My Long Journey Home: Discovering Life After the Game

By Richard A. Williams

A COMING OF AGE TRUE STORY ABOUT FAILURE, SELF-WORTH, AND PURPOSE.

 

As far as Rick Williams was concerned, being drafted out of high school by the Atlanta Braves was the realization of his dream and the solution to every problem. He could leave behind his turbulent home life in the California High Desert and focus on the game he grew up loving.

 

But when baseball was ripped away, he could never have prepared for the massive void it left in his life and the pain that would define him and his future. No matter how hard he tried drugs, partying, womanizing, or Hollywood life, nothing could fill the emptiness inside.

 

Only after decades of struggling with crippling fear, anxiety, and broken relationships would Rick finally discover a greater power and purpose on his long journey home.

 

This inspiring story will speak to anyone who has struggled with:

• THE END OF A SPORTS CAREER
• RELATIONSHIPS
• SELF-WORTH
• FAILURE
• FEAR AND ANXIETY
• ACCEPTANCE

• Language: English
• Publisher: Richard A. Williams
• Release date: Aug 5, 2022
• ISBN: 9798218047474

Richard A. Williams

Richard Williams is a former minor league baseball player turned entrepreneur, writer, and content creator.  He’s a graduate of Loyola Marymount University and owns Rick Williams Media, a production company based in Southern California.  He’s married with four children and in his free time, Rick enjoys working with young and retired athletes in cooperation with his church in Rancho Cucamonga.

Book preview

INTRODUCTION

"You can be anything you want if you work hard and put your mind to it."

…so they say.

According to the NCAA, of the approximately 455,300 high school baseball players in the United States, only 5.6 percent wind up playing on a collegiate team. Of that 5.6 percent, roughly ten percent are drafted by a Major League Baseball team. Approximately ten percent of all minor leaguers ever make it to the big leagues. That's about half a percent of players that can fulfill that dream, which means less than ninety-nine percent of even the outstanding players will never make it to the show.

The outlook isn't promising for the few who eventually make it to the major leagues, either. The average career of a Major League Baseball player is only five and a half years, and one in five position players will play a single year in the bigs.

And no matter where one ranks on the grand scale, one hundred percent of all baseball players will experience that fateful day when their time is up, when he will put on that uniform for the last time.

When I first contemplated writing a book about my life as a ball player, I laughed at the ridiculousness of the idea. Most people couldn't care less about some low-level minor leaguer that barely made it out of the batter's box, let alone the Hall of Fame. This isn't Derek Jeter's story — that's the book featured on the endcap of your favorite bookstore, along with all the other baseball greats. The New York Yankees drafted Jeter in the first round of the 1992 MLB Amateur Draft (6th overall pick). This is a tale about another kid about four hundred and thirty picks down the list of that same draft for the Atlanta Braves. A story that goes down a different road. A road more traveled but rarely talked about. It’s a story about failure.

My name is Richard Williams; most people call me Rick, and I played baseball growing up. I was drafted in the 17th round by the Atlanta Braves out of Hesperia High School in 1992. The experience was a dream like no other. But the game I loved more than anything ultimately betrayed and destroyed me. Nobody ever explained to me that an athlete could experience any degree of post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD).

Baseball was life. It's all I've known or cared about since I was about five years old. I was your average, skinny, dark-haired, American kid growing up in Southern California in the eighties, watching the Dodgers and immersed in my imagination. So many countless memories of listening to those games on the radio with my grandpa on the back porch. The great Vin Scully's voice was the only voice I heard almost as much as my own mother's.

Every game was a new story, so different from the next. Some games were such amazing stories; you can still describe and talk about them decades later, with vivid detail and emotion. For me, the most significant moment was Kirk Gibson's 1988 World Series, game one, walk-off home run. It was my first year of high school; my mom and I lived in a modest house in Hesperia, California - a desert town about twenty miles northwest of San Bernardino. I recall yelling so loudly and jumping up and down at that moment. It was the epitome of what the game meant to me.

From the time I was seven years old, when my four uncles and grandpa were watching the 1981 World Series between the Dodgers and the Yankees, I was hooked. I remember everyone in my grandparent's living room yelling and screaming at the T.V. during all the big moments. It was so exciting. I wanted to be a part of all of it. From there on, I'd play imaginary games in the front yard of that same house, throwing the ball up in the air and pretending I was every player in the Dodger lineup. I was the announcer, the stadium organ player, and the sound effects.

I began collecting baseball cards in 1982. I memorized almost every baseball card, front and back. I knew where the players were from, their averages, and if and why I thought they were good. I would impersonate the stances and mannerisms of most of my favorite players. I rarely missed an away game on our local channel 11. In those days, you could only watch Dodger games when they were away, which I could never figure out why. It must have been a licensing thing. If you wanted to watch a home game, you had to go to the stadium, which was the ultimate treat! A Dodger game was like a three-hour visit to heaven.

As I got older, I'd play little league and street ball with friends. If you've seen The Sandlot, you could say my friends and I were very similar. It was baseball morning till night. Even in elementary school, I sat and daydreamed. I'd take advantage of art and crafts time by taking pieces of construction paper and crafting baseball fields. I drew the diamond out and folded the paper to make the fence and dugouts. The pencil was the bat, and little rolled-up pieces of scrap paper made up the ball. I’d pull the pencil back and then smack the ball. Crack! when I added the sound effects.

Nothing else mattered to me. Sure, there were the usual outside peripheral things in life — family, school, and friends. I rode bikes, played Beatles songs on my guitar, went on vacation with my family, and enjoyed the occasional parties and gatherings like most kids. But it was all secondary to baseball.

To many, I was an energetic and fun kid, but inside I felt a type of sadness and loneliness. I'd always felt uneasy about the world and what I thought my place in it was. Was it hard, easy, or would I be good at it? I wondered. It was an unpredictable ocean of unknowns I couldn't quantify nor control. Instead, I focused on something I had control over… baseball. I viewed and experienced the world through the lens of the game. It was safer and much more fun, and I was determined to be good. Really good.

CHAPTER ONE

March 22, 1993 - West Palm Beach, Florida

I was on top of the world.

As I stepped out onto that Floridian grass, every day felt like its own dream. I can't believe I'm here. I can't believe I'm wearing this uniform, I thought. The only way life could get any better would be if I were to get the call to the big show—the major leagues.

Not a second went by where I wasn't thinking about what that day would be like. The bright lights of the stadium and the thunderous roar of forty thousand fans were what every one of us was thinking about. If you went by the statistics, at least a couple of us would eventually make it to the show. I supposed you couldn't forget about the money. I just couldn't fathom making millions of dollars to play a kid's game for a living.

Which one of us is it going to be, I pondered as I looked around at the others. Maybe it would be Jamie Arnold, our first-round pick. Most likely, Damon, who was just a beast. Definitely Bobby. Maybe even me.

It was approaching three o'clock in the afternoon on a hot, humid June afternoon during spring training. We were on the backfield adjacent to the stadium where our big-league team would be taking on the Mets. The heat beat down on us like it did every day during those noon games, and this game had gone a little longer than usual. We played every day except Sundays. Half the time, training took place at our facility in West Palm; the other half were bus rides up I-95 to Vero Beach to play the Dodgers or Port St. Lucie when we faced the Mets.

A full day lasted six hours when you counted workouts and gym time. I could feel the wear on my body by the fifth or sixth inning, so I needed to drink a lot of water and keep myself energized. Unlike the higher-level teams, we had hardly any fans to keep our adrenaline up, so it was up to us to stay firing on all cylinders, tired or not. We were young, healthy athletes, but despite our limitations, it was essential to manage them wisely. Going out at night and drinking may have worked for some people, but certainly not me. I often counted the minutes before returning to our air-conditioned hotel rooms. There I could hit the curtains and crash for the next ten to twelve hours to get my body ready for another wear-and-tear day. Playing pro baseball every day was more challenging than I'd imagined. But I wouldn't have traded it for anything.

We were in the bottom of the eighth, and the Mets were up by one. I'd run in from the left field and quickly downed three paper cups of water from the orange ice chest before grabbing my helmet and bat. There was a right-hander throwing, so being a switch-hitter meant I'd be going up left-handed. I grabbed my Louisville Slugger R161. It was a little beefier than my M110, which I used when hitting right-handed.

I was 0-3 that day, with a pop-out and two strikeouts. Pretty discouraged, to say the least. I thought by now I'd be hitting home runs like I had when I was in high school, where I dominated. But this was a world of difference from high school. It was a different planet entirely. Success didn't come as often as I would have liked. What mattered was standing out for the important people to notice. Every at-bat was a big deal. Failure was not an option, and I knew deep down inside that I needed to rise to every occasion. In a game that's said to be ninety percent mental and ten percent physical, confidence in yourself was tantamount.

This level was tough, but at the same time, I likened it to when I was a freshman in high school. Things were tough at first. There were guys bigger, stronger, and more experienced. Then after a year or so, all that changed. I mastered it, and the rest was history. And even though I wasn't exactly dominant with these varsity guys, I knew my time would come; I would turn a corner, and then look out! So here I was, a freshman again.

I threw on my helmet, stepped out onto the on-deck circle, and immediately felt sweat pouring down my face. It was essential to keep it out of my eyes and not to let sweat mix with sunblock, or the sting would be real. Incidentally, eyes are crucial when it comes to ninety-mile-an-hour fastballs. I found a dry piece of jersey to wipe my face, threw my donut-like bat weight on, and took several hard swings, which got my adrenaline going. It was time to lock into my mental preparation.

"Balls!" the catcher yelled as he threw down to second base to kick off the inning. I shared a few words with Mike, who was ever the competitor. Let's hit this guy, he said, walking past me, eyes zoned in on his bat.

Yes, sir.

Mike walked up to the plate while I waited, feeling the first of several butterflies. I don't recall a time in my playing days that I have that feeling. I took a couple of deep breaths to slow everything down a little. I made my way to the on-deck circle to get a better angle for my timing of the pitches. Timing is everything. It requires extreme precision that you can't afford to get wrong.

The next pitch — Crack! A line drive into left-center field for a single. And just like that, it was go-time. Deep breath. All eyes were on me as I popped the bat weight off and took a couple of hacks as I made my way up to the plate.

At that moment, I went into a trance, forgetting all about being tired, my aching back, or my sore shoulder. I looked down over at Big John, our manager, coaching third. Let's go, Ricky! he said with a clap — a big southern man of few words.

I nodded my head his way, then turned my attention toward the pitcher. Time for battle. He must have been mad after losing the last duel with Mike. He'd try and take it out on me now. He came set on the pitching rubber and took a deep breath. My bat was back, head down, and I'd already decided that if I liked the pitch, I would come out of my shoes with a monster swing. I needed to make my mark and get that engine running with those scouts and management watching my every move.

He kicked and delivered a fastball — I could hear it hissing. It wasn't quite where I liked it, but I swung anyway. Ugh. Why?! Not a very confident swing either, but I managed to chip it off to the left side for a foul. This has been an ongoing problem since I arrived last summer. I wasn't loading up soon enough, nor seeing it all the way in. Loading up meant cocking the bat and shifting weight momentum back for maximum power forward at the precise moment of impact. I had to be doing that much sooner, and I hadn't been, which is why I was so late on my swing all the time.

My high school coach told me not to load up until I already saw the ball leave his hand. That's great when they were throwing seventy-five or eighty, but at ninety or more, you could forget about it unless you were blessed with lighting fast strength or had a good dose of steroids.

I stepped out of the batter's box, took another breath, and looked back to Big John, who shortened the conversation to Let's go!

I felt the adrenaline. Relax. Nice and easy, I told myself. This guy was slightly ahead of me with an 0-1 count, so I was guessing he'd throw a curve next. He kicked and fired…Nope… another fastball, that time up and in on me. I swung and missed as the ball made a loud snap right into the catcher's mitt. Late again. I was behind 0-2 and pissed, but I refused to lose this fight. An athlete's instinct was not just to win but dominate every situation. When I didn't dominate, I got frustrated.

0-2 on me meant he had three pitches to waste. He wasn't obligated for another good pitch until he had three balls on me. Odds were, he'd throw something off-speed and out of the zone, hoping I'd chase it. Or maybe he wanted to go full alpha and put me down with all three heaters — I had no idea. But I knew neither of us wanted to lose this fight.

I stepped out of the box for one last breath; I looked down to first base, where Mike was waiting with a couple of claps. Come on, Ricky!

I couldn't let him down. He was my roommate that spring, so it would have been nice to give us something to talk about at dinner. I stepped back in, reminding myself to keep that front shoulder tucked to track the ball better. I'd probably look for a curve or something a bit slower. If it was a curve, they come in much slower, so I couldn't swing too soon, or I'd be way in front of it, and that would be all she wrote. It would be a shameful walk back to the clubhouse after the game, reliving it over and over in our heads and beating ourselves up about it.

In rookie ball, failures were commonplace. They were the rule, not the exception. Only morning and a fresh new outlook on the following day would erase the negative thoughts from the day before. There was a famous baseball saying: You're only as good as your last at-bat. Which wasn't literally true, but it sure felt like it most times.

He came set and delivered, and yup, there was the curve! I stayed tucked a fraction of a second longer and crack! It was a bullet into right-center field. I rounded first, headed for second; I looked up, and Mike was rounding third. The outfielder picked up the ball, which rolled to the fence.

As I rounded second, I was fully committed to third. Not looking back, I knew the ball was close, as Big John had both hands motioning downward, "Down! he yelled. I leaped forward, tucked, and dove headfirst into third, clutching the bag with both arms for dear life as the glove swiped across my hands, dirt flying everywhere, including my face. Safe!" yelled the umpire. A triple to tie the game.

I called for a timeout to brush myself off, dirt on my jersey, mouth, and some down my pants. I looked to enjoy the few seconds of clapping from the coaches and the guys in the dugout. An indescribable feeling of pride and success consumed me. Nothing on earth could give me the same elation as these moments. I stood tall.

It was heaven.

CHAPTER TWO

Monday, June 21, 1993.

Two months had passed since that spring training game. Those big moments had been few and far between, which is why I had been held back. In contrast, almost all my other teammates had been promoted to their respective assignments. As for Tyrone, Rob, and myself, we were stuck on an island known as Extended Spring.

Extended Spring is an extension of spring training for players that weren't assigned to one of their organization's four minor league teams when official spring training ended. Players that weren't released were left behind to practice and play in what is essentially Baseball Purgatory which lasts for about two months. Playing to almost no fanfare or publicity, the games feel more like high-stakes pickup games than anything. Girlfriends and parents might fill a few spots in the stands. Otherwise, it's mostly team personnel, scouts, and players themselves that make up the crowd.

I was disappointed, to say the least, that I hadn't made the Idaho Falls advanced squad or the Macon squad. The high energy of spring training had been over for several weeks, and the place seemed like a ghost town. I felt I'd done better than several of the guys that went up, but here I was, and not a damn thing I could do about it now.

8:45 am

I didn't sleep very well throughout the night. I tossed and turned, feeling a bit of anxiety, which was weird for me. I've always been a solid sleeper, especially during the season when I was mentally and physically exhausted each day. I was up a little earlier than usual, so there was no need to hit the snooze five times. I went downstairs to the buffet just like any other day. I had my typical light, non-dairy breakfast, so my stomach didn't fail on me out in the humid heat. I finished with some fruit and water before heading out the door, glasses fogging up due to the morning humidity. I hopped in my teal green 1992 Saturn I'd traded my 1990 Honda Accord for and headed to the ballpark. I loved my Honda. I was so proud of it when I purchased it the previous year with part of my signing bonus. The second I drove away with that Saturn, I instantly regretted it. I had gotten in a mood and was bugged because the Honda had been in a fender bender before coming out to spring training. I thought it was no good even though it had been repaired like new. But that was me—Young, dumb, and making impulsive decisions.

9:00 am

I got to the clubhouse and did my usual routine. I began every morning by putting on my workout uniform, the classic Braves grey pants with a red stripe down the side, the mesh dark blue Braves jersey with the famous hatchet across the chest. I was #42—Jackie Robinson's number. It was by random chance that I got it. It wasn't until 1997 that Major League Baseball retired the number across all teams and levels.

9:45 am

I finished my workout in the gym, got my drills done in the batting cage, then came back into the clubhouse to load everything up in my bag for the game. It was about this time Big Jim put the lineup card on the wall by the scales. I noticed I wasn't in the game, which was always disappointing. It always struck me like a form of rejection. We had several new outfielders that arrived, with more on their way, so they needed to get into some games and acclimated the same way I was when I got there the year before.

Our third baseman, Bobby, had moved up to the Macon, single A team. He had been getting quite a bit of attention from management. You'd have thought I'd be happy for him. But no. I'd grown increasingly envious of other guys by this time. Knowing that Bobby was gone and the several new outfielders being shipped to us, I was trying to decide how to re-invent myself and perhaps learn a new position. I figured there was a bit of a hole at third and should try it. I'd played a good amount of third in high school, so I thought I'd start working out there when I