I was still pretty young when I got the job.

A strength coach for the New York Yankees.

I had worked hard to earn that spot — a long way from where I started, coaching youth athletes and grinding away in private facilities. Now I was training some of the best athletes on the planet, inside one of the most iconic organizations in sports.

And one day, I got called into the head guy’s office.

Not because I was in trouble exactly… but definitely not because I’d done something right either.

Here’s what happened:

I was in the gym, working with a pitcher.

We were doing some sort of overhead movement — I honestly can’t remember what exercise it was. But it involved the arms going above the head.

I remember thinking, “This is good work. Solid movement. He’s doing well.”

Just as we were finishing up the set, I noticed someone walk through the gym on the way to the executive offices.

It was Brian Cashman — or “Cash,” as everyone called him.

He didn’t stop. Didn’t say a word. Just passed through the space and disappeared behind the door.

No less than 30 seconds later, I hear someone call out for me. It’s the head strength and conditioning coach:

“Can you come see me in my office real quick?”

I knew exactly what it was about.

He didn’t yell. Didn’t scold. Just calmly let me know:

“Cash saw the overhead work. You can’t do that anymore.”

At the time, I was stunned.

You’re telling me an overhead athlete — someone who throws a baseball for a living — shouldn’t do overhead exercises?

It didn’t make sense to me. How could we expect a pitcher to stay strong and healthy if we were afraid to train the very positions they need to own?

It was one of those moments where I thought:

“Maybe this world isn’t for me.”

Not because I couldn’t handle the work. But because I couldn’t make sense of the decisions being made above me — especially when it came to performance.

But here’s the thing:

Looking back now, with the benefit of time and experience, I get it.

Cashman wasn’t overreacting.

These guys were investments. Many of them worth $150+ million to the organization. If something went wrong — even if it wasn’t directly from training — the optics would’ve been brutal.

And when the stakes are that high, it’s not about maximizing performance. It’s about minimizing risk.

So I understood the call. Eventually.

But that was also when I realized the pro world might not be the place where I could do my best work.

Fast forward to today…

The industry has come a long way.

We know now how important smart, well-coached strength training is for overhead athletes — especially when it comes to the shoulder complex, scapular control, thoracic mobility, and general arm care.

It’s not about avoiding overhead work altogether.

It’s about earning the right to do it, knowing when it’s appropriate, and how to scale it to the needs of the athlete.

And when I work with baseball players now — including some very high-level arms — that early lesson sticks with me.

– Train smart.
– Coach what’s in front of you.
– And know when to push — and when to pause.

Even if Cash isn’t watching from across the gym.