COLLEGE to PRO: Competition

The jump from college to pro baseball is ridiculous. Pitchers throw harder, guys hit the ball further, and no one, I mean no one, makes an error. I felt so overwhelmed when I stepped on a professional diamond for the first time- these guys were baseball machines!

Ok, ok- absolutely none of that is true. That may be the conception of most players walking into a professional clubhouse for the first time, but it only takes a few minutes of that first Rookie Ball practice- perhaps when the guy you're throwing with air mails you by 10 feet, or when the pitcher fielding grounders watches the ball go through his legs for the third straight time- for you to realize that the guys around you are all human.

Your new teammates are just like you- they were the best players on their college team, and there's something about them- a tool, a quality, a mindset- that enables them to play at the next level- but they're not perfect.

Every first year player makes mistakes- hell, every Big Leaguer makes mistakes. Baseball is a game made up of errors and miscues, but it's the best players and best teams that are able to minimize those miscues. Consistency is what every player strives for in this imperfect game- it's what separates the best from the rest.

Consistency is also what separates pro-ball from college baseball.

MiLB LIFE: My First Call-Up



This guy and I have the same exact physique, it's uncanny.


They say you never forget your first time. It was around 9:00 AM on August 9th. The phone rang next to my bed in the dungy Innkeeper Lodge and I immediately wished death upon the unknown caller. Our bus had rolled into the motel's parking lot a mere six hours earlier- a lengthy drive away from the setting of the previous night's game. I had no intention of opening my eyes for another couple hours. Actually getting out of bed? Maybe another hour or so after that. But 9 o'clock? Who the hell was looking to grab breakfast at 9 o'clock?

I almost didn't answer but then realized it was the only option that would put an end to the shrill ringing. I blindly reached for the phone and put it to my ear. Through the morning grog, I was able to voice an annoyed "Hello?"

"Hey, it's Skip. Listen, come down to my room..."

Suddenly I was awake and instantly aware that this phrase usually led to one of two things. He took what seemed like an hour to start the rest of his sentence.

"...You're getting moved up. They've had a couple outfielders go down with injuries and you're the guy they want. We're still working out how you're gonna get there so get your stuff together and head down here in about 15 minutes. Room 116. Hey, congratulations- just keep doing what you're doing." He hung up.

What just happened? I didn't really know what to feel. I was excited to be the guy they wanted. This call confirmed that at least one of the higher-ups in the organization was aware of my existence, which from time to time you tend to doubt in the Minors. I was on their radar, I couldn't believe it. I heard bed sheets move and Kenny, my best friend and road roommate, roll over: "Who was that?" he asked, still asleep. "That was Skip." Suddenly he was awake too. "You movin' up?" I was moving up.