My Story…

Hi, I’m Kenny Roder, a kid whose dream of becoming an MLB pitcher came heartbreakingly close. I was born and raised in Hoboken, NJ, the birthplace of baseball. Growing up, I was always the smallest one on the field, but I had the biggest heart.

I was that relentless, baseball-obsessed kid who never stopped asking my brothers and sister to play catch, to hit with me, to give me just one more rep. And when no one wanted to play? I played alone. I’d throw rocks, bottles, anything I could get my hands on — just to compete with myself. I’d tell myself, “If I don’t hit this stop sign five times in a row, I don’t go home.” And I wouldn’t leave until I did. Most days, it didn’t take long.

By nine years old, I was pitching complete games in Little League and earning MVP. But it wasn’t the awards that drove me, it was the fire. I was always sharpening my craft, outworking everyone around me. Even at that age, I had a hunger most kids didn’t.

Fast forward to my freshman year of high school. I’ll never forget what the varsity head coach told me: “Next year, little man.”It hit me hard. Deep down, I knew I could compete at that level but I was “too small.” So I went to work. Quietly. Relentlessly. I trained like I had something to prove, because I did.

By the time sophomore year rolled around, it took just one bullpen for that same coach to say, “I should’ve brought you up last year.” That year, I became the ace. I threw two no-hitters and a perfect game.

Then came junior year, the year it all clicked. I threw another perfect game, went 11-1 with a 1.27 ERA, and finished just three strikeouts shy of breaking the school record. More importantly, I led my team to a County Championship.

The kid who was “too small” had arrived.

Senior year.

After the season I had as a junior, doubt started to creep in. Can I do it again? But that thought barely had time to settle before something louder took over, my belief. I told myself, “I’m going to make my junior year look like nothing.” And I meant it.

My goal was clear: Get drafted. That season, I went 11-0 with a 0.79 ERA. I threw another perfect game, but this time, it was different. There was a Cincinnati Reds scout sitting behind home plate. After the game, he shook my hand and said, “You’re amazing… but too small.”

That line hit harder than any criticism I have ever faced. I kept going. I broke the school’s strikeout record, Had the most strikeouts per Single Season in all of New Jersey. Not only did I pass it , shattered it, finishing with 191 strikeouts, 52 more than the old mark.

I was named North Jersey Pitcher of the Year. Colleges called. Offers came in. But the one call I was waiting for, from the MLB, never came.

It’s the middle of August. My phone rings, a number I don’t recognize. Area code: 405. Big Spring, Texas.

On the other end? Howard College, a D1 JUCO powerhouse. They offered me a Full-ride scholarship. No hesitation. I said yes.

I played two seasons there. The second one? It was everything I envisioned. I went undefeated, was named an All-American, earned WJCAC Pitcher of the Year, and was ranked as one of the Top 50 pitchers in the country.

I was finally getting attention. Scouts started calling. There was hope again.

But then, that same sentence I’d heard before echoed back:
“If you were five inches taller, you’d be a first-round pick.” I didn’t get drafted. Not because of performance. Not because of character.
Because of something I couldn’t control.

But I wasn’t done.

After graduating from Howard College, I took the next step and committed to St. Thomas University in Miami Gardens, Florida. I was ready, not just to play, but to dominate.

And I did. I had a tremendous season. Game after game, I kept proving myself. I caught the attention of the Chicago Cubs area scout. He told me he loved the way I competed, the way I played the game. I started filling out forms, medical paperwork… it felt real.

I was right there.

I threw three straight 9-inning complete games, back to back to back. I was locked in. Until something didn’t feel right.

A deep, sharp pain in my shoulder stopped me cold. I tried to push through it, but I couldn’t. My arm wouldn’t let me. I had to sit out the rest of my senior year.

Still, even in a shortened season, I was named All-Conference and earned Pitcher of the Week honors multiple times. But just like that… it was over.

My college career, my dream, ended not with a celebration, but with a shoulder injury and silence.

After the season, my school finally sent me to see a doctor. I was given two cortisone shots, told to rest, and shut down for three weeks.

And in that silence, I had to ask myself, Is this how it ends?

Draft Day. Senior Year.

I sat there with hope in my chest and my phone in my hand, waiting waiting to hear my name called by the Chicago Cubs in the later rounds. I knew my injury might have hurt my chances, but deep down, I believed they’d still take the shot.

As the rounds passed and the silence grew louder, my heart started to sink. The draft ended… and I never got the call. I picked up the phone and called the Cubs scout. I asked him what happened.He paused. Then said, “I’m sorry, buddy… we took your name off the draft board after the injury.” My stomach dropped. Just like that, everything I’d worked for felt like it vanished.

He followed it up with, “Stay near your phone over the next few days. You might get a free agent spot.”

I waited.
One day…
Five days…
Two weeks…
Nothing.

Until my phone rang. A number I didn’t recognize.

It was the Sussex County Miners, an independent pro ball team. Their manager asked if I could come throw a bullpen in front of the staff. Panic hit me fast, I hadn’t thrown in 3-4 weeks since the cortisone shot. My arm wasn’t ready. But I couldn’t say no.

I went anyway. I threw 10 pitches. That’s all it took.

The manager walked up and said, “You’re starting tomorrow night.”

I got signed 25 games into the season. No rehab. No ramp-up. Just thrown straight into the starting rotation while still recovering from my injury.

I wasn’t ready, not physically, not fully but I didn’t care. I was finally playing professional baseball. Every outing, I pitched through pain. My velocity was down. My command wasn’t the same. But I competed. Every single start, I left it all out there.

The trainers would ask, “How do you feel?” And I’d lie. Every time.
“Great.” Because if I told the truth, I’d be released. And I couldn’t let that happen. This was my shot, and I wasn’t going to let it go.

Then came the final series of the regular season.I had the ball.
It was a home game. Family. Friends. All there.
The crowd was full of people who watched me grow up chasing this dream.

First inning 1-2-3. Nine pitches. All strikes. Three strikeouts.
It felt like magic. Then the second inning started. First batter , I threw a slider. The moment it left my hand, I felt it.

A burning, numbing, tingling pain shot down my arm into my fingers.
My hand went limp. My arm was dead. For 30 seconds, I couldn’t move it. I waved to the trainer and told him to pull me out.

And in that moment, I knew.

My career was over.

Not in the way I imagined. Not on a big league mound.
But on a Pro field in front of people I loved, after fighting through pain no one else could see.

That was the end of the dream.
But not the end of my story.

I sat in the locker room, staring at the floor, thinking to myself
“I never thought I’d be here. I never imagined the day would come when my baseball career would end like this.”

I had no plan B. Becoming a coach? That idea never once crossed my mind. All I ever wanted was to play, to compete, to win, to be on the mound. But now, everything I had worked for, every pitch, every rep, every ounce of pain I pushed through, it all led to this moment.

And then I asked myself: What now?

I didn’t have a roadmap, but I trusted my instincts. I realized I still had something to give. So I made a choice: I was going to become a coach, to take everything I learned, everything I lived through, and pour it into the next generation.

Because that fire inside me, the one that kept me fighting when no one else believed, it’s still burning.

Now, I help athletes not just throw harder or run faster, but become stronger, tougher, and more confident versions of themselves.

I found purpose in pulling greatness out of players who don’t yet realize their full potential.

This wasn’t the path I imagined.
But it’s the one I was meant to walk.

See you soon.
— Kenny Roder