Behind The Diamond

When people look at the banners on the fence, the trophies in the case, or the records in the book, they see the success. They see the two state championships. They see the final product.

What they don’t see is what it cost.

They don’t see the work that went into changing a broken culture. They don’t see the uncomfortable conversations, the players who walked away, the parents who whispered in the bleachers, or the nights spent wondering if the standards were too demanding, too relentless, too unforgiving. Success is not free. Winning is not convenient. Culture is not built on comfort. If you want to turn a program around, you must be ready to become the villain before you become the champion. This is how we did it, not with hype or popularity, but with standards so high that most people couldn’t handle them. And how the players who stayed, the ones who embraced the grind, became champions.

The Program I Took Over

When I took over our baseball program, it wasn’t a program at all. It was a group in uniform, surviving season to season with no identity, no standards, and no pride. Some kids loved baseball, but many simply liked being part of something that demanded little. Practices were loose. Expectations were low. Parents had more influence than coaches. Players assumed positions and playing time were guaranteed based on grade level, social circles, or last year’s numbers. It was baseball without accountability.

That ended on Day 1.

If I was going to build a true program, one rooted in discipline, toughness, and purpose, I knew I would step on toes. I knew some players would quit. I knew parents would push back. Leadership is not a popularity contest. Culture never changes without resistance.

The Standard: Perfection

Most coaches avoid the word because it scares players. I didn’t. I demanded perfection, not because it was attainable, but because chasing it forces players to fall into greatness. If you ask for average, you get below average. If you ask for good, you get good on a good day. If you expect perfection, players rise beyond what they ever imagined.

My players knew the expectations:

• Show up early.

• Work harder than you think you can.

• Master the smallest detail.

• Respect the game and your teammates.

• Make no excuses.

• Earn everything.

Some players rose to the standard. Many quit before the season started. And that was fine. You cannot build culture with people who are unwilling to be uncomfortable.

The Parent Problem

Parents struggled with the change. When accountability increases, excuses get louder. When standards rise, so do complaints. When a team becomes a program, those who valued convenience feel exposed. I was transparent, sometimes brutally so. If a kid wasn’t working, I told the truth. If a player expected playing time without earning it, I made that clear. If parents overrated their son, I didn’t entertain the fantasy. Some appreciated that honesty. Others resented it.

I heard the usual lines:

“He’s too tough.”

“He’s too demanding.”

“My kid doesn’t want to play for him.”

“He ruined the fun.”

“He’s not fair.”

“He doesn’t like my son.”

None of that was real. What was real was this, many parents had never seen a coach truly hold their athlete accountable. They mistook honesty for dislike. They mistook expectations for punishment. I didn’t coach to make adults comfortable. I coached to develop young men. And that requires truth over appeasement.

The Players Who Quit

Every year, players quit.

Some left because the expectations felt too heavy. Some left because practice was too demanding. Some left because competing daily created pressure they didn’t want. Some left because “tough” sounded like “mean.” Some left because parents preferred comfort over growth. A coach never wants to lose players, but every departure teaches the same lesson:

Greatness is not for everyone.

The ones who left wanted the game to bend to them. The ones who stayed were willing to bend themselves to the game. Some quit because they believed they were better than they were. When the lineup didn’t match their self-image, they walked. They weren’t interested in becoming what the team needed, only what they wanted to be. You cannot build culture with entitlement.

So we built with those who stayed:

• The ones who embraced accountability.

• The ones who showed up every day.

• The ones who didn’t complain when things got hard.

• The ones who accepted roles that didn’t earn applause.

• The ones who trusted the process.

Those kids became champions.

The Turning Point

Culture doesn’t flip with one speech. It changes slowly, rep by rep, practice by practice, season by season. The real turning point came when the players stopped responding to my voice and started responding to the standards. When they corrected each other. When they held teammates accountable. When they stayed late without being asked. When game day became a reward, not a performance. When perfection became a path, not a punishment. We stopped being a team. We became a program.

Plugging in the Pieces

Building a winning team is not about keeping everyone happy. It is about identifying what the team needs, not what individuals prefer. Some players wanted to pitch, but the team needed an outfielder. Others wanted shortstop, but the team needed a third baseman with better instincts. Some wanted to hit in the three-hole, but the team needed a disciplined nine-hitter. When players trust your vision, they accept roles they never imagined. They understand a simple truth: Championships require sacrifice. The ones who embraced their roles changed everything.

They are the reason banners hang.

The First Championship

When we won the first state title, everything made sense. The long practices. The uncomfortable conversations. The doubting parents. The players who quit. The players who stayed. The sacrifices. The buy-in. The belief. People outside the program saw the trophy. The real victory happened months earlier, when the team stopped chasing comfort and started chasing greatness. But culture doesn’t allow you to settle. The expectations didn’t decrease after the title, they increased. You don’t build one championship culture. You build one that sustains.

The Second Championship

The second title was harder. The expectations were heavier. The noise was louder. The pressure was constant. People assumed we had the formula. They didn’t see the turnover, the stress, the rising standards, the adversity. But the players who stayed understood the mission. They weren’t trying to repeat. They were trying to defend. They weren’t trying to be remembered for one moment. They were trying to prove our culture wasn’t an accident. When adversity hit, we didn’t panic. We didn’t make excuses. We didn’t fracture.

We worked.

Winning again came down to discipline. To standards. To kids who chose to be coached the right way, even when it was hard. The second title validated everything we built.

The Criticism Never Goes Away

There are still players who won’t play for me because I’m “too tough.”Still parents who think I’m “too demanding.” Still families who prefer the easy path, the guaranteed position, the coach who won’t challenge them. That is fine. Championship culture is not for everyone. If you want guaranteed playing time, I’m not your coach. If you want comfort, I’m not your coach. If you want lowered standards, I’m not your coach. But if you want to grow, compete, and develop into a better player and a better man, then you know exactly what you’re walking into. The ones who stayed proved it. They embraced the grind. They trusted the truth. They rose to the standard. They became champions.

Twice.

Culture Has a Price, But It’s Worth Paying

Turning a program around requires being comfortable with being disliked. It requires choosing respect over approval. It requires full buy-in or honest departure.

A championship culture is built on:

• Demanding more than players think they can give.

• Maintaining standards even at the cost of popularity.

• Assigning roles based on need, not preference.

• Coaching the truth.

• Challenging players relentlessly.

• Removing excuses from the environment.

I can live with parents not liking me. I can live with players thinking I’m too tough. I can live with criticism from people who don’t understand what greatness requires. What I cannot live with is mediocrity disguised as development. If demanding excellence turns some people away, then it will attract the ones built for greatness. Those are the players who change a program. Those are the players who earn banners. Those are the players whose legacy lasts.

Final Message From a Coach

If you want to change a culture, expect resistance. If you want to build a program, expect sacrifice. If you want to win, expect discomfort. If you want championships, expect to lose people along the way. I didn’t change a program by being popular. I didn’t win by being gentle. I didn’t build culture by lowering standards. We won because we raised them. And the ones who stayed, they became champions because they chose to rise with them.