After an injury-plagued freshman year at an East Coast Division I school, I made the decision to continue playing baseball at a small NCAA Division III college in Salem—Willamette University (Go Bearcats!). At this level, there were no athletic scholarships. We were students first, but we played baseball with dedication and heart. Our coach, with experience at the Division I level, had an incredible understanding of hitting—right down to the molecular level.
As I entered my first real season, I was named the starting second baseman as a freshman. I was recently coming off a high school career where I earned three All-State honors, Conference Player of the Year, and MVP of the Senior All-Star Game in Utah. I was in the best shape of my life—physically prepared to compete at a higher level. I was ready, but there was one thing that could hold me back: doubt and anxiety.
In the days leading up to our first weekend series, I noticed my confidence begin to push out the anxiety, and my dread slowly shifted to eager anticipation. I started thinking about the games as an opportunity to create something beautiful. The field became my canvas, I was the brush, and the game itself would be the artwork—a masterpiece to hang in my mental gallery forever.
This perspective gave me a sense of calm. I could trust my training and quiet the uncertainty. And it worked—I played one of the best games of my life. To this day, I can vividly replay every moment of that game in my mind, and I still consider it a masterpiece – my Picasso. But baseball, like life, is humbling. A sport where failure comes exponentially more often than success can weigh on you. Yet I continued to return to this visualization, and while the results varied, the process was invaluable.
Now, I no longer have a coach or a team. My focus has shifted to running. The mental challenge is different—pushing myself when life’s responsibilities seem to demand so much more. There’s no longer anything to prove, no need to endure the grind of frequent, grueling workouts. But I still enjoy racing. As I get older, I find myself training and racing harder than before, testing my limits.
Today, instead of thinking of my athletic endeavors as art, I view it as a craft. I know the boundaries of my fitness, and I run within them, using the tools and training I’ve honed. It’s not a masterpiece, but there’s a deep satisfaction in crafting something solid—building a training and race strategy with purpose and precision, just like framing a beautiful picture.
So whether you’re an artist or an artisan, I hope you can find the same sense of fulfillment in the creativity of a well-executed race, and store the results in your own mental gallery. We encourage you to take this upcoming year to discover your own art and craft—whatever that may look like for you—and race toward it with purpose and passion.
