Nobody ever told me baseball is a game built on failure.

So every time I made an out, I'd obsess over it. Why did I do so badly? What went wrong?

I genuinely believed it shouldn't be happening. That if I got out, I must be doing something wrong.

So I'd change my stance.

One hitless game, and I'd show up the next day standing differently in the box.

Then I'd do it again.

And again.

And again.

I never built anything, because I tore it down every time the game did what the game does.

Nobody told me the best hitters on earth fail seven out of ten times.

Nobody taught me that anticipating a pitch is a trainable skill. That a count, a location, a two-strike approach could change an entire at-bat.

I had the swing.

What I didn't have was anyone teaching me the half of this game that happens between the ears.

I wasn't failing because my mechanics were broken. I was failing because I didn't understand the game I was playing — and then I'd break my mechanics trying to fix it.