Chapter 3: The Win That Wasn’t

Chapter 3: The Win That Wasn’t

From the Memoir Collection

I had dreamed of wearing maroon.

Growing up in College Station, Texas, there was only one stadium that felt like magic: Olsen Field. That place was more than a ballpark—it was a temple.

I used to sit in those stands with my childhood baseball friends, Randy and Lindsay. We didn’t just watch the games—we lived in them. When we weren’t keeping score or cheering, we were behind the outfield fence, placing coins on the train tracks to flatten them when the train rolled by. We chased foul balls like treasure hunters, always staying one step ahead of the Diamond Darlings trying to retrieve them.

Doubleheaders. Tournaments. Big games against the Texas Longhorns.

Those were the best.

Now, Randy and Lindsay are married. They have boys of their own. And every now and then, I still visit them. We laugh, share stories, and remember those long summer nights chasing baseballs and dreaming about lives we hadn’t even lived yet.

So when I was pitching at McLennan Community College and heard the Texas A&M pitching coach would be coming to scout me, I thought: This is it.

First inning—I was lights out. Strikeouts, weak contact, total command.

Second inning—I never finished it.

After the game, he came over and said it plainly:

“I’m sorry. We can’t offer you a scholarship.”

I nodded like I understood. But inside, something broke.

I ended up transferring to Lamar University. And wouldn’t you know it—my junior year, I got the chance to pitch against Texas A&M. Not in some quiet midweek game. This was at Olsen Field. My hometown. The team that was now headed to the College World Series. One of the best lineups in college baseball.

And I had to face them.

I wasn’t just pitching to hitters. I was pitching to ghosts. To what-ifs. To the kid behind the outfield fence with a glove, a quarter, and a dream.

I studied hard. Scouted them on the radio. Made mental notes. Imagined scenarios. But when the day came, the pressure showed up in my chest like a brick.

In the fourth inning, I left one pitch over the plate.

John Scheschuk sent it opposite field. Three-run bomb.

Coach came out and took the ball from my hand.

I walked off the mound trying to hide the shame that was already eating through my bones.

That moment stayed with me like a scar I kept checking. I replayed it over and over. The sound of the bat. The hush of the crowd. The quiet handshake from Coach. I didn’t just feel like I failed—I felt like I had been erased.

And then came the call.

My senior year, Texas A&M came to our field. Beaumont, Texas.

Coach Gilligan told me, “You’ve got the ball.”

I didn’t say anything. I just nodded.

And this time—I was ready.

Six-plus innings.

Nine strikeouts.

One walk.

Best game of my life.

I walked off the mound that night not just having beaten A&M—but having beaten the version of myself who never got off the mat after that first loss.

But even then, I still ran.

After the game, I left the stadium and went straight back to our apartment. I didn’t want to face the pressure of the press. Didn’t want to say the wrong thing. Didn’t want to jinx the redemption.

I just wanted to be alone.

Then came the knock.

The reporter had hunted me down—knocked on my door—to get a quote from the hometown boy who finally got his win.

I think I always knew that moment was coming. I had imagined it in a hundred different ways over the years. What I would say. What I would feel. But when it finally came, I didn’t want the spotlight.

I just wanted peace.

I did give him the quote. Something humble, I’m sure. Something safe.

But what I really wanted to say was:

“This wasn’t about a win.

It was about proving to myself that I still had something to say.”

Years later, when I coach young athletes—or when I see my own daughter stare down fear on the lanes—I tell them the truth:

Sometimes, you don’t get to rewrite the past.

But every now and then, life gives you a second chance.

And it won’t always come in front of a cheering crowd.

Sometimes, it shows up on a quiet night, under stadium lights,

and asks:

Are you ready now?