Don’t like it? Play better

“Don’t like it? Play better.”

That was the tagline I ended my first blog post with — and quite possibly the most important message I ever learned during my playing career.

Except I didn't learn this lesson until my mid-twenties when my performance began to dictate whether I would sign with an independent team. This was repeatedly reminded to my peers and I by Joe Torre; no not the Yankees World Series manager Joe Torre, he worked as a Player Rep to help Indy Ball guys get contracts year to year and make their way to affiliated baseball. When guys didn't like the situation they were dealt, whether that be their team role, where they were signed, or being a free agent, Joe's answer?

Don't like it? Play better.

It’s a lesson that every athlete eventually faces: at the end of the day, the players who produce are the ones who earn a coach’s trust and a spot in the lineup. Once you reach high school, college, or professional baseball, the coaching staff isn’t there just for fun. Their careers — and their livelihoods — depend on winning. That means they’re going to put the players they believe give them the best chance to succeed on the field.

Part of maturing as a player is learning how to be part of a team and accepting the role you’re given — even when it’s not the one you want. Naturally, players who aren’t in the starting nine will feel disappointed, maybe even frustrated, but the difference between growth and stagnation lies in how you respond.

Over my career, I’ve been both a full-time starter and a bench player. Sometimes I had to change positions just to crack the lineup. Other times, I had to embrace my role as a reserve, stay ready, and produce when my number was called. One constant? My dad never complained to coaches about my role or playing time. He taught me to handle it myself. If I wanted to play, I had to work harder — on my own — until I was too good to be denied.

Two moments stand out where this lesson shaped my career.

1. Redshirt Reality at Tyler Junior College

My freshman year at Tyler Junior College, I had a decent fall season. If you know JuCo baseball, you know fall ball is almost a full season — 20–30 games of intersquads and matchups against other schools, often 18-inning marathons to get everyone playing time.

Heading into our Christmas break exit meetings, I thought I’d at least earned a bench role with spot starts. Instead, I got blindsided.

The coaches told me I was redshirting. I could practice and travel with the team, but I wouldn’t play unless too many guys went down with injury — and only then would my redshirt be burned.

I walked out of that meeting in tears. Baseball had been taken away from me. But that sting lit a fire. I drove straight to a nearby little league park, called my dad, and told him the news. He gave me two options:

• Option 1: Point fingers, feel sorry for myself, and essentially end my career before it really started.

• Option 2: Accept the challenge, spend the next year getting stronger, maturing, and improving my game so much that I’d be undeniable the next season.

I chose Option 2 — and that decision shaped my entire career.

I went to work.

Early morning lifts; because I knew the long day that was ahead of me.

First person arriving to practice to get extra defensive work in, and last one to leave practice after spending extra time in the cage.

All while knowing I would travel to every game, dress out in full uniform, participate in pre-game In and Out, and never play.

I had the opportunity to watch all 50+ TJC games from the bench that season, and expanded my mental game tremendously.

What originally seemed like the lowest point of my career, turned out being what I needed to turn myself into a different player.

Don’t like it? Play better.

2. Position Change at Prairie View A&M

A few years later, I earned the chance to play Division I baseball at Prairie View A&M. I went in playing second base, but another recruit — a talented Houston-area player I’d grown up competing against — got the starting job.

I didn’t start for the first 3–4 weeks, and I was frustrated. One of the reasons I transferred to PVAMU was for the chance to be drafted, and I knew that wouldn’t happen from the bench.

My dad’s advice was blunt: “Find a new position. You’re not going to beat him out right now.” He traveled to every game, home or away, knowing I probably wouldn’t play — yet he never complained to the coaches. And neither did I.

Then opportunity knocked. Against Sam Houston State, a pickoff attempt to first base turned into a costly error. My coach yelled down the dugout to ask if I’d ever played first. I lied — “Sure, Coach” — figuring it couldn’t be that hard.

The next day at practice, I worked out at first base. That weekend, I started our first conference series against Southern University at first base — and I never came out of the lineup again. I became a middle-of-the-order bat and went on to be a three-year starter at PV.

Don’t like it? Play better.

The Mindset That’s Disappearing

Now that I coach at the travel ball and high school levels, I’ve noticed this mindset is fading. Too often, instead of asking, “What do I need to do to get better?” the conversation turns into finger-pointing.

Parents and players bring up what others on the team are doing (or not doing), how much money they’ve spent on travel ball or lessons, or how hard they work outside of practice — as if those factors entitle them to playing time.

Here’s the truth: lessons, weight training, and extra reps are prerequisites for being a good athlete. They don’t automatically guarantee opportunity. Production matters. Talent matters. And in sports — just like in life — you’re judged on results.

The Hard Truth of Performance

I understand the frustration. My dad spent more money on my baseball journey than I’d care to calculate — enough to send me to Harvard twice. And there were many times he was investing when I wasn’t even playing.

In the real world, just because you’re more qualified or work harder doesn’t mean you’ll get the opportunity. I once got released from a professional team despite knowing the player who replaced me, went on to hit .178 for the season, while I was having a career-best year elsewhere. I never got called back — and that’s life.

The Takeaway

Players, here’s the lesson:

You are either producing at a level that earns your coach’s trust… or you’re not. If you’re not, there’s a reason. Figure it out. Improve.

Stop the pity parties. Stop pointing fingers. Because at the end of the day:

• You’re the one in the batter’s box.

• You’re the one on the mound.

• You’re the one in the field.

No one else controls your performance.

The sooner you accept that — and adopt the mindset I was lucky enough to learn early — the better your career will be.

Don’t like it? Play better.