Pressure | #59

Pressure – Episode 59

The Kill The Can Podcast
Recorded: June 4th, 2026

Introduction

Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, and welcome back to the Kill The Can Podcast.

It has been more than a minute. I know it seems like I say that every time I finally get around to recording an episode of the podcast. I hate to make excuses, but life has just kind of gotten in the way.

Looking back, the last time I recorded an episode was in March, and as I sit here today, it is June 4th. So, I’ve basically taken off April and May.

There actually is a very good reason for that, and it’s part of what today’s podcast is about.

I will say that I do have plans for the podcast. I actually have one episode already recorded and several others that I’m planning out. Now that the podcast is back, I’m hoping to get onto a more regular schedule. Again, I realize that I say that often, and I sincerely apologize for that.

Today, though, I want to talk about something that is part of the reason the podcast has been gone for so long. It has quite a lot to do with my family—in a good way.

Pressure

Today, I want to talk about pressure.

Not the pressure of quitting tobacco. Not the pressure of cravings.

The kind of pressure that comes from watching your kid carry expectations that most people will never understand.

On Tuesday, my son’s high school baseball career came to an end.

He’s moving on next year. He’s going to continue his baseball journey at an academy in South Carolina, and we are incredibly excited about what’s ahead of him.

But this chapter is over.

And honestly, I’ve been struggling with it more than I thought I would.

Last Year’s State Championship Run

Last season, his team made it all the way to the state championship game. It was the first time in the history of the program.

He got the ball that day.

He pitched a complete game.

He gave up zero earned runs.

Zero.

If you’re a pitcher—or the parent of a pitcher—that’s the dream. You take the mound in the biggest game of the year and you do your job.

The problem was that we didn’t score.

They lost 1-0.

To make matters worse, it was the only game all season that they got shut out.

One game.

The wrong game.

And that’s baseball.

As painful as that was, there was always a feeling that they’d be back.

The Weight of Expectations

This year started with massive expectations.

Sure, they lost quite a few seniors—some amazing seniors—from last year’s team, but there were still high expectations.

Everybody knew the lineup could hit.

Everybody knew this team could score runs.

But everybody also knew who the ace was.

My son wasn’t just another pitcher on the staff.

He was the guy.

He was the one expected to stop losing streaks if they happened.

He was the one expected to win big games.

He was the one expected to take the ball when the season was on the line.

That’s a lot for anybody.

Especially for an 18-year-old kid.

As a parent, there’s nothing you can do about it.

You sit in the stands.

You watch.

You worry.

You hope.

In my case, I run the radar gun. When he’s got two strikes, I open the video camera and hope to capture strike three.

And you hurt for them when things don’t go their way.

107 Pitches

Last Thursday, he threw 107 pitches in a playoff game.

If you’re not familiar, that’s a lot of pitches for any pitcher.

And they weren’t easy pitches.

They were competitive pitches.

They were high-pressure pitches.

It was a playoff game, so it was the kind of outing where every inning feels bigger than the last.

After he came out of the game in the sixth inning, I remember a sigh of relief coming over my wife and me because we thought, “Well, there’s no way he’s going back out there.”

Sure enough, he came out for the seventh.

I found out afterward that the coaches wanted to take him out, but he wanted the ball.

He said, “Nope. I’m good. I want the ball.”

To his credit, he was still throwing 86 mph in the seventh inning.

They ended up winning that game.

They ended up winning their next game on Monday.

Five Days Later

Then, five days later, on Tuesday, he got the ball again.

He threw 84 more pitches.

He battled.

He competed.

He gutted his way through five innings.

When he left the game, there were runners on base, but his team had a 4-1 lead.

His high school career should have been over for the day.

The job was done.

We were six outs away from the state Final Four.

But baseball doesn’t care about storylines.

And baseball doesn’t always give you the ending you want.

The lead disappeared.

The season ended.

We had the tying run 90 feet away.

We had the winning run on second base.

One of our best hitters absolutely smoked a baseball, and it went right into the outstretched glove of the opposing third baseman.

And just like that, the season was over.

A chapter that had taken years to write was over.

No warning.

No do-over.

No instant replay.

No next game.

Just over in a heartbeat.

Thinking About Pressure

As I’ve sat with all of this over the last few days, I kept thinking about pressure.

The pressure he felt.

The pressure I felt watching him.

The pressure his mom felt. She’s a professional photographer and was down in the dugout and on the field capturing every moment.

The pressure that comes from expectations.

The pressure that comes from knowing there are no second chances in a win-or-go-home game.

And then something hit me.

There was a time in my life when pressure was my excuse.

Stress? Throw in a dip.

Big game? Throw in a dip.

Bad day? Throw in a dip.

Good day? Throw in a dip.

Pressure was the common factor.

Pressure was always the reason.

This season was one of the most emotional baseball seasons I’ve ever experienced as a father.

The highs were incredible.

The lows were brutal.

And somewhere along the way, I realized something.

Not Once Did I Think About Nicotine

Not once did I think about nicotine.

Not a single time.

Not after tough losses.

Not before big games.

Not during the playoffs.

Not even when one of his coaches had a ZYN pouch fall out of his pocket onto the field and I pointed it out.

And not on Tuesday when the season ended.

For years, I thought tobacco and nicotine helped me handle pressure.

The truth is, all they did was make sure I never actually learned how to handle it.

This season reminded me that pressure is a part of life.

You don’t avoid it.

You don’t numb it.

You can’t hide from it.

You feel it.

You live through it.

And you come out the other side.

Gratitude

Most of all, this season reminded me just how grateful I am.

Grateful that I got to watch every inning of his senior year.

Grateful that I got to watch a young man grow into a ferocious competitor.

Grateful that I got to be present for every moment—with his team, his teammates, fellow parents, my wife, and my son.

And grateful that the next chapter is already waiting.

The uniform will change.

The field will change.

The competition will change.

But the journey will continue.

And for me, that journey will continue tobacco- and nicotine-free.

And I cannot wait to see where it goes.

Stay Strong. Stay Quit.

Thanks for listening.

Stay strong.

Stay quit.

We’ll see you next time, quitters.

Cheers.