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Being Uncommon

My first season at The Citadel, I was a redshirt transfer student. For anyone who doesn’t know what that means, I had transferred to The Citadel from a small NAIA school in South Carolina, so by NCAA rule I had to sit out a year. I could practice, but could not play in the games.

Lots of naysayers said I was crazy for making the switch. Many said I would never be good enough to play Division 1 baseball. Others just thought it was insane to voluntarily submit yourself to the rigors, discipline, and overall inconvenience of a Military School just to play baseball, when you could be partying it up like most college kids.

I tell my guys every day that it requires uncommon effort to achieve uncommon outcomes. Transferring into the Citadel to play baseball is a little like volunteering to go to prison because they have an excellent weight room.

But it turned out pretty good for me. I had a good run in baseball, my grades improved, I got into Physical Therapy school, and I learned more about baseball during that redshirt year than I had learned in my entire life. My senior year I was named first team CoSida GTE Academic All-America.

Get Off The Field!!
My coach was ABCA Hall of Famer, Chal Port. He was as old school as they come and he would verbally rip you for a mistake at the drop of a hat. If you wanted to play for Coach Port, you had to have thick skin. He expected you to give a full effort ad be completely engaged every second of every practice and game.

The veteran players had warned me that he was pretty harsh, but I wasn’t worried. I was always the kind of player who hustled relentlessly and had never had any trouble with any coach I had ever played for.
The first time I experienced Coach Port’s wrath was in that first fall, about 2 weeks after we started practices. I was working on turning double plays at shortstop, and kept over-throwing first base.

I guess he was tired of watching me make the same mistake over and over again. He leaped off of his chair, blew a shrill whistle to halt the practice, and vocally blasted me.

“Sullivan, get off the field! You’re F***ing up a good drill!!”

When he said it, I didn’t really know how to respond. I left my position and wandered into the outfield, trying to stay out of the way.

“SULLIVAN! I SAID GET OFF THE FIELD!!”

I drifted to an empty space behind third base about 10 feet from the left field foul line.

“GET OFF THE F***ING FIELD!
ALL THE WAY!!”

I ran to a place outside the foul line.
I stood with my toes 3 inches in foul territory, and there I remained, like a statue for the rest of the 3-hour practice.
He never said another word to me rest of the day. When practice was over, I raked the field, and hit the locker

Coach Port was very organized.
Every practice was scripted to the minute.
From batting practice pitchers, to bucket duties to field maintenance, everyone had a job every second of every workout.
Each day the schedule was posted on the bulletin board when we arrived in the locker room.
You were expected to know exactly where to be ad what to do at all times.
When a drill changed, Coach Port would blow a whistle and you were expected to sprint to your place and start working in whatever you had been assigned to do.
Some guys would take notes on index cards and stuff them in their hats in case they forgot their assignment.

The day after my ejection from practice, I looked on the practice schedule.
My name was not listed.

I assumed I was still banished from the field, so when practiced started, I took up my post in left field foul territory.
Coach made eye contact with me and said nothing.

In our program, the pitchers who didn’t see a lot of action (usually freshmen) were responsible for throwing batting practice. They were always nervous, because if they threw 3-4 balls in a row, Coach Port would blast them and shout, “Get the F*** out of there and give me a guy who can throw some @@#$%&*** strikes!!!!”

On this day, he was relentlessly wearing out the BP pitchers. After 3 or 4 of them had messed their pants and failed, Coach Port bellowed, “Is their anyone on this @$%## team who can throw a strike so we can take some #$%^&* batting practice?!!

Every one was silent.
There was an awkwardly long pause.
I saw an opportunity.
I had to find a way to show the coach I could contribute to this team!
From my place in foul territory I found some courage and said,
“I can do it coach.”
And I sprinted to the mound.
I was not a pitcher. I was a mediocre infielder.
I had never thrown batting practice before in my life.
But I saw a sliver of hope.
I didn’t go through the transfer process and the first 6 weeks of freshman hazing to stand on the sidelines.

I took a deep breath and started pumping strikes.
Lots of them.
I just locked in on the catcher and found a zone.
After every pitch my only thought was the next pitch.
When I looked up, batting practice was over, and I had thrown to every guy on the team.

Coach Port never said a word.

The next day on the practice schedule, I saw my name listed under “BP Pitchers”.
Mine was the only name on the list.

You Gotta Believe
So I found a role.

I pitched BP the rest of the fall—every day.
I showed up and before every practice to get my own work in and then threw BP.

In the spring I made the traveling squad, even though I couldn’t play in the games.
Batting practice pitcher and scorebook keeper.

I never viewed my BP pitching role as a chore.
To me it was an opportunity to improve my arm strength.
In my estimation, I threw about 400 pitches per day every day. All were from mound distance. And I threw every pitch as hard as I could. If the hitters complained and asked me to take a little off, I threw harder.
I was sore every day, but I still threw. And my arm got stronger.

The next fall, I was eligible to play, but I wasn’t sure if I would be able to crack the starting lineup.
I knew I could hit a little, but with returning starts at every infield position, I didn’t know if there would be a place for me.

As fate would have it, our starting catcher had knee surgery and was moved to first base.
I guess my newfound arm strength was noticeable.
Coach Port cornered me after a practice and said, “Sullivan, do you think you can play catcher?”

Again, I saw an opportunity.

“I can do it coach.”

I had never caught before in my life.

The next spring, on opening day against Clemson, I was the starting catcher.
I stayed there for the next 2 seasons.

Throughout history, countless great men have accomplished remarkable feats because they believed in themselves had the courage to say,

“I can do it.”

And that’s what our guys at The ARMory say every day.
I ask them questions like, “Do you think you can throw 90 today?”
And they say “I can do it coach.”

The results have been amazing.
37 guys over 90mph and several more knocking on the door

If you think you have what it takes to be an ARMory guy, go to our main page and click on the “Train With The ARMORYand say, “I can do it, coach.”
It’s the first step to achieving all the greatness within you.

If you don’t live near Tampa Bay, we’ll come to you! Just click here and book a weekend. Twelve hours of training with Randy Sullivan in your town. Capture the magic our ARMory guys live every day!

Until next time,

I know you can!

Randy Sullivan, PT
CEO, The ARMory Power Pitching Academy