Club Baseball Has
Lost Its Way

Club Baseball Has Lost Its Way

A Saturday at the Ballpark Made Me Wonder: How Did We Get Here?

Let me preface this by saying, not every organization needs to make massive changes. I know some programs that do a great job. I am writing in generalities for the most part.

I was out at a club baseball game recently with my son, Luca. Normally, he gets excited anytime we head to the ballpark. He talks baseball the entire drive, and can't wait to watch. This time was different. Within minutes of arriving, he looked bored, and by the third inning, we were both ready to leave.

What struck me most was that this wasn't some random local event. These were two of the better club programs in California. That's what made me start paying attention.

The first thing we encountered was the entrance gate. A sign read, "$10 Admission – CASH ONLY." My first thought was, Am I going to pay $10 just to watch a travel baseball game? I also assumed this tournament organization does it that way so they can pocket all the cash. Fortunately, I had exactly zero dollars in cash, and the gate attendant let me in anyway, shhh.

Then Luca wanted a snack, which is pretty standard for any kid at a sporting event. There wasn't a snack bar. There wasn't a water fountain. The closest restroom was a five-minute walk away. We're asking families to invest thousands of dollars each year into club baseball, yet we can't provide the most basic amenities you'd expect at a local Little League field.

Then the game began.

The leadoff hitter walked to the plate carrying a wood bat. Tournament directors, please stop making high school players swing wood bats. I understand the argument that it prepares players for college baseball, wait, no I don't. They don't swing wood bats in college. Wood bats simply made an already slow game even less entertaining. Worse than that, more than $300 worth of bats were broken in the first three innings alone. Money not well spent.

As play continued, more issues became obvious. The pitchers were throwing off a turf hitting mat that was turned sideways and covered the mound. Nobody knew where the actual pitching rubber was. One pitcher appeared to be throwing from roughly 61 feet while the other was closer to 59. Eventually, coaches came out to argue because one team believed the opposing pitcher was throwing from too close. How is something as fundamental as mound distance still an issue at a high-level event?

Within the first fifteen minutes, the pace of the game had slowed to a crawl. The players looked like they didn't want to be there. The parents looked like they'd rather be anywhere else. Ironically, the umpires seemed to have more energy than anyone on the field. Players jogged to their defensive positions with about the same urgency as my 10-month-old daughter pushing her toy walker across the living room.

After just two innings, the starting pitcher had already thrown more than 50 pitches. Someone finally walked another player down to the bullpen to warm up. Except there really wasn't a bullpen. There wasn't a mound. There wasn't a catcher in gear. There were simply two kids playing catch, one standing upright with a glove. Again, these are organizations charging families thousands of dollars every year, but they don't have a second catcher to warm someone up?

I only stayed for three innings because, luckily, I had a family party to attend, but I'd already seen enough. Throughout those innings, there was one extra-base hit and only two balls that were actually struck with authority. More concerning were the fundamentals. On multiple occasions, infielders looked unsure where to line up on standard base hits to the outfield. These aren't advanced concepts. They're situations many players learn at seven or eight years old.

The coaching staffs were equally concerning. Many appeared to be in their early to mid-20s, which isn't a criticism in itself. There are plenty of outstanding young coaches. The issue wasn't their age; it was their aura. There was minimal communication, very little teaching, and almost no engagement in the dugout. Instead of your normal lineup of 9, there were about 14 hitting in no particular order. From the outside looking in, it felt like several coaches were simply there to collect a paycheck. I will say there was one older coach who stood out. He coached with purpose, taught the game, encouraged his players, and genuinely looked like he loved being there. He was easily the highlight of my afternoon and I commend him for doing things the right way.

Lastly, these kids were all 16 years old, and there were only two that had that strength and/or athleticism to play at the collegiate level. Why are you spending so much money on lessons, camps, tournaments, and showcases, when you aren't physically ready to show a legitimate tool that coaches want to see? I don't think all 16 year olds are going to be extremely physical, but it was visible to the naked eye that almost all of these athletes weren't on a strict strength training regimen.

Driving home, I kept asking myself the same question: How have we allowed youth baseball to become this?

Somewhere along the way, we've become obsessed with more tournaments, more showcases, more travel, more rankings, more uniforms, more social media posts, and more fees. Yet somehow, we've ended up with less teaching, less development, less passion, and, perhaps most importantly, less fun.

Club baseball absolutely serves an important purpose. It creates opportunities for players, builds friendships, and provides exposure that many athletes wouldn't receive otherwise. I believe in club baseball. I've built much of my career around helping players navigate it.

But I also believe we've created a system that too often prioritizes revenue and numbers over development.

There's nothing wrong with organizations making money. There's nothing wrong with tournament directors earning a living. There's nothing wrong with paying coaches well—in fact, I hope the best coaches are compensated accordingly. The problem begins when profit becomes the primary objective and player development becomes secondary.

If I were building a baseball organization today, I'd do it differently. Not because I think I have all the answers, but because I think we've drifted too far away from what families actually need. Development. Communication. Passionate coaches. Fundamental baseball. An environment where players genuinely look forward to showing up every day. Those things should matter far more than how many tournaments can fit onto a summer schedule.

I have some ideas that I truly believe could improve the club baseball experience for players, parents, coaches, and organizations alike. They may not be popular because they're different, but different isn't always bad.

If you're an organization owner or leader who's open to having an honest conversation about how we can better serve families and develop better baseball players, I'd love to talk. Send me an email or give me a call if you have my number.