About Kyle

To Put It Plainly, I Wasn't The Kid Everyone Knew Was Going To Make It.

I was a JV pitcher as a sophomore in high school and didn’t play travel ball until my junior year. I knew almost nothing about development and I dealt with both elbow and shoulder pain for parts of all 4 years. I graduated at a whopping 6'1" 165 pounds, I topped out at 87, and I got a single college offer to play at Cal State Northridge. I took it. Not the clear makings of a superstar.

My freshman year at Cal State Northridge was a shock. The early mornings, lifting, running, practices, acclimating to life on my own—I wasn't prepared physically or mentally. Most days I felt like I was fighting just to stay afloat and not be the worst pitcher on the staff. That spring at CSUN I threw 0.2 innings, but managed to walk 5 before heading to the Northwoods League for the summer.

The struggle continued. I worked my butt off every day to give myself the best chance to succeed, but night after night I was terrible. Walking guys, velo down, and questioning whether I even had the ability to live out my dream of pitching in the Big Leagues. There were outings where I wanted to quit, but thankfully I had my Dad as a support. I remember a specific phone call with him saying, “This isn’t the time to quit. You need to keep going or else you’ll regret it for the rest of your life.”

So I did. I took his advice and grinded out that terrible summer in Wisconsin and it eventually led me to work with a coach named Lantz Wheeler. Along with some technical things, he gave me something I needed badly. Hope. For the first time in a while, I believed things could get better.

I Learned Early That Nobody Was Going To Figure It Out For Me.

So I got back to work. I returned to CSUN, continued to struggle, but now showing glimpses of what I felt was progress. But at the end of the fall sitting across from my head coach for my winter exit meeting, I was told, “You’re not going to pitch at all this year, and you should probably just transfer.” So I listened and transferred to my local juco - Citrus College.

At Citrus, I began pitching well. I was stringing together some good outings and my confidence on the bump was coming back. I threw in the low 90s for the first time ever and MLB scouts even started showing up. I committed to pitch the following season at Cal Poly Pomona and things were going great.

But then I started having low back pain from pitching that stopped me in my tracks. After outings I'd hobble to get to my car, barely able to walk, let alone throw. I’d see trainers, chiropractors and physical therapists, but I’d end up in the same place over and over. In pain. Until finally my body had had enough and my season came to a premature end.

Eventually I realized that if I wanted to keep playing, I had to understand the problem myself. That wasn't new though, I went through the same process with my elbow and shoulder in high school.

“Figure it out, or the baseball dream ends here.”

With each passing setback and failure, I would study my body, my craft, and get to the root of why I was having problems and do my best to solve them. Through trial and error, I slowly began developing an intentional routine to keep me healthy and performing at my best.

The following year at Cal Poly Pomona, I kept building. Constantly tweaking my routine and figuring out what worked for me. I earned a starting role, got up to 93, and was able to pitch the whole season pain-free. Huge! Following that season in 2017, the Philadelphia Phillies took a chance and drafted me in the 16th round.

Getting Drafted Wasn't The Finish Line.

Professional baseball immediately made me a small fish in a very big pond again. Instead of obsessing over where I stood in the organization, I narrowed my focus. What can I do today? This pitch? How do I prepare every day to give myself the best chance to come back tomorrow? Fortunately, I had the opportunity to work with HOF Pitcher, Roy Halladay, as my mental skills coach that first season in pro ball, and he helped change how I viewed myself as a pitcher. I began to identify who I was on the mound and how I wanted the hitter to feel in the box. For me it was embodying aggression to pitch with complete conviction.

That offseason I trained in Nashville around first-round picks, established pros and Big Leaguers. I wanted to keep up. So my life became completely centered around development. For three months, I lived: Eat. Sleep. Train. No distractions. I went from around 190 pounds to over 205 and in the best shape of my life going into Spring Training.

That season everything changed. I became a Low-A All-Star reliever, struck out 111 in 67 innings, and got promoted twice, finishing the year in Double-A. I went from touching 93 once in my life, to averaging 93.5 and up to 97. For the first time, I felt like I was the guy.

Then I Learned The Other Side Of Development.

That following offseason I continued pushing. Up to 102 on pulldowns and 98 on the mound. Ready for spring. But somewhere in that pursuit, I started moving away from the things that had made me successful. I took some new mechanical advice, rather than trusting my own feel and process that allowed me to have the best season of my life. This was the beginning of losing myself as a pitcher.

When I got to spring my fastball command disappeared. My velocity slowly started tapering off as the season went on, and my stuff got worse. The harder I tried to fix it, the further away I sometimes felt. I got derailed by the wrong information, at the wrong time, and I lost some of what made me unique.

From Possibly Being Cut To The Major Leagues.

Fast forward to 2021, I started the season in Triple-A and was struggling badly on a staff that had tons of great arms. Eventually, I was sent to Extended Spring Training where the message was clear, “Figure it out, or you’re getting released.”

During those two weeks, I identified a mechanical problem and a restriction in my hip that I believed were preventing me from moving and throwing the way I needed to. I got to work with a great athletic trainer and got on the mound every day to attack both pieces. In that time, my velocity went from 91–95 back up to 95–99, and I immediately started to command the baseball again. I was sent to Double-A and dominated. The stuff was back. The command was back. That season I was part of a perfect game and threw an immaculate inning. Things were going great. One late evening in a random hotel, I got the call I'd spent most of my life chasing.

I was going to the Major Leagues. After more than a decade of trying to turn myself into a major-league pitcher, I had done it.

The next year wasn't the storybook continuation I would have wanted. Something was “off,” and eventually my playing career came to an end.

What The Game Taught Me.

I spent most of my career trying to solve problems - arm pain, back pain, velocity, command, mechanics, confidence. I experienced what it was like to be the worst pitcher on a staff, to be told to transfer, to get drafted, to completely lose myself as a pitcher, to turn it around and dominate, and eventually to stand on a Major League mound.

What I learned is that there isn’t one path. The guys who make it aren’t always the first-rounders or the big names. A lot of them are the grinders. The guys who keep finding a way when injury, failure, or obstacles stand in their way.

But I also learned that working harder isn’t always the answer. I spent years putting tons of effort into things that weren’t actually solving my problems. If I had understood where to put my attention sooner, I could have saved myself time, energy and frustration.

That’s probably the biggest thing my career taught me: work hard, but make sure you’re working at the right thing.

Why I Coach.

After my playing career ended, I finished up my kinesiology degree and began working with players. It was a natural transition, and helping younger players develop their own process and reach their goals became just as rewarding as chasing my own.

But coaching means more to me than helping someone throw harder or move better. At some of the lowest points of my career, I had people who helped me believe things could still change and they offered me a new path. I was so fortunate to have people like that in my corner. They made living my dream possible. I want to be that source for each player I work with.

To be the coach I wish I had at 14 years old.

I want each player to understand himself, to know why he’s doing something, and to develop his own process. To recognize when something isn't right. And eventually, to become his own best coach.