Three Years, Three Stars, One Unforgettable Team
Three books can change your Thursday. One book can change your world.
Hello,
Three years ago, I started an experiment.
Not in a lab or an office—but on a ballfield in Salt Lake City, Utah.
At the time, I thought I was starting a baseball team.
I didn’t realize I was starting something that would change my life.
We had just moved from Michigan, where my son Rhys had played in a small-town baseball league—the kind I grew up in. Local fields. Neighborhood kids. A rhythm that felt honest, joyful, and real.
When we landed in Salt Lake City, Rhys joined a new team. But something felt off. The coaches barked. The energy felt transactional. Players weren’t being developed. The game that had brought us so much joy started to feel heavy.
I kept complaining in my head. Until one day, my friend back in Michigan, Andrew Rees, said, “Why don’t you stop talking about it—and build something better?”
So I did.
I called it the Salt Lake Stars.
But this wasn’t just about baseball. It was about values. About testing a theory I’d carried with me from the emergency room, to the days of building a startup, to every team I’ve ever led:
That culture drives everything.
That if you can build confidence, if you can instill belief, if you can teach kids to trust each other and themselves—the results will take care of themselves.
And they did.
Over three years, the Stars went from an unknown team to one of the most successful youth baseball programs in the state. We won more than 170 games (174-56-7), took home fifteen championship trophies from Utah to Omaha, and played in some of the biggest youth tournaments in the country.
But that’s not what this story is about.
Because as powerful as those wins were, as incredible as that final walk-off hit in Omaha felt—what I’ll remember most is something more impactful. Something deeper.
What I’ll remember is the community we built.
The trust.
The laughter.
The moments between moments.
The huddles after losses. The goldfish reminders after errors. The late-night team dinners. The way the boys began to carry themselves—not just as ballplayers, but as people.
When I created the team logo (beautifully brought to life by Stephen Deutsch), I chose three stars—each one rising, each one slightly larger than the last. It was meant to symbolize growth, forward motion, and the journey from age 12 to 13 to 14—before launching into high school and everything beyond.
But looking back now, I see something I didn’t expect.
Those three stars weren’t just about the kids.
They were about me.
One star for each year I got to spend doing something that mattered. One star for the way this team changed me—made me a better father, a better friend, a better leader. One star for all the light they brought into my life.
The Stars gave me more than I ever gave them.
They gave me time with my father—precious, unexpected, beautiful time I’ll never forget. They gave me the chance to rekindle a childhood friendship with Dave Gorner, my teammate since nursery school, who flew across the country to coach by my side. They gave me a deeper bond with my son, watching him grow—not just as a player, but as a leader.
They gave me roots in a place that once felt unfamiliar.
And they gave me purpose.
Because that’s the thing about service—when you show up for others, you often find what’s been missing in yourself.
The experiment is over now. The boys are heading to high school. And I find myself at the end of something that became far more than a baseball team.
I started out building a team for them.
But in the end, they built something for me.
They built a place where I belonged.
A place where joy was shared, values were lived, and growth wasn’t just measured in batting averages—but in belief, in effort, in how loudly the dugout cheered for one another.
They reminded me that real success isn’t in what you accumulate—it’s in what you give.
Your time. Your presence. Your belief in someone else.
I thought I was building a team to teach boys how to compete.
Turns out, they were teaching me how to love something deeply again.
To care. To lead. To lose and still laugh. To win and still be humble. To show up—fully, fiercely, and without keeping score.
That’s what I’ll carry now.
Not the trophies. Not the stats.
But the way this team made me feel alive.
The Salt Lake Stars are moving on.
But the best parts of them—the heart, the fire, the joy—will always stay with me.
And I hope, wherever they go, that feeling stays with them too.
That real confidence is forged through effort, tested by failure, and lifted by attitude.
That belief—in yourself and in each other—is the most powerful thing we can pass on.
And that sometimes, the best thing you’ll ever build… builds you right back.
Always ❤️📚💡
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More than a game. Thank you.