to start building a life outside of baseball. Leaving on my own terms was empowering—I could still play, but I saw the writing on the wall. The politics of the sport, the behind-the-scenes power games that determined who got called up—it wasn’t the dream I grew up with.
My first job post-baseball was as a credit analyst for an international food broker. I’d assess whether meat buyers had the credit to cover their purchases. The transition to office life was jarring. Who was I supposed to compete against—my boss? My whole life had been driven by competition, by performance, by structure. Suddenly I was in a world where wandering around the office drew reprimands and where sitting still at a desk all day was considered “good work.”
I had no plan. I was just doing what I thought I was supposed to do—get a job and work. But it all felt the same. Each job felt like a slightly different version of the last. I remember thinking: “Is this what everyone does? Works a job and goes home… for 50 years?” It was a foreign concept.
There were some transferable skills. I was good at communication and excelled at teamwork—just like on the field. But I struggled with overachieving. I wanted to do more, take on more, make an impact. But the corporate world doesn’t always reward that pace. I had to slow down, to adapt to a culture that didn’t match my wiring.
I felt like no one could relate. Maybe someone coming out of the military would understand—the drop in adrenaline, the loss of purpose. But most people didn’t get it.
My purpose shifted to family. I spent every possible moment with my parents—visiting daily, calling 15 times a day. If I was in the car, I was on the phone with my mom. If she didn’t answer, she’d often laugh and say, “Yes Jeff, what do you want?” But my joy came from their joy. I know your happiness isn’t supposed to be tied to someone else’s, but mine was. I couldn’t help it.
After baseball, I entered into a 13-year relationship. It started platonically—she moved in while going through a divorce—and it evolved into something more. We lived together. She was caring, supportive, nurturing. But for some reason, marriage and kids never felt urgent or necessary. Maybe, deep down, I was still putting my parents first.
Even though she was a great and ideal partner, something was missing. I didn’t realize it at the time, but I was seeking external validation—often through secret relationships. I wasn’t looking to cheat. I was just being myself, making connections. But the rush of being wanted, being special, feeling like I mattered again… it replaced the high I got from baseball. I kept these relationships at a distance, but the pattern was clear: I was creating adrenaline in a life that no longer had it.
It all traces back to my youth—early sexual experiences, the fascination with being touched, with being wanted. I remember being at a barber as a kid, feeling the sensation of her nails in my scalp, and craving that feeling of attention and affection. Later, I found a stack of Hustler magazines in a garage with my friends—we hid them in an abandoned camper and plastered the walls with them. That discovery stirred something deeper. I thought: “They really like doing those things?” and I became even more intrigued.
No one ever told me to settle down. No one ever mapped out a plan for family or long-term commitment. I lived in the now. I acted on instinct. And without guidance or guardrails, I veered toward temporary highs instead of long-term meaning.
My life after baseball became about searching—for meaning, for purpose, for identity. But the way I searched sometimes brought pain. I would learn those lessons the hard way.