The Jog

On retiring from professional baseball

By James Marvel

_______________________________________________________________________________________________

On September 14, 2019, I made about a 120-foot jog towards a circle of dirt that, though I didn’t know it at the time, would be where I would experience one of the most impactful moments of my life, mainly for one particular reason: it was there that I got my ass kicked for two straight hours in front of 40,000 people. Now, you’d be forgiven for wondering when the Roman Colosseum reopened for gladiatorial use, because surely that is the only place something like this could occur, right? No, this fateful day did not happen at one of the Seven Wonders of the World, but rather a modern-day colosseum — a Major League Baseball field — and the most storied of them all: Wrigley Field.

On this day, I was the scheduled starting pitcher for the visiting Pittsburgh Pirates against the Chicago Cubs. After five grueling years in the minor leagues, and as a late draft pick and non-prospect who wasn’t valued highly by the organization, I willed my way to the Big Leagues and was being given a chance at the very end of the season to show if I belonged among the game’s best players. I had made my Major League debut six days earlier against the St. Louis Cardinals and pitched well, and this was another opportunity to prove what I could do. In the cutthroat world of professional sports, sometimes you only get one chance. And this was mine.

Opened in 1914, Wrigley Field is the second oldest MLB stadium and home to the Chicago Cubs, one of the most recognizable sports franchises in the whole world. But it is more than just a baseball field. It is a cathedral, and a north star for our national pastime. Sure, it is where fans cheer on their team, but it is also a place filled with the hopes and dreams of a city, the collective passion of people longing to be part of something bigger than themselves, the dreams of young ballplayers, and where Ferris Bueller went to play hooky from school.  So when I ran onto the field that day, I ran onto the same field that the heroes and legends of the game ran onto before me, and the stadium is infused with a magic that feels beyond this world.

As for the game, I battled out of a jam in the first inning, gave up four runs in the second, a solo home run in the third, and a two-run home run in the fourth. My manager then told me I was done, my final line: 4 innings pitched, 7 earned runs. My team ended up losing 14-1. An objectively poor performance, it was especially bad as a 25-year-old trying to do everything I could to prove I belonged.

I made two more Major League starts after that as our season finished, and of the four that I made in total, two were good, and two were bad. In the following years, I played four more minor league seasons and spent half a season playing in Japan’s version of the MLB, but I never made it back to the Big Leagues.

In January 2024 I made the decision to finally retire from playing professional baseball. I spent the months after the 2023 season going through a deeply reflective period of honest self-evaluation, both about my career and my future. I was flooded with memories of a life spent in baseball, a life molded by baseball, and all that meant for the decision that I was making. During my career, people always used to ask me, “James, what are you going to do when you’re done playing baseball?” And I could always answer with 100% honesty, “I don’t know.” I felt I needed to give all my attention to the pursuit of my dreams, and any plan B that I may have developed in response to thinking about that question of my post-baseball life I felt would be detracting from my pursuit.

In life, the roads we choose to go down come in all shapes and sizes, and oftentimes the path forward is clear, almost as if we are following the GPS in our car. Others require a map and contemplation, as there may be multiple routes to choose from. The choice to retire felt like a different kind of crossroads. Instead of coming to a fork in the road where the decision is to go left or right, or perhaps a fork where there are multiple or even limitless prongs to choose from, it felt like there was an unpaved expanse laid out before me, and the road I had been traveling went right up to that expanse. The decision was not which direction to go, but rather if I was going to step off the road I had been deliberately traveling for my entire life. Along the way there had been stop signs, detours, and wrong turns, but it had always been one road and a man chasing the horizon.

With a career’s worth of memories to think about and unpack, my mind kept returning, over and over and over again, to that jog out onto Wrigley Field towards the pitcher’s mound. Certainly, that jog and subsequent time pitching was cool for countless reasons. There is nothing like having 40,000 people watching your every move, cheering with each pitch (or in my case at Wrigley, cheering against me and applauding when I gave up a hit, or booing when I struck somebody out). The adrenaline coursing through my veins during those moments is a feeling unlike any other, and it is unlikely that I will ever do something that replicates that feeling. However, this is not what I longed to hold onto.

When I think about that jog to the mound, I exclusively think about what it represents. There is a depth to that jog that gives meaning to every single step, the culmination of a lifetime of passion, dedication, sacrifice, and love.

Step: the dream of an 8-year-old boy in his backyard, playing catch with his dad, pretending he is a Major League baseball player, and for 30 years of my life, getting to live that dream.

Step: a mom driving her young son to practice after a long day of work, teaching him during the car ride home about commitment to a team, selfless play, and accountability, and then, long after that boy has gone to bed, washing his uniform and scrubbing his pants of infield dirt stains. 

Step: the sacrifice of a girlfriend who became a fiancée who became a wife, who at the beginning of every season would allow the person she loved to walk out the door and leave for eight months at a time, visiting him whenever she could in random cities across the U.S. and staying in cheap hotels and decrepit apartments, or having to settle for late-night FaceTimes instead of in-person dinners, supportive of him beyond measure as he pursued his dreams.

Step: how every decision made in my life was in service of being able to take that jog, from what time I woke up and went to bed, to the food I did and didn’t put in my body, to the countless “no’s” to party invites and drinks and vacations, to missing birthdays and holidays, to where I lived and who I spent my time with — all because singular goals require sacrifice that can be harder than you ever imagine, but knowing in the end the sacrifice is part of what makes it worthwhile, and without it, the jog doesn’t happen.

Step: a late-night training session, the second of the day, in an empty gym with no music, my inner monologue all I need to sustain me as I visualize my opponent calling it quits and going home long ago, yet here I am, the willingness to do today what others won’t so tomorrow I can do what others can’t, this thought physically manifesting itself as beads of sweat on the floor around me.

Step: what it feels like to be pitching in the 7^th inning in a tie ball game with a runner on second and one out, me versus the hitter, laying my nuts on the line and with the game in my hands, knowing with absolute certainty that I want the ball with the outcome of the game in the balance, and how this is what makes me feel most alive in this world.

On the jog, once I take the last step and toe the pitcher’s rubber, and then deliver my first pitch, what happens next is why baseball is the perfect metaphor for life. I get set, select which pitch I am going to throw, wind up, and deliver. And now, after all that has gone into this pitch, every step to get to the mound and all the accompanying meaning, and how every single thing in my life has led me to this moment, the ball has left my hand, and there is absolutely nothing more that I can do. What happens next has left my hands, quite literally, from if the batter swings, to where he hits the ball, to if my defense makes an error, or if the ball goes over the fence, or if the umpire makes a bad call. I can’t control any of it. What I can control is how I perceive the events that unfold and react accordingly. This perception is a choice, and a constant one. Then, I’ll get the ball back and do it again, probably 100 more times that game. And because baseball is played every single day over the course of a 162-game season, I must show up the next day to do it again, and the day after that, and the day after that. Like in life, we have to show up every single day, prepare and do the best we can, be accountable to ourselves and our teammates, and then let the universe decide what happens next.

When I look back on my outing at Wrigley Field, of course I wish I pitched better that day, but with time and perspective, I recognize and can even appreciate having gotten my ass kicked. In that reflection, I think of Teddy Roosevelt's speech, which has become known as “The Man in the Arena." The speech is most often used in response to critics and criticisms, with the famous words of, “It is not the critic who counts…” Yet to me, the most meaningful bit comes when he describes where true value in a man’s pursuit lies:

“The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows the great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat.”

If we can look back on our work and the things we dedicate ourselves to, and we can see ourselves in Roosevelt’s words, we can know we were fully alive in our journey. The meaning comes from the journey, the striving, the willingness to win or lose, and the courage to know that regardless of the outcome, there is honor in strapping up for battle, and immense growth because of it. To get out to that pitcher’s mound, I took each step with purpose, and to wake up every day and know that is what your passion and your work gets you is to lead a life of fulfillment. 

When making the decision to retire, I was overwhelmed at how lucky I was to have found something in my life that provided me with such purpose and fulfillment. When I’ve heard other athletes talk about their retirement experience, especially the ones who struggle with it, I hear them talk about how their sport has been their identity, and they don’t know who they are without it. I’ve never had that worry, as I’ve always felt I’m more than the sport that I played and always had many interests beyond just baseball. What did worry me, however, was something I already mentioned thinking about on one of those steps: I have been able to live a life that is essentially the dream of an 8-year-old boy, and what could be better than that?

I’ve come to realize that what made the living of that dream special was what it provided me every single day of my life, beyond the 40,000 screaming fans, beyond the balls and strikes, and beyond the field. What it really did was this: when I woke up in the morning, I had a day in front of me where every moment was an opportunity to chase a better version of myself; an opportunity to face incredible challenges head on that tested my character, resilience, and fortitude, and sharpened me to grow not only into a better player, but a better man; an opportunity to find meaning in sacrifice; an opportunity to share my journey with the people I love, and know that the people who love and support me in return, while the world sees that support take shape through them cheering in the stands, they’ve really been with me every step of the way, and there is no jog out to the mound without them; and an opportunity to absolutely love what it is that I dedicate myself to. To have all of this each morning was to have a fire inside myself that perpetually burned and sustained me.

It has been a little over two years since I retired. As a professional baseball player, you live a nomadic lifestyle, moving from one city to the next every three days for a new series. It’s a spartan-like existence, living out of a suitcase. Since retiring, I have enjoyed some much-needed time at home. My wife and I moved to Raleigh, North Carolina and have established some roots, and we now have a 19-month-old son.

Moving on from my playing career hasn’t been easy. To go from having that perpetual fire that burned and sustained me to not having it was new territory for me — in mind, body, and soul — and I’ve spent countless hours trying to orient myself to this side of life. There has been struggle, sadness, and uncertainty, but in reflection, also pride, joy, and a sense of accomplishment. I went from being on a baseball field every single day of my life to being unable to even turn a game on. And I understand my relationship to the game will likely always exist along a spectrum. It doesn’t have to be the same as it once was, and that’s okay. Because my relationship to and with the game is growing in new ways, and right now, in ways I can’t wait to further explore.

In looking towards the future, I am filled with excitement. With Marvel Mentorship & Advisory, I use baseball to help young men grow into the best versions of themselves, on and off the field. I get to use my entire life’s journey — the dream of an 8-year-old boy — and all the wisdom I accumulated during a life in the game, and use it in a way that is deeply fulfilling, gives me purpose, and impacts others. I talked about the fire inside myself that perpetually burned and sustained me throughout my career. Upon first retiring, I intentionally let those specific flames die down to focus on other areas of my life. But they were always smoldering. And now, I get to help young men and their families on their own journeys and be for them what so many people were for me. And with that, I’m fanning the embers of that fire that has never gone out inside myself, and I plan to use it not only as heat and energy for myself, but to warm others. And when a fire spreads, with the right kindling and conditions, there’s no telling how big it can grow.