I was a ballplayer, but only for a limited time. I grew up

"I was a ballplayer, but only for a limited time. I grew up playing in Wisconsin. It's a very sports-centric part of the country that I grew up in and I played a lot of sports, but baseball first and foremost. I played through high school. I was a middle-infielder." Thus spoke Chad Harbach, author and thinker, yet here reflecting not upon his craft of words, but upon the game that shaped his youth. His words are a confession of origins, a reminder that before the triumph of intellect, there was the discipline of the field, before the power of the pen, the strength of the glove. In them we see not only one man’s story, but the eternal rhythm of youth, ambition, and the passage of time.

To be a ballplayer “for only a limited time” is to touch a truth that many share: that sport, for most, is a season rather than a lifetime. The field, the team, the hours of sweat and dust—these remain for some years and then pass away, replaced by new callings. Yet those years are not wasted. They form the backbone of character, instilling discipline, resilience, and the memory of striving with others for something greater than oneself. Harbach reminds us that though the role was temporary, its impact was lasting.

He speaks of Wisconsin, a land where seasons are sharp, winters long, and communities often knit together by sport. To grow up in such a place is to breathe in competition as naturally as air, to measure one’s growth by games won and lost, to mark the summers not by months but by innings. Harbach’s words root us in the culture of a region where sport is not mere diversion but the rhythm of community, a binding thread across generations.

In claiming baseball first and foremost, Harbach invokes the great American game, the pastime that has shaped identity across towns and cities for over a century. To play through high school, to stand as a middle-infielder, is to occupy a place that requires balance: the readiness to turn double plays, the quickness of reflex, the unity with teammates. The middle of the diamond is both literal and symbolic—a place of trust, of responsibility, of constant vigilance. It teaches a young man that greatness lies not always in the spotlight, but in the reliable execution of quiet, necessary tasks.

History offers parallels to this journey. Consider Jack London, who before becoming the celebrated novelist labored as a sailor, gold prospector, and worker. These youthful pursuits ended, but their lessons—discipline, risk, and endurance—infused his writing with power. So too with Harbach: though he no longer turned double plays, the habits of the game shaped his voice, teaching him how to see life as both contest and craft. The field of play may have closed, but it gave birth to a field of words.

The lesson is profound: the pursuits of youth, though they may not endure, are never lost. What we begin in our younger years may not be what we carry to the end, yet those early disciplines prepare us for our truer callings. Do not despise the temporary seasons, for they shape the eternal work. Harbach was a ballplayer for a time, and from that time he drew the rhythm, patience, and endurance to become an author.

Practical action follows. Whatever your present stage—be it sport, art, study, or labor—embrace it fully, even if you know it may not last. Take from it the discipline, the lessons, the friendships, and carry them into the next calling. For every stage of life is both complete in itself and preparation for what is to come. The glove may be set aside, but the spirit it shaped remains forever.

Thus Harbach’s words stand not only as memory, but as counsel. We are all ballplayers for a season—and though the season ends, its lessons endure. The field may change, but the game of endurance, resilience, and devotion continues in every chapter of life.