When I was about 12, my dad — Tony Bernazard — decided it was time I learned to stop being afraid of the ball. We used to practice in a grassy field across the street from our house. It wasn’t a real ballpark, but it was where a lot of life lessons took root.

Every time he pitched inside, I flinched. Jumped back. Threw my hands up like I was dodging a bullet. “If it hits you, you get first base. Then you can make something happen. ” he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Next pitch: he threw, what seemed to 12 year old me to be a 90 mph fastball coming right at me. I threw my hands up and tried to dodge it but I wasn't fast enough. It hit me dead in the center in the stomach. I dropped. Wind knocked completely out of me, and crying in pain. Lying there on the ground gasping for air, I thought he’d come over and say something like, “You okay?” But all he said was:

“Get up. Next time, turn your back.”

That was my dad. Direct. No nonsense. He wasn’t trying to be mean — he was preparing me. That was his way.

I dusted myself off, wiped the tears from my face and put the bat above my shoulder. With tears still streaming down my face, he threw another fastball right at me. I turned this time, took it on the backside. It still stung, but it didn’t drop me. He gave a nod, and we kept going like nothing happened.

It wasn’t just a baseball lesson. That was life. Don’t flinch. Don’t panic. Face it. Take it. Move forward. You don’t always get to avoid pain, but you can choose how you handle it. That was my dad. Not cruel — just honest. He wasn’t raising a kid who ran from discomfort. He was raising someone who could take a hit and keep moving.

That was my dad’s way of teaching — tough love on the diamond. Most of his best parenting moments weren’t in heart-to-heart conversations around the kitchen table, like normal parents, but right there on the baseball field. Through baseball, he taught me about resilience, facing fear, and never letting anything knock you down for long. He was intense, competitive to the core, and always striving not just to be better than others but to be the best version of himself. That’s what he wanted for us too.

Growing up with him wasn’t always easy. He worked a lot. Baseball took him everywhere — clubhouses, front offices, stadiums all over the world. He wasn’t always present in the traditional sense. But when he was there, and when he taught, it stuck. It was memorable. And it always had a deeper meaning.

Looking back, I realize how much of that toughness, that clarity, lives in me. I’ve passed it down to my own kids — not by beaning them in the backyard — but by showing them how to stand in when life throws inside heat.

That mindset was everything to him. He used to say, “Getting to the big leagues? That’s the easy part. Staying there — now that’s hard.”

My dad grew up in Puerto Rico, where baseball wasn’t just a game — it was survival. He came from nothing but drive, dirt fields, and the kind of hunger that doesn’t go away when you’re tired. He grinded through the minors with long bus rides, cheap food, and no guarantees. But when he finally made it to the majors, he made a vow: “I’m never going back.” Not to the minors. Not to being average. Not to forgetting what got him there.

He always said the easiest trap is thinking you’ve arrived — and then taking your foot off the gas. “That’s when most people fall,” he told me. “They stop doing the things that got them there in the first place.” He swore he never would. That’s why he studies greatness like scripture — Nick Saban, Coach K, Tiger, MJ. Not just what they did, but the way they think.

"Greatness isn't a talent, it's a mindset."

He admires how they stay sharp, stay hungry, stay uncomfortable — even at the top. Because to him, complacency isn't just a mistake. It is the beginning of decline.

As a kid, I didn’t always see it. But now, as a man — and a dad — I understand. He wasn’t teaching me how to hit, or how to field or how to turn my back to take the hit by pitch and take my base. He was teaching me how to stand in when life throws hard inside. How to dig in when it gets uncomfortable. How to stay in the box. How to be great. And that’s what greatness demands.

Today, my father still has that edge. Still sharp. Still studying the greats. Still expecting the best. And somewhere in me — when I face the uncomfortable or the unfair — I hear that voice saying, “Get up. Next time, turn and take it. Take your base and make something happen."