A Late Bloomer’s Guide to Hard Work: Lessons from the Mound

Somehow—maybe through luck, grace, or something that felt like magic at the time—I ended up helping my team win the NCAA Division III National Championship at Ithaca College in 2002 as a pitcher. But the truth is, it wasn’t magic at all. It just took me twelve years to finally understand the connection between hard work and success.

As a pitching instructor now, I’m constantly trying to help young players discover that link much earlier than I did. Parents often ask how to get their daughters to practice on their own without nagging, and I smile because I remember being that kid who needed to be pushed. I didn’t become self-initiated until college. Growing up, I practiced only when I was told to, and even then, not with much purpose.

My work ethic as a young pitcher was… average. I went along with whatever my coaches asked, and that was about it. My parents took me to lessons with my uncle once a week, but outside of that, I might practice on my own once a week—maybe. I often felt guilty asking someone to catch for me, so I usually didn’t. And if practicing meant throwing into a wall and bending down to field it myself, that sounded like torture at the time. My parents, like so many wonderful parents, were supportive but didn’t push me. They came to my games, cheered for my “effort,” and never insisted on more.

Meanwhile, the pitchers who became legends—Cat Osterman, Jennie Finch, Keilani Ricketts—were training relentlessly, whether they felt like it or not. Their parents caught for them, pushed them, or provided structure. They practiced with purpose. They practiced often. They practiced even when it wasn’t convenient. They had a work ethic that I didn’t yet understand.

My Uncle John was the first person to show me what true effort felt like. In high school, he would arrive at my house at five in the morning to catch for me before school. At the time, it seemed extreme. Later, in college, 5 a.m. practices became normal. For a few weeks, he showed up with fierce intention, but then fatigue caught up with him. First he arrived at 5:15, then 5:20, and eventually he’d sit down in the recliner “just for a minute” and fall asleep. I never woke him. I’d tiptoe away and climb back into bed myself, happy for the extra hour and a half of sleep—completely unaware that I was sabotaging my own development.

I felt the consequences of that lack of practice every time I stepped onto the mound in high school. I threw hard—over 50 mph—but I had no idea where the ball would end up. Every pitch felt like a coin toss. The catcher would put down a sign, and I’d silently beg, “Please don’t walk this girl too.” Winning wasn’t even on my radar. I just didn’t want my teammates to be disappointed in me. My mindset was backward. Once, before an important game, my coach asked, “Do you think you have it today?” I had never felt like I “had it,” so I said no. She benched me. And instead of being upset, I felt relieved. That’s where my mindset was—I didn’t even know how to be a competitor yet. Being uncomfortable felt like failure.

Looking back, it’s clear that neither my coaches nor I understood what pitchers needed to truly succeed: consistent, purposeful, uncomfortable practice. I didn’t know how much confidence I could gain from showing up every day. I’m truly grateful I got another chance to learn.

Against all odds, I walked onto my college team without being recruited. I showed up in Coach Deb’s office on move-in day and announced, “Hi! I’m here! See you at tryouts!” Somehow she didn’t laugh. College completely changed my understanding of work. Coach Deb and Coach Robin taught me, through structure and expectation, that effort equals results. They didn’t give me the option to drift through practice. They required me to pitch 5–6 days a week, lift weights, condition, train mentally, and show up no matter what. Complaining wasn’t part of the culture. Letting the team down wasn’t acceptable. I followed orders mostly out of fear at first, but fear turned into discipline, and discipline eventually turned into confidence.

One day, during my sophomore year, it finally clicked. I started a game and threw a pitch exactly where I meant to. Then I threw a changeup that actually went slow. The batter swung and missed. And I stood there thinking, “Oh my goodness… my practice actually worked.” After so many years of going through the motions, it felt like discovering fire.

What I learned in college was that the work you do today—even the boring, repetitive, uncomfortable work—might pay off years from now. That mindset doesn’t come naturally to most young athletes. It didn’t for me. But understanding that short-term discomfort creates long-term success is the foundation of becoming great at anything.

This is where parents and coaches play a powerful role. Kids learn far more from what they see you do than from what you say. If you want your daughter to practice, don’t stand over her and lecture. Go outside with her. Catch for her. Run beside her. Hold a plank next to her. Model consistency, resilience, and commitment. Teach her, through action, that effort is the path to confidence.

Some players learn this lesson in one life-changing moment, like I did. Others learn it slowly, over years. Either way, the connection between hard work and success is one of the most valuable things an athlete can discover. It will carry her through adversity on the field and challenges far beyond softball. And if you’re part of helping her develop that mindset, my guess is it will be one of the most rewarding experiences of your own life, too.