The Mental Side of Baseball: Stop Chasing Results and Start Playing the Game

Everybody talks about the mental side of baseball. Be confident. Stay positive. Have a short memory. Trust the process.

Sounds great.

But what the fuck does any of that actually mean?

I've spent most of my life playing and coaching baseball, and I've come to believe that the mental side of the game is one of the most misunderstood parts of player development.

We spend hours teaching players how to swing, throw, field, and run. We build practice plans, analyze video, and measure everything. Then a kid strikes out with the bases loaded, and we tell him to forget about it.

How?

That's the part we don't spend enough time teaching.

You Need a Plan

I believe extraordinary work produces extraordinary results. But working hard isn't enough. You need to know what you're working toward. You need a plan. You need to understand why you're doing what you're doing.

Taking a thousand swings doesn't automatically make you a better hitter. Taking a thousand swings with a purpose, making adjustments, and understanding what you're trying to accomplish gives you a chance.

The same applies to the mental game. You can't just tell somebody to be confident. You have to give them something to be confident about.

Preparation creates that opportunity.

And preparation isn't about guaranteeing success. It's about knowing you've done the work so you can compete without constantly questioning yourself.

Be Consistently Good, Not Occasionally Great

I've always believed there's a difference between being great once in a while and being good every single day. Anybody can have a great game. Anybody can get hot. Anybody can hit a home run.

But can you show up tomorrow and compete with the same approach? Can you have a bad at-bat and still be ready for your next one? Can you go 0-for-4 and help your team win?

That's what I'm looking for.

I don't want a player who needs everything to go perfectly to compete. I want a player who knows how to compete when nothing is going right.

Greatness isn't about producing a highlight every time you step on the field. It's about developing an approach you can trust over and over again.

What Are You Supposed to Be Doing Right Now?

Baseball gives you a lot of time to think. Sometimes too much.

A hitter starts thinking about his batting average. A pitcher starts thinking about the last home run he gave up. A fielder starts thinking about the error he made two innings ago. None of that helps him play the next pitch.

So I want players to ask themselves a few simple questions.

What's the count? How many outs? What's the situation? What's my job?

That's it.

Know what's happening. Know what you're trying to accomplish. Then compete.

If you're hitting, have an approach. If you're playing defense, anticipate the play. If you're pitching, know what you're trying to execute.

You don't have to control the entire game.

You have to be ready for the next pitch.

Slow the Game Down

When things start going badly, baseball has a way of speeding up. Your heart starts racing. Your thoughts get louder. You start worrying about making another mistake.

That's when players need a routine.

Step out of the box. Take a breath. Look around. Get your eyes engaged. Understand the situation. Step back in and compete.

A routine isn't some magical trick that guarantees a hit. It's a way to get yourself back to the present.

You cannot change the last pitch. You cannot play the next inning yet. You can only play the pitch in front of you.

And if you have a routine that brings you back to that pitch, you give yourself a better chance to execute.

You Need a System to Fail In

This might be the most important part of the mental game.

Players are going to fail. A lot. That's baseball.

So why do we spend so much time trying to prevent failure instead of teaching players how to handle it?

I believe players need structure. They need to know what's expected of them. They need routines. They need accountability. They need to understand what good preparation looks like.

But inside that structure, they need freedom. Freedom to compete. Freedom to make aggressive mistakes. Freedom to try something without worrying that one bad result is going to define them.

Too much structure and players become robots. They're afraid to do anything wrong. Too little structure and players drift. They don't know what they're supposed to be doing.

The balance is simple.

Clear structure. Inside that structure, freedom to compete.

Freedom without structure isn't freedom.

It's chaos.

A coach's job is to build the environment. The player's job is to compete inside it.

Stop Being Obsessed With the Outcome

I want to win. I want my players to win. I hate losing. But the more obsessed you become with the outcome, the harder it can become to actually play the game.

A hitter who walks to the plate thinking he has to get a hit is already putting unnecessary pressure on himself.

You don't control whether you get a hit. You control your preparation, your approach, your decision-making, and your swing.

You can hit a ball 105 miles per hour right at somebody and make an out. You can hit a broken-bat blooper and get a hit.

Which was the better at-bat?

That's why evaluating yourself entirely by results is dangerous. You have to learn how to recognize good execution even when the outcome isn't what you wanted. And you have to recognize bad execution even when you get rewarded.

Otherwise, you're letting the scoreboard teach you how to play baseball.

The scoreboard doesn't know whether you did your job.

You do.

You Can't Fucking Beat Me

I've always loved this mentality. Not because I think I'm going to win every confrontation. I'm not. Nobody does.

But I want a player stepping into the box believing:

You can't fucking beat me.

And when the pitcher strikes him out? Good pitch. Next at-bat.

You still can't fucking beat me.

That's not pretending failure didn't happen. It's refusing to let failure change the way you compete.

Confidence isn't knowing you're going to succeed. It's knowing you're prepared to compete regardless of what happened last time.

You don't need to be loud about it. You don't need to convince the other team. You don't even need to convince your teammates.

Just play.

Quiet thunder.

What Coaches Need to Understand

I've made plenty of mistakes coaching the mental side of baseball. I used to believe that if I worked harder than everybody else, my players should be willing to do the same.

I pushed players because I saw what they could become. Sometimes that worked. Sometimes it didn't.

What I didn't always understand was that every player is different.

Some players need to be challenged. Some need reassurance. Some need a conversation. Some need you to leave them the fuck alone for a little while.

You can't coach every player exactly the same way and expect the same result.

The goal isn't to make every player think like you. The goal is to help each player understand how to prepare, compete, adjust, and improve.

That requires communication. It requires trust. And it requires coaches to pay attention to the person, not just the baseball player.

Play the Game

At the end of the day, baseball is still a game. A difficult one. A frustrating one. A game that will embarrass you no matter how talented you are.

But it's also a game you're supposed to enjoy.

Do the work. Have a plan. Know the situation. Trust your preparation. Slow the game down. Compete one pitch at a time.

When you fail, make an adjustment. Then go do it again.

Stop trying to be great every time you step on the field. Learn how to be consistently good.

And when the game gets difficult, when the pressure builds, when everybody else starts worrying about what might happen?

Play the game.

— Ged

The Only Score That Matters Is the One at the End

 

The scoreboard tells you where you are in the game. It can change your strategy, but it shouldn't change the way you compete. Too often, players and coaches allow the score to affect the way they perform or the way they feel while the game is still being played. Get down 7–0 early and hitters start trying to hit seven-run home runs. Pitchers start trying to make perfect pitches. Coaches start feeling like they need to manufacture something immediately. Everyone feels the urgency of the scoreboard, and pretty soon you are no longer playing baseball the same way you were when the game was 0–0. The score has changed, but the game hasn't. You still have to play it.

What does being down 7–0 actually change about the next pitch? Nothing. The pitcher still has to throw the ball. The hitter still has to make a decision. The defense still has to catch it. The game does not suddenly become more complicated because there is a seven next to the other team's name. We make it more complicated when we start thinking about everything except the pitch that is happening right now. You cannot go back and change what happened in the first inning. Those pitches are gone. All you can do is compete against the pitch in front of you.

Maybe somebody draws a walk. Maybe the next guy hits a ball hard. Maybe somebody gets on because of an error. Then somebody doubles and suddenly it is 7–3. Now the other dugout starts looking at the scoreboard too. Good. Let them. Your job hasn't changed. Take care of the next pitch. That's something I believe strongly as a coach. Play the game. Don't play the scoreboard. That doesn't mean you ignore the situation. Sometimes the score and inning absolutely require different decisions. You might manage the game differently. You might run, bunt, change pitchers, move the defense or approach an at-bat differently. That's baseball. But strategy changing and mindset changing are two completely different things. Your strategy might change. Your ability to compete shouldn't.

A pitch in the first inning counts exactly the same as a pitch in the seventh. An out when you are winning by six counts exactly the same as an out when the game is tied. We make certain pitches feel more important because of the situation, but baseball doesn't care. Every pitch becomes part of the final score. That works the other way too. Being ahead 7–0 doesn't mean the game is over. Start playing like it is and you give the other team an opportunity to get back into it. The team that is winning has the same responsibility as the team that is losing: take care of the pitch that is happening right now.

That mentality wins. It doesn't guarantee you're going to come back from seven runs down. Sometimes you compete your ass off for the rest of the game and still lose. That's baseball. But the pitches that already happened cannot help you with the pitch that's coming next. The scoreboard is information. It doesn't have to become emotion. Eventually, there will be a final pitch. When it's over, look at the scoreboard. Celebrate if you won. Be pissed if you lost. Learn from it either way. Until then, play the game.

The only score that matters is the one at the end.

I'm Writing a Book

 

I've written a lot of things on this blog over the years. Some of it I still believe today. This blog has always given me a place to talk about baseball, coaching, leadership and whatever else happened to be on my mind.

For the last several months, I've been working on something much bigger.

I'm writing a book.

It's called Coaching Through the Storm.

I've thought about writing a book for years, but thinking about writing one and actually sitting down and doing it are two very different things. The manuscript is now more than 40,000 words. I've been working through it chapter by chapter, trying to make sure I tell the story the right way and, more importantly, tell it honestly.

I'm not going to say much more about what's in it yet.

What I will say is that writing it has made me look back at this blog differently.

When I started Gedman Baseball, I thought I was just writing about the game. I wrote about hitting, pitching, coaching, competing, confidence, failure and whatever I believed about baseball at that particular moment in my life. I never thought those posts would someday become a record I could look back on while writing a book.

There are years of my life sitting on this website. You can see what I believed at different points in my career. You can see how some of those beliefs changed and how others never did. In some ways, the person I was then is still sitting right here in these old posts.

So I wanted the people who have followed this blog over the years to hear about the book here first. Some of you have been reading my stuff for a long time, and whether there are five of you left or five thousand, I appreciate the hell out of anyone who ever took the time to read something I wrote.

There will be more to share when the time is right.

For now, I have a book to finish.

Coaching Through the Storm.

Coming early 2027.

—Ged

The Part of Coaching We Don’t Talk About

Most players don’t need more information. They don’t need ten different swing thoughts. They need things to be simple, clear, and consistent. I’ve seen it from the coaching side too. There are times where everything feels easy—you’re clear, you’re locked in, everything makes sense. And then there are times where even simple things, like communicating, feel harder than they should. Same game, same job—just a different feel.

So keep it simple. Be clear. Be consistent. Give players something they can actually hold onto. Most development isn’t about some perfect drill—it’s about showing up and stacking good days over time.

Nobody’s perfect. Players aren’t. Coaches aren’t.

But if you can create some level of consistency, that’s where real progress starts.

A lot of players deal with those ups and downs and don’t really have an explanation for it. That’s why routines matter. In a game built on failure, players need controllable actions they can rely on every day—positive self-talk, how they respond to failure, breathing, focus, effort. Things they can actually control.

The more “wins” a player can create within a game of failure, the better off they’re going to be.