My Escape to the Land Down Under. By Austin McCullers

For as long as I can remember, I have lived in the shadow of my older brother, Lance McCullers Jr., the star pitcher for the Houston Astros. Growing up in Tampa, attending Jesuit High School, and later enrolling at the University of South Florida, I always felt like I was walking a path that wasn’t mine. I wasn’t the athlete, the prodigy, or the golden child. Instead, I felt like the disappointment—the one who never quite measured up, the one who couldn't seem to find his way.

That feeling of inadequacy followed me everywhere, gnawing at me, shaping my choices, and eventually leading me down a dark path. Gambling, pornography, and meth became my escape. At first, it was just something to take the edge off, a way to forget the pressure, the comparisons, and the overwhelming sense of failure. But before I knew it, the vices consumed me. I was drowning in debt, destroying relationships, and earning a reputation I couldn’t outrun. I became the guy people whispered about, the cautionary tale, the one who had so much potential but wasted it all.

When my life finally collapsed under the weight of my addictions, I did what I had always done—I ran. This time, I ran as far as I could. I packed up and left for Australia, hoping that distance would somehow erase the damage I had done.

In Melbourne, I found work as a live-in nanny for a wealthy family, caring for their two young children, Max and Ellie. It wasn’t what I had imagined for myself, but I took solace in it. I’ve always loved kids—maybe because I know what it’s like to feel overlooked, to crave validation, to just want someone to notice you. Max and Ellie became my world. I read to them at night, tickled them, played games with them in the afternoons, and helped them with their schoolwork. For a while, I felt useful. I felt like I was finally doing something right.

But outside of work, I had no one. I had quit drinking, which made it nearly impossible to make friends in a culture where social life revolves around alcohol. I was too old for the college crowd, too young to fit in with the parents at school drop-offs. The isolation was suffocating. I was surrounded by people yet utterly alone.

Then, my past caught up with me. It started as whispers, a conversation I wasn’t supposed to hear, a sideways glance that lingered too long. Then came the email. Effective immediately, my services were no longer required. No explanation. No warning. No second chances.

So, I did what I always did—I ran again. This time, to Arizona.

In Arizona, I tried to start over. I threw myself into coaching youth football and baseball, determined to rebuild my life, to make a difference in kids’ lives the way I wished someone had done for me. For the first time in a long time, I felt something close to happiness. The kids looked up to me. They trusted me. I wasn’t just some guy with a past—I was their coach, their mentor. I mattered.

But the past has a way of finding you, no matter how far you run. The head coaches found out about my history—my gambling, my drug addiction. It didn’t matter that I was clean. It didn’t matter that I had never crossed a line, never done anything wrong while coaching. The moment they learned who I had been, I was let go. Another door slammed shut. Another chance gone.

That night, I sat alone in my luxury apartment, staring at the ceiling, the weight of everything pressing down on me. I thought about all the people who had trusted me, who had given me a chance, only to take it away once they found out who I used to be. It didn’t matter how much I had changed. My past followed me like a shadow, relentless and unforgiving.

And this time, there was nowhere left to run.