Mick Lefort

This feature is different.

This was always the guy I wanted to be like.

He had the swagger. The confidence. The mentality. The fastball. He had it all. That's exactly the type of player I wanted to be.

Spring of 1994. It was the night of the Little League draft. My father had the first overall pick in his hands, and I was eight years old sitting next to him at the kitchen table before he left, like I had any say in the matter.

I leaned over and said, "Dad, make sure you draft Mike Lefort."

My father looked over at me and smirked. "Thanks, son. I'll be sure to pick the best player in the draft."

He did.

Mike, eventually nicknamed “Mick” played for my father in Little League, the Lions, I had a front row seat to watch him long before I ever stepped on a field with him. From the time I was a kid in the dugout, I was chasing what he had.

I remember trying to pitch like him. At nine and ten years old, I'd imitate his windup in the backyard, hoping some of it would rub off on me. Hoping I'd throw like Mick.

From there, I just kept following him. We were teammates in high school, and then again at URI, where we won an A-10 Championship together.

Mick went on to sign and play in the Chicago Cubs organization.

This is his story and a small piece of mine, too.

Here’s our conversation.

Mick's Highlights

How important was family to your journey, and what would you tell today's parents about supporting their kid the right way?

My relationship with baseball started the way it should for every kid — it was just play. We'd have neighborhood games in the street with a tennis ball where kids of all ages were invited, and my dad was central to it. We also had a little simulated game we'd play in the backyard, or on any patch of grass we could find while camping, where I'd field grounders and pop ups. It was casual, fun, imaginative — and it let me fall in love with the game for the right reasons, not just because I was talented at it.

When my parents divorced in sixth grade, things shifted. My mother became the constant, driving me all over New England for AAU ball. Looking back, those car rides were as important as anything that happened on the field, a pocket of calm around what was highly competitive and pretty serious. I was never too high or low before or after games. I was free to process at my own pace, and that built the confidence and independence that brought me success on the field.

What I'd tell parents today is this: baseball is the ultimate team game, and at its best it builds a model of community for young people. With a family that was splintered at a key time in my development, local coaches, teammates' fathers, my uncle, they all leaned in and had a hand in teaching me the game. They showed me first hand what it meant to be a team player. Teach and model those values, and kids will be more likely to excel over the long term.

Where did your competitive fire come from, and what do parents today need to understand about what it actually takes to compete?

Nobody's ever asked me this before, and I've never had to put it into words. I think that's part of what made it work — it was never analyzed or manufactured. It just was. Natural confidence that kept growing along the way.

The seeds were planted early and quietly. I remember being eight years old at my first Little League practice, and someone telling my mom as soon as I started throwing, "looks like we found our pitcher." I remember Randy Hein coming over after a game at Lonsdale saying, "you heard it here first — if you work at it, you're gonna be a big leaguer someday." I remember the thrill of having the ball in my hand at a playoff game as an 11 year old with the bases loaded, two outs, full count, and picking up the K with what seemed like the whole town watching. Those moments went straight into the bank. From Little League to college, the message I always received was, "we believe in you." It was never added pressure — it was always added fuel.

What parents need to understand is that competitive fire isn't something you can install. You can't coach it into a kid. What you can do is create the conditions for it to grow — planting seeds of confidence by highlighting the positives and understanding that baseball, and life, will keep providing opportunities for growth. I'm sure I failed early on, but I don't remember much of it. It got used as fuel and discarded to make room for the next time I got it right.

For me, competing was never about the other guy. It's not about the scoreboard. It's about knowing what you're capable of and refusing to settle for less. Baseball is the best test there is because the results don't always match your execution. A hitter mishits a ball and gets away with it; the wind blows one out that shouldn't have left the yard. So you need an internal scoreboard. If you're gauging your success by the box score, you're not competing.

The best pitch I ever threw was a changeup with a full count during summer ball in Newburgh, NY. It must've dropped 12 mph and ran back in from off the plate to split the dish — froze the hitter, and the ump, and got mistakenly called ball four. Didn't matter. It was a level-up moment, and the rest of the game didn't go well for the hitters that followed. My mind overrode what played out on the field. I threw that same changeup three times in a row to the next batter just to lock it in. The ump blew the call. In my reality, he made an error that put me in position to elevate my game. I was more dominant that summer because of that four-pitch sequence.

How important was playing multiple sports to your development, and what would you say to parents pushing their kids to specialize early?

I played baseball, soccer, and basketball growing up and was good at two of them. Playing many sports, which was just the norm back then, was one of the most important things that shaped me, not just as a baseball player but as a competitor, teammate, and the adult I am today.

For me, it wasn't about physical development; it was learning humility. It was better understanding the experience of the guys I played baseball with who didn't have the same skill I had.

When you're one of the best players in your town, there's a natural risk of developing a mental approach exclusively through that lens. Basketball was my great equalizer. I didn't make the travel team my buddies were on as a kid. I didn't make the middle school team as a seventh grader. I came off the bench throughout high school. And it was the best thing for me.

I had to out-compete, out-hustle, and out-work my teammates if I wanted minutes — in a way I never had to on the baseball field. My high school basketball coaches might have been my best baseball coaches. They taught me attitude, drive, and fire in an environment where I couldn't rely on talent to bail me out. That scrappy personality, combined with a plus skill set, took me to another level on the mound.

Here's what I'd say to parents pushing early specialization: your kid needs to know what it feels like to be uncomfortable in competition and experience defeat. They need to struggle in a different arena. They need to learn how to be a good teammate when they're not the star. Those are lessons one sport alone might not teach them, especially if they're really good at it. I would not have become the leader I became on the diamond if I'd specialized in baseball from a young age. No question about it.

You had an extra gear on the mound — like you went somewhere else out there. Was that mental edge learned, something you worked on, or just who you are?

The last two seasons of college ball at URI were the high point of my career. When I became the closer as a junior, something clicked. The role gave me an identity I didn't have as a starter. You come in when it's tight, when the game's on the line, and your job is to shut the door. I leaned into that, and the more I did it, the more natural it felt, and the more trouble opposing hitters were in.

That extra gear was rooted in extreme focus and personal pride, and I felt it as far back as high school and Legion ball at McCoy for state championships, all the way to the Little League state tournament. The bigger the stage, the more focused I felt, and it all came back to growing that confidence muscle along the way.

The final piece, which grew from basketball but was there as early as Little League, was an ability to pick teammates up after mistakes. As the best player on the team, I realized how much my attitude could impact everyone else. If the second baseman or left fielder booted a ball, nothing helped more than the leader on the mound flashing a smile and telling him we'd get the next guy, then doing it. As a kid that was just being a good teammate, but as I got older it became a key part of staying in gear myself. An error didn't shake me; it gave me more incentive to pick my guys up. The ball was ultimately in my hand after every play.

If you could sit across from a room full of youth coaches, what's the one thing you'd challenge them on?

The first thing that comes to mind is to have their kids watch more baseball. Kids don't know the game like they used to, and there's so much to pick up from watching the best in the world for nine innings, not just a quick TikTok highlight.

But honestly, I'm not sure I'm the guy to challenge anyone on the latest trends — my son is 8 and playing very casually at this point. I'd just tell them this: alone, none of you are going to create a pro ball player. But alone, you can very easily ruin a kid's development and chances at success.

After almost a decade coaching at East Providence High School and the Naval Academy Prep School, I found myself running elementary school recess as a Dean of Students. The kids couldn't compete without embarrassing each other. Parents cared more about goals scored than whether they were raising good people.

For me, it was really about community. Baseball is the ultimate team sport, and it takes a team of adults to maximize growth in the kids who pass through their dugouts. Coaches are more like relay runners than sculptors. Our job is to share what we know, be great role models, and send kids along in a good position for continued success — not to single-handedly chisel a masterpiece. We've all seen too many parents and coaches chisel a kid right out of the game within a couple years.

Minor league ball humbles everyone eventually. What did that teach you about resilience, and how can coaches better prepare kids for that moment?

At the minor league level, it's no longer a team game. You're competing against your own teammates for opportunities in a way that rivals nothing you've experienced before. I fed off heightened pressure throughout my career, then found myself with the Cubs in front of hardly any fans, where no one really cared if we won or lost, and your teammates wouldn't be upset if you went down with a season-ending injury.

In terms of preparing kids for it, I don't know that the key is preparation as much as maintaining connection and support while they're out on their own. I'd always excelled independently, but that was largely because I knew my people were in my corner and I could draw strength from those relationships. Out in the minors, it was isolating, and when injury hit, I didn't know how to be me. I couldn't channel the resilience that had gotten me there.

The story that comes to mind is the night I was released, during my second season. I was in Fargo, North Dakota, coming off a shoulder injury, without my fastball anymore. Standing on the mound in front of 7,000 people, a fan yelled, "hey number 19, don't make me boo you." I stepped off the rubber, took my hat off, took a deep breath — and knew it was over. Not because he might boo me, but because I'd heard him. It was less about losing my fastball and entirely about losing the focus that had always been instrumental to my success.

That night, some buddies and I went to our home bar and they asked what I was going to do now that ball was over. My answer was simple: "I'm going home to finish a couple classes and become a high school teacher." The sadder reality I learned that summer is that for most of those guys, it was baseball or nothing — they had no second option. That's probably the more important story if you're a parent reading this.

What actually separates the players who make it from the ones who don't, and is it something coaches and parents can develop?

My short answer: they intrinsically want it. The drive comes from within, and they enjoy the work, not just the results and attention. You can create the conditions for that, but you can't manufacture it. That's the separator.

I've seen incredibly talented kids flame out because somewhere along the way it stopped being their dream, or somebody else wanted it more than they did, and the imbalance sunk them. It became more about results and less about effort when no one was looking. Some of my best memories are riding my bike to pitch off the brick wall at a quiet Lonsdale Elementary, aiming for the bricks covered in white chalk from kids clapping the erasers; or borrowing the car to drive up to Chet Nichols Field and dumping a bucket of balls in left field to play long toss by myself, foul pole to foul pole.

When I coached at East Providence, we had a kid named Joe Botelho who went on to play at WPI and later got into analytics for the Orioles organization. Brilliant kid, always filthy by the end of a game. In our exit interview, I asked if he had any questions, and he said he had one he'd never asked but always wanted to: "why did you pick me for the team?" As a freshman he hadn't grown into himself yet, but we saw it clear as day. He had that intrinsic drive, and he grew into a pesky ball player for opponents to deal with. Not surprisingly, he was also the guy asking for more grounders after practice ended and the sun was setting.

What's the one thing you'd want every young player, parent, and coach reading this to walk away with?

For players: write your own story, and know that how long it lasts ties directly to how long you maintain your love for the game. It's hard to excel and push past your expected limits at something you don't love. And when your love for the game eventually exceeds your ability, as it very likely will one day, your story will continue through the voice of a fan, a parent, a coach — maybe all three. So play it the right way, a way you can take pride in when you're retelling it. Because it's yours, and nobody else's.

For parents and coaches: be those things, in that order — parent first, coach second. Teaching kids this game is really just a vehicle for teaching them to be good humans who see the value in cooperation and collaboration. Regardless of how long their playing days last, we want them to add value to the world as healthy adults. This world is increasingly isolated and individualized — teach your kids to be good teammates, to value relationships, and give them room to grow into the best versions of themselves. And go ahead and mix in a killer changeup grip while you're at it. Man, what a dirty pitch that was.

I asked Mick what separates the guys who make it from the guys who don't. His answer was simple: they intrinsically want it. You can't manufacture that. You can only create the conditions for it to grow.

That's exactly who Mick was on the mound. Mick was the ultimate competitor.

It was almost like he was a different person out there when he stepped onto the rubber. He'd look right through you and dare you to hit the next pitch. And if you did, he'd shake it off and go get the next guy. No flinch. No hesitation. Just on to the next one.

He was the best at it because he knew something most players never figure out. It wasn't a talent thing, plenty of guys had a fastball like his. It was his mentality. His approach. That was the separator, and it's the same thing he told me in his own words: you either want it from the inside, or you don't.

Looking back, that's exactly what he gave me, without ever calling it that. He never sat me down and explained how to compete. He just competed and I watched. Nine and ten years old, imitating his windup in the backyard, I wasn't trying to copy his mechanics. I was trying to copy his fire.

That's the part of this game most people miss. The lessons that stick aren't the ones written on a whiteboard. They're the ones you absorb just by being close enough to someone who's living them.

Thank you, Mick, for being a major influence on my baseball career. Without you, my journey would've looked completely different.

Every kid deserves a Mick in their corner. Be one for somebody.

Help me keep more kids in the game. If you found this helpful, please forward it to another parent or coach.

Thanks for being here. See you next week Inside the Dugout.

-Coach Steve-

Steve Holmes
Founder, Inside the Dugout
2006 MLB Draft | All-American | Youth Coach | Dad