Before I made the decision to finally walk away, I reflected for a week at home on how far I’ve come and how proud I am of what I’ve accomplished. I was hoping for a happier ending, but not every story has to have a happy ending. I’m just grateful that I have a story at all.

I grew up in East L.A., where the odds were stacked against me. My dad put a baseball in my hand when I was an infant and swore he would turn me into a lefty. Baseball was in my blood. He coached every team I ever played on and always had a vision that I’d be something special. I had big dreams, too. I slept with my bat at night as a toddler. I mean, as a kid, who doesn’t dream of one day being a professional athlete? But I also started preparing for the big stage from a very young age. I was just wired differently than the other kids in my neighbourhood. I threw bullpens in our concrete driveway (with my dad in full catcher’s gear) until the sun went down. I begged him to drive me to the park so I could field ground balls, hit batting practice, and get my conditioning in. At 10 years old, while the other kids played on the playground, I just wanted to run laps around the park.

The dream was real, but the road to getting there was unclear. Growing up, the only prominent athlete I had to look up to that made it out of East L.A. was Oscar De la Hoya. I didn’t want to be a boxer, but he taught me that I’d need to be a fighter if I wanted to make it out, too.