The Hitting Coach Determined to Ask 'Where Did it Start?'

Years ago, Anthony Iapoce returned to the New York City neighborhood he grew up in and snapped a photo in the middle of the street.

“I was thinking about how many times I touched that sewer cap playing stickball 2-on-2,” Iapoce said. “I just got real emotional. Don’t forget where you come from.”

Iapoce’s baseball journey has taken him from the uneven concrete of northern Queens to the manicured diamonds of the most sacred stadiums in the sport.

He played in the Minor Leagues for nine years — reaching as far as Triple A — and has spent the past two decades as a coach with the Chicago Cubs, Texas Rangers and Detroit Tigers, among others. He's currently an assistant hitting coach with the Houston Astros.  

But Iapoce’s coaching success can at least, in part, be traced back to the photo.

He shares it as part of an exercise he does called “Where Did it Start?” in which he encourages players and coaches from all corners of the globe to present photos of where they grew up and first fell in love with the game.

“It’s a cultural starter," he said. “Once you show me, that’s impact. Now everybody gets intrigued.”

Best of 7 spoke to Iapoce about why he works so hard to get to know his players, coaching hitters through their struggles, and why self-belief is a skill.

This interview has been edited and condensed.

Coach, tell me how “Where Did it Start?” gained momentum.

There were times in my career, especially when I was going back, where I forgot about how many swings I took, how many arguments I was in, you're fighting for first, safe or out, who scored a run? When I go back to my struggles, I never even thought about that stuff because you're just so consumed with trying to get better.

I took it to our field coordinator, Tim Cossins, who's actually on the staff in Houston right now. “It’s a sewer cap from the street I grew up on. Here's the street.” He types in his address. It takes us to Northern California, where he's from. He calls in “D.J.,” Derek Johnson, who was the pitching coordinator. “D.J., Google Earth your spot.” He's from the middle of Illinois, one traffic light.

Now, you’ve got a guy from New York City, a guy from northern California, a guy from southern Illinois, and we're all in this room together trying to build players to hopefully win a World Series. He gets all excited. “This is where I played! We’d run the railroad tracks here.” They said you’ve got to present this to the players.

How did the players respond?

They were so excited to show the street that they grew up on and where they learned baseball. I had guys make their own photos, some were in living rooms, some were in barns, some were in the middle of Ohio.

I got to the Rangers in the big leagues, and I'm like, I wonder if this will work. At the end of the first meeting, I put up mine. Here’s a room full of Prince Fielder, Adrian Beltre, Shin-Soo Choo… This was a veteran team that just won the Division championship. Are they going to listen to me? I'm like, “Screw it.” I put it up there.

It was my first year in the big leagues, but they were like, “Oh, this is awesome!” You’d go into Venezuela, Curacao, the Dominican Republic, all over. Players would ask questions. They're like, “O.K. I can see why you hit this way. I can see why this happens.” After a while, the guys are like, “When am I going?” They loved it.

What did that ultimately do for your team?

I think it brought them back to a place they hadn't gone in a long time mentally — when you just felt like you were the best player every single day you went out on that street or in that park. You just dominated whoever you were around.

That’s what happens in the minor leagues, like everybody's good. But everybody's really good in the big leagues. Who can get through it? Who can find their niche to stick around and really believe that they're good enough? Belief is a skill — and that's why guys quit. They just stop believing. They give up.

As soon as you can get them away from themselves and focus on the game — which is why they really started playing — they get out of whatever they're in sooner and quicker, and they feel better about themselves.

I’ve heard you say, “The best players manage their thoughts.” What do you mean by that?

You have 40,000 thoughts a day. So many of them are negative, especially if you’re in a sport where there’s hitting and you get punched in the face every day.

But the best players are able to get through adversity quicker. They manage their downtime in the batter's box in between pitches and on defense. You can swing at a pitch in the dirt and go, “Man, I’ve got to stop swinging at the pitch in the dirt. I'm pulling off the ball,” all these negative thoughts, whereas another player swings at a pitch in the dirt and it’s already over with.

When you're going at your worst, you think you're the worst player. But the best players never get too high, they never get too low on themselves. They just learn to ride it.

It sounds like a lot of what you’re alluding to is part of a larger process toward consistency.

The word “process” gets thrown around, and some people overuse it, but there’s major truth to it. If you have the right intention behind it, the process is real. Joe Maddon would always say, “The process is fearless.” It’s true.

Usually, when a player is struggling, they become internally selfish because they're so concerned about getting out of whatever they're struggling with hitting wise or numbers wise. We just try to get them back to the team. Like, what can you do for the team today?

Before they leave the clubhouse, I'll reach out to them with some nugget to take home instead of going down and watching your swing 200 times in the hotel room. Take this nugget. Focus on it. Get some rest, and we'll work on this tomorrow. You’re really trying to get them away from themselves, from self-sabotage.

You’re part hitting coach, part psychologist to an extent.

When I was in Triple A, dealing with guys who are up and down, been in the big leagues, been through it, you're not just going to wow them with a Vince Lombardi or Coach K speech. You’ve got to be real with them, and they’ve got to know that you care.

I want to be able to create an environment where you're able to practice with freedom and never be judged, because in hitting, your swing is always being judged. If you can go into the cage without being judged by people looking at you, and you can just be free like you were when you were in the street and you weren't concerned about that stuff, you’ll get better faster. You’ll get through adversity faster. Your struggles will get smaller and smaller.

I’m curious — do you have any go-to mantras you use with players?

One of the things we went by in Toledo was “Never get offended” and “Take everything as a positive.” It doesn't mean a fake positive, but if somebody says something crappy to you, you say, “Thank you.” Then, you move on faster. I always tell the players I'll never get offended by what you say. I'm with you every day for 200 days. You can't get offended by what I say because we're in this together.

The only way you can establish that is through the trust in the relationship that you work on building in the beginning. Once that happens, you actually look forward to tough conversations, and the players really appreciate you being honest. I’ll walk past players in the locker room, and they’ll just be like, “Never get offended.” That's kind of what you want.

Another big one that year was “Let it Go,” from Elsa. I’ve got two girls, they're a little bit older now, but for Elsa and Anna, “Let it go.” In Triple A, you’ve got to let it go so much, because you’re right on the cusp, you're up and down, somebody's passing you, and if you hold on to it, you’re going to take it to the game.

The hardest thing for players and for staff members is you may be getting passed on something or you wanted a job that you didn't get. You have to let it go or else it's going to hold you down.

What’s the toughest decision you’ve had to make in your career?

I got released from the Brewers after seven years. I just quit. I was struggling so hard in Triple A, and I was mad at the world. I came back at 28 after I sat out a whole year. Then, two things happened: 9/11 and my mom got really sick with breast cancer.

I was just like, “O.K., I'm not going out like this.” I remember buying a Dell computer and going to Barnes and Noble, getting the directory and emailing every farm director, every independent team.

I ended up signing with the St. Paul Saints but never played with them. Then with two weeks left in 2002 spring training, the Marlins called. I thought they were calling me to coach, but they said, “We want you to play in Double A, Triple A.”

I was just so happy to have a jersey on. I ended up probably having one of my best spring trainings statistically ever. I learned a lot. I was playing with freedom and was like, “I'm going to just truly be present and not let anything bother me.”

That decision for me to not play a year wasn't difficult, and coming back from it wasn't difficult. But the decision to find a job when you don’t have one is. The tough part is, how will my family adjust?

What I learned…

I appreciated Iapoce’s initial reluctance to share “Where Did it Start?” with some of the most accomplished players in the sport.

It struck me as a common dilemma coaches and decision-makers face as they reach higher levels in their careers. Will my practices and routines of the past resonate with a more-accomplished audience?

But Iapoce said he got enough encouragement from other staff members to give it a shot. In essence, he received the same type of“freedom” that he tries to give the hitters he works with.

Iapoce offered what I felt was valuable advice to any leader debating whether to experiment with a team dynamic or unconventional cultural exercise.

“The risk is definitely worth it if the intent is genuine and authentic,” he said.