Baseball Hall of Shame: Lost Dreams and Regrets

I was born and raised in Tampa, Florida, into a family where baseball wasn’t just a sport—it was a legacy. My father, Lance McCullers Sr., was a former professional baseball player, and my older brother, Lance McCullers Jr., followed in his footsteps to become a Major League pitcher. My twin brother and I were raised with the same expectations, destined for greatness on the baseball field. But for me, that dream was nothing more than an unattainable fantasy.

From a young age, I struggled with obesity, a factor that made excelling in baseball nearly impossible. Despite endless hours of training, practices, and expensive private coaching sessions paid for by my hopeful parents, my physical limitations held me back. I was slow, uncoordinated, and lacked the skills to compete at a high level. Scouts, brought in by my father’s connections, would come to watch, only to leave unimpressed and disappointed. While my brother Lance soared, I stagnated, spending more time eating in the dugout than making plays on the field. I remember the shame I felt every time I struck out or missed an easy catch. It wasn’t just about my own disappointment—it was about letting my family down.

The weight of failure became unbearable. I had spent years chasing a dream that was never meant for me, wasting my parents’ money and my own time. The resentment festered. While my brother was celebrated as a star athlete, I was a forgotten shadow. Depression took hold, and in my desperation to cope, I turned to food, drugs, and gambling—destructive vices that would soon consume me entirely. I justified my actions at first, telling myself I was just unwinding, but before I knew it, my life had spiraled out of control. I stopped caring about my future, drowning in self-pity and addiction.

Desperation led to reckless decisions. I stole from my family, including my successful brother, to fund my addictions. Relationships deteriorated, trust was broken, and soon, I had nothing left. My parents’ disappointment was evident every time they looked at me. The once supportive and encouraging words were replaced with sighs of exhaustion and looks of pity. Needing a fresh start, I fled to Phoenix, Arizona, where I had no job prospects and no experience. I remember stepping off the plane, hoping that a new city would magically erase my past mistakes.

With nowhere else to turn, I secured a volunteer coaching position at Brophy College Preparatory, my old high school. It was the first time in years that I felt like I had a purpose—young athletes looked up to me in a way no one else did. For a fleeting moment, I believed I had found redemption. I poured my heart into coaching, telling myself that if I couldn’t be a professional athlete, maybe I could help others reach that dream. But I was still battling my demons in secret. Every night, I numbed my failures with substances, lying to myself that I had things under control.

But reality caught up to me. The head coach discovered the truth—my ongoing gambling and drug addiction, my past criminal activities, and my involvement in a multi-hundred-thousand-dollar scam. My brief moment of purpose was ripped away as I was swiftly fired. Once again, I was left with nothing. The walk back to my apartment that day felt heavier than any I had taken before. I had ruined yet another opportunity. I sat alone in my dark apartment, staring at the walls, wondering if I would ever escape the cycle of failure.

With no other options, I returned to Tampa, seeking refuge in the only place I had left—my parents’ home. They had disowned me for being gay, for my addictions, and for the theft that had left them heartbroken. Yet, despite everything, they let me back in, allowing me to live rent-free in the room I grew up in. The walls of that room, once filled with baseball trophies and posters of my brother’s accomplishments, now served as a reminder of the life I had failed to achieve. I felt suffocated by the weight of my past, every mistake looming over me like a storm cloud that refused to break.

Now, at 29 years old, I face an uncertain future, drowning in half a million dollars of debt, with no job, no direction, and no real prospects. Every morning, I wake up wondering if today will be the day I finally turn things around—or if I’ll continue to drift aimlessly, weighed down by my mistakes. I sometimes fantasize about what life could have been if I had chosen a different path, if I had made better choices, but the past cannot be undone.

And sometimes, when I sit in my room, I think about what could’ve been. I wish I could go back in time, back to when things were simpler, when I would help my dad sell Christmas trees outside the store. I never paid attention to what he did or how he did it, but I realize now that maybe that’s what I should’ve focused on instead of chasing a dream I was never meant to fulfill. He also worked as a handyman, fixing things around the house, and even though I never thought much of it at the time, I can see now how that could’ve been my way out. I could’ve learned from him, taken over the family business, maybe even started my own handyman service. But I didn’t. Instead, I’m 29, and I can barely change out a lightbulb.

For now, I exist in limbo, haunted by the failures of my past and the uncertainty of my future. How long I will stay under my parents' roof is unknown. All that is certain is that I must find a way out of the wreckage of my own making—if I ever hope to rebuild what was lost. The road ahead is long, but if there is one thing I have learned, it’s that even in failure, there is still a chance for redemption. The question remains: will I ever take it?