He walked in late.
Not late in the way where you’re sprinting across the parking lot with your cleats in your hand and your bat bag bouncing off your hip. He was late in a way that said, “I’m testing you.“ Slow walk. Head up. Completely unbothered.
Every single head in the dugout turned to see what the coaching staff would do.
And right then — before anyone said a single word — your culture was on trial.
I’ve been there. I’ve coached that player. The one with the god-given ability to make your lineup infinitely better, and the toxic track record of making your culture completely worse. The fence-jumper.
The Sunday Consolation Trap
We talk a lot about my high school squad at Fellowship, but what I haven’t shared as much is my time in the travel baseball world. I am incredibly fortunate today to work for one of the best travel organizations in Georgia, the Georgia Jackets. But before I found my home there, I had to learn a few brutal lessons about standard-setting the hard way.
I didn’t play travel ball growing up — we had American Legion baseball down in Central Florida. When I was coaching in Jacksonville, we dipped our toes in by running summer teams made up of our own high school players. But when I moved to Atlanta, I knew that, for the sake of my personal brand and to grow the Fellowship program, I needed to align with a reputable travel organization that local families knew.
My first stop was with a much larger “brand” in the area, but I quickly realized my personal values didn’t align with the environment on full display at tryouts, so I excused myself. My second go-around was better, but I was an assistant coach. My fingerprint wasn’t really on the culture yet, and the players we had weren’t exactly used to structure or being on time for anything.
We had a young man on that team — I’ll call him Scott. Scott had a mountain of talent. He could really swing it, and he played great defense, but he just did not take the game as seriously as his talent level demanded. He was constantly showing up late, using vulgar language, and displaying awful body language mid-game.
It all came to a head on a random Sunday during a consolation game. There was nothing on the line. No “win and advance.” Because of that, the team’s mentality was already poor, allowing a lower-tier opponent to hang around.
Scott strolled up to batting practice 30 minutes late. Because he was our best hitter, I figured this was the perfect blueprint moment to set a tone. Sit him down in a game that doesn’t really matter, let some other guys get playing time, and hold the line.
But the guy writing the lineup card didn’t share that sentiment. Scott started.
Predictably, we found ourselves in a low-scoring dogfight in the final inning. Scott led off with an absolute laser of a single. Instead of celebrating with his teammates, he immediately started taunting the opposing coach down the first base line. We put the sacrifice bunt on to move him into scoring position, but Scott had his own plan. He took off running on his own and was thrown out at second base by ten feet.
Rather than giving himself up, Scott tried to hurdle the second baseman, who put a hard tag on him and upended him at the bag. Scott flipped out. He jumped up and threw a clean right hook at the second baseman’s face.
It was on.
I was in the third-base coaching box and immediately sprinted toward the infield to get Scott out of the 4-on-1 situation he’d just ignited. Remembering I had an entire dugout behind me, I yelled at my first-base coach to handle Scott while I turned around and stopped our dugout in their tracks, snagging Scott’s best friend and redirecting the team backward.
The first-base coach didn’t do much to stop the bleeding, and the opposing defense began surrounding Scott. Being the biggest guy on the field has its advantages, so I ran straight into the eye of the storm, snatched Scott up, and physically pulled him out of the pile. The opposing coaches finally realized these were kids and helped corral their guys. The umpires called the game right there.
We left the field with Scott fuming and our head coach screaming. But the foundation for that trainwreck wasn’t laid on Sunday afternoon. It was laid at every single practice and game where we failed to hold Scott accountable. We led him right to that edge, and as the adults in the room, we failed him.
Enforcing Over Writing
I left that organization that summer to join the Georgia Jackets, and it was a massive reminder of a fundamental truth: The dugout culture matters just as much, if not more, than the dugout talent. I’ve been with the Jackets for six years now. We attract incredibly talented dudes, but they are dudes who understand what it means to have a standard. We’ve let highly talented guys go who refused to understand it, and we’ve brought in guys who might have been less talented on paper, but they played the game the right way and out-competed everyone.
Hear me on this: I don’t want emotionless robots on my field. We don’t want guys who don’t care. We want fiery competitors. You are allowed to be mad. You are allowed to be frustrated. You are allowed to be pumped because you just hit a go-ahead bomb. But you are never allowed to display that selfishly on the field.
My guys know the boundary. If they scream a curse word after a strikeout or slam their equipment on the ground, they will sit down. Immediately. No exceptions. And we will learn from it as we prepare for the next game.
Most coaches confuse The Standard with a list of rules. Rules live on paper. The Standard lives in behavior. Rules get read once in August. The Standard gets repeated every single time a fence-jumper leans on it.
The Standard is the set of non-negotiable expectations that govern how your people show up — regardless of talent, status, or whether anyone is watching.
What The Fence-Jumper Is Really Asking
The fence-jumper isn’t always trying to wreck your program. A lot of times, they are just testing to see if your leadership is real.
Highly talented kids — especially the ones who have been given a pass their entire lives because of their bat speed or their arm strength — expect coaches to fold. They’ve watched adults bend the rules for them since Little League. When they walk in 30 minutes late to BP, part of what they’re asking is: “Is this program just like all the rest, or is this place actually different?”
If you fold, they relax right back into the bad habits they’ve always known.
But if you hold the line? You have a real shot at earning something they have likely never given a coach in their entire life: actual trust.
Compliance walks in on time because it has to. Commitment walks in early because it wants to. You can’t mandate commitment, but you can create the conditions for it. Holding the standard consistently, without favoritism, is how those conditions get built.
Every time you choose talent over your standard, you pay a heavy Red Dirt Tax. You make a massive deposit into a negative account that you will eventually have to clear.
Your Playbook for This Week
Look at your roster right now. If you’re in-season or grinding through summer ball, look at who tested the line last week and ask yourself honestly: Would my players be able to tell me exactly what our standard is, and name the last time someone was held to it?
If the answer is no, you don’t have a standard yet. You have a philosophy. And philosophies don’t build championship dugouts.
Pick one non-negotiable this week. Write it down. Tell your team exactly what the boundary is. Then hold it — for everyone, including your best player.
Let’s get to work.
— Coach O
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