I’d finally done it. I was going to play Division I baseball. And then everything fell apart. Day one of fall workouts. We’re running sprints. My knee explodes. Surgery. Season over. But what happened over the next year is the part of this story I’ve never really told. I became depressed. Anxious. Completely lost. I didn’t recognize it at the time, but my mental health was in a really bad place. And instead of dealing with it, I started drinking. A lot. Partying all the time. Going out instead of taking care of myself. Hell, I was injured. Couldn’t play anyway. Who cares, right? That’s what I told myself. Eventually, about a year later, the doctor cleared me to play. I worked my way back into practice. And guess what? I SUCKED at baseball. Remember the kid who showed up at Western Illinois? 6’2”, 205 pounds. 6.6 sixty. 94 mph from the outfield. Here’s what I had become: 6’2”, 184 pounds. 7.3 sixty. 81 mph from the outfield. I was a shell of the player I’d been. I hung around practice that fall, telling myself I was going to work my way back and play in the spring. But I wasn’t doing the work. I wasn’t taking extra swings. I wasn’t attacking my rehab. I wasn’t doing what I needed to do to get myself back. I was depressed. I had zero confidence. And more than anything, I was scared. Scared I wasn’t good enough anymore. Scared I’d never get back to where I was. Scared of what everyone would think if I failed. And I never asked anyone for help. Eventually, my shoulder started giving me problems, too. I went in to meet with the coaches to talk about what we should do. But we all knew. I was done. My baseball career was over. I never took a single at-bat in a Division I baseball game. For years, the story I told people was pretty simple. I hurt my knee. Then I hurt my shoulder. Couldn’t play anymore. And technically, that’s true. But it wasn’t the whole truth. The truth is that I stopped working. I lost my confidence. I wasn’t taking care of myself physically or mentally. I was terrified of failing, and even more terrified of what other people would think of me. So instead of confronting those things, I avoided them. I half-assed my rehab. I went to the bar instead of the batting cage. I convinced myself that I was trying when I knew damn well I wasn’t. And eventually, the opportunity I’d spent my entire life chasing was gone. For a long time, I blamed my injuries. But looking back, I know my mental health played a much bigger role in how my career ended than I was ever willing to admit. My knee injury took away a season. My inability to deal with what happened afterward helped take away my career. I share this because I spend a lot of time talking to young baseball players about working hard, getting stronger, developing their skills, and doing everything they can to earn an opportunity. And I believe in every word of it. But there’s another side to this that I don’t talk about nearly enough. The mental side. The pressure. The expectations. The fear of failure. The feeling that your entire identity is wrapped up in how good you are at a game. I know what that feels like. I also know what happens when you don’t deal with it. I wish 20-year-old me had understood that struggling mentally wasn’t something to be embarrassed about. I wish I’d asked for help. I wish I’d understood that being a baseball player was something I did, not everything I was. And I wish I’d realized that I didn’t have to figure everything out on my own. I can’t go back and change any of it. But maybe sharing my story will help one kid who’s going through something similar. Maybe it’ll help a parent recognize that their kid is struggling. Maybe it’ll encourage a player to ask for help instead of pretending everything is fine. And maybe it’ll remind somebody that there’s a hell of a lot more to life than baseball. I love this game. It’s given me more than I could ever repay.