09/11/2026
I’ve always kept my circle pretty small. Sadly, that circle is a little smaller now, and this loss has torn me up.
BJ was one of the most influential people in youth baseball in the Midwest.
My first meeting with him was in 2010. I had just gotten booted out of an 8U game at a tournament he was directing at North Vernon City Park. I’m pretty sure there’s a fire hydrant there named after me, because that’s where I ended up sitting after I got tossed once or twice in a career there.
Somehow, from that introduction, a friendship was born.
After that, BJ and I touched base at least every couple of weeks for the next 16 years. We were both night owls, so most of those conversations happened after 11 p.m. He’d call after a late tournament to talk about whatever craziness he or I had witnessed that week in the world of youth baseball.
A lot of those calls happened with Cole or Brycen riding in the truck with him while I was on Bluetooth, completely without a filter and usually talking s**t about something. I could hear those boys giggling in the background while I went on one of my rants.
Kristi may or may not have appreciated all of those conversations, because I’m pretty sure the boys picked up a few legendary one-liners along the way.
BJ and I worked on several projects together over the years. I watched him and Joey build OVSP and Premiere into what they became. More importantly, I watched BJ give back to his community and give his time to so many people.
BJ and I always joked about coaching together someday, along with Jason Maddox. We were never quite sure the kids of this generation would survive the three of us.
We talked all the time about how much the game—and the players—had changed over the years. We even joked about writing a book someday with a few others about the absolute craziness of the youth baseball world and all the things we had experienced in it, mainly parents and coaching we saw.
We probably should have written it.
BJ was truly one of a kind.
He was ride or die. He was the late-night phone call. He was a family man and a community man. He was someone who gave his time, his knowledge and himself to other people.
And to me, he was my friend.
I’m heartbroken.
I don’t cry often. Yesterday I did. Today, I still might.
BJ, I love ya, brother.
I can only pray that everyone gets lucky enough in their lifetime to find a friend like you—the kind of friend you can call at midnight, talk baseball, talk s**t, laugh about life and know they’ll always answer.
I’m going to miss those calls more than I can put into words.
Rest easy, my friend.
