Tunnel Vision From the U.P.

Derrick Edington didn’t grow up in a place where life is optimized.

He grew up where you plan your groceries like an expedition, where a “run to town” is a 45-minute drive one way, where winter teaches you quickly what’s worth it and what isn’t. There are no shortcuts in a place like that. There’s just the work, the weather, and the kind of small-town accountability that makes you who you are—because everyone knows everyone, and your name actually means something.

That’s the foundation of Derrick’s story: not hype, not luck, not a viral moment. A long, stubborn relationship with doing the reps when nobody’s watching.

Because here’s the part people miss when they see the highlight: the 6’8” right-hander touching 100, the Tampa Bay Rays buying his contract, the “this kid’s a prospect” label. That moment isn’t the story. It’s the receipt.

The story is plywood in the backyard.

It’s throwing into a chain-link fence because there isn’t a catcher, a facility, or a trainer on every corner. It’s deer camp and a frozen trailer hitch turning into a shoulder problem that threatens to erase the one thing you’re chasing. It’s surgeries, setbacks, and that uniquely brutal version of pain where nothing is “catastrophic,” but everything is threatening—where you can feel the window closing and still have to show up.

And it’s the most important ingredient in Derrick’s whole timeline:

His dad’s voice.

“Go to the tryout.”

Not as a motivational poster. As a practical worldview. If you don’t make it, you can come home, work construction, hunt and fish, and live a good life. But the opportunity in front of you? That has an expiration date. So you go. You find out. You don’t flinch.

That’s tunnel vision.

Not obsession. Not ego. Not pretending you don’t care. Tunnel vision is choosing the hard thing now because the easy life will still be there later—and understanding that the reverse is not true.

As Derrick climbed levels, he noticed the real separator in pro ball isn’t talent. The skill gap is tiny. Everyone’s nasty. Everyone expects to be a big leaguer. The difference is something less glamorous and more uncomfortable:

In affiliate baseball, every day has intention.

Not every day is max effort. But every day has a purpose. Recovery has a purpose. Nutrition has a purpose. Treatment has a purpose. Lifting has a purpose. Throwing has a purpose. And the mind doesn’t get to negotiate its way into a day off disguised as “self-care.”

That line Derrick said should be printed and taped above every young player’s locker:

“On the day I decide I’m not going to do it… somebody is doing exactly what I’m not willing to do.”

That’s not toxic. That’s reality. That’s the cost of entry.

And if you want the payoff—if you want the quiet confidence to stand on a mound when it’s tight and feel your heartbeat slow instead of spike—this is where it comes from: the days you didn’t feel like it and did it anyway.

Work has a secondary benefit nobody talks about: it gives you an edge you can feel. It removes the little whisper that says, “I’m not ready.” Because you know what you did when it was boring, when it was lonely, when it was inconvenient.

That’s why Derrick can talk about the last hump—AA to the show—and it isn’t about adding some secret pitch or chasing the next trick.

It’s mental consistency.

It’s not punishing himself for failure. Not dragging Tuesday into Thursday. Not riding the highs too high or the lows too low. Becoming the same guy every day—the kind of reliever a manager trusts because he knows what he’s getting: presence, conviction, and a bulldog willing to take the ball even when he doesn’t feel perfect.

That’s what tunnel vision looks like when it’s healthy.

It’s grounded. It’s humble. It’s stubborn. It’s built on family, routine, and the belief that you can always go home—but you don’t go home yet.

Because plywood today becomes 100 tomorrow.

And when the stadium loses its mind at “double zero,” it isn’t because a radar gun flashed three digits.

It’s because somewhere in that noise is a kid from the U.P. who kept showing up when nobody was clapping.

Derrick’s story isn’t just “work hard and it’ll happen.” It’s work hard when it’s inconvenient, when it’s unglamorous, and when the path is unclear—and keep doing it long enough that the world eventually has to meet you where you are.

He talked about being the oldest of four brothers, about a household where competition wasn’t an activity—it was the atmosphere. Two-on-two backyard baseball, football collisions for fun, clearing your plate the fastest, fighting over video games, and growing up so close you almost mistake it for irritation until you get older and realize it was love the whole time. He talked about how a small town teaches you people skills because you don’t get to hide from community—you run into everyone, and you learn to carry yourself with respect because you’ll see them again.

Then he laid out the truth behind his baseball climb: he wasn’t a “baseball guy” in high school. He threw 80–82, had two community college offers, and got redirected by a coach who basically told him, basketball ends for most people; with your frame, baseball might give you a longer runway if you commit. So he committed—slowly, painfully, imperfectly—weight room, development, velocity jumps, and then the part no one wants: injury, surgery, doubt, and starting over.

And through all of it, the mindset stayed consistent: don’t negotiate with your mind, don’t go half in, and don’t waste days. In Derrick’s world, you either do the work, or somebody else does it for you—and they pass you.