What Surgeries, Angry Coaches and Falling Short of my Baseball Goals Taught Me About Great Photography
How baseball's mental game transformed my approach behind the lens
“Chad, this injury definitely requires surgery.” Not the news I wanted to hear.
And, I would hear it 3 more times before I retired from baseball.
Baseball and photography seem worlds apart, but I realized that my entire experience in NCAA Division 1 and professional baseball perfectly prepared me for a wild career of ups and downs as I’ve chased big-league dreams with a camera for the past 15 years.
The triumphs and high points are a lot more fun to remember, but if I’m being honest, the most important lessons continue to come from the setbacks and moments of quiet discipline.
While most people know me as a photographer, few realize I spent my early adulthood crouched behind home plate as a catcher in the Cincinnati Reds organization. Though I never reached the major leagues, those years shaped how I approach every aspect of my work today.
The Discipline of Preparation
Success isn't just about talent—it's about preparation.
As a ballplayer and catcher, I spent countless hours in the weight room and batting cage, optimized my sleep, studied opposing batters, memorizing tendencies, and planned pitch sequences.
Before I ever set foot on the field, I had already used my time off the field to be better equipped for success on the field.
This habit of preparation translated directly to my photography career.
When I document landmark construction projects like the Theodore Roosevelt Presidential Library, I'm not just showing up with a camera. I'm researching the site's history, understanding the architectural vision, learning about the materials and engineering challenges, and envisioning key construction moments before they happen.
Some photographers who struggle are often the ones who rely solely on instinct or technical skill. They arrive at shoots hoping inspiration will strike or that their expertise with a camera will save the day.
But as I learned in baseball, hope isn't a strategy. The professionals who consistently deliver excellence are the ones who do the invisible work before anyone is watching.
Simply chasing action all over the scene without doing proactive research (or at the very least identifying the right background and the right light before you start shooting) is a recipe for creating a bunch of half-baked pictures with no real intent.
The above image from a recent assignment at the Theodore Roosevelt Presidential Library is a great example, and it won an award as one of the best images of the year from ENR Magazine.
I was able to be in position for this dirt drop because I watched the process a few times from a different angle. When I saw how low the sun was on the horizon I immediately knew I wanted to incorporate it’s rays with the bucket of the mini-excavator.
Being careful to not trip over hazards or fall into nearby trenches, I positioned myself as best I could to capture the image I anticipated in my head and waited for the dirt, the sunlight and the posture of the workers to align.
Reading Patterns Others Miss
Catchers develop a unique ability to see patterns that others miss.
We track subtle weight shifts in hitters that provide clues to their intentions or weaknesses. We notice when a pitcher's arm angle drops slightly, signaling fatigue. These small details, invisible to the casual observer, often determine the outcome of games.
In photography, this pattern recognition becomes a superpower.
While others see a construction site, I notice how afternoon light creates dramatic shadows and geometric patterns across structural beams. In the North Dakota Badlands, the terrain is always beautiful but might look more compelling as the sun sets closer to the horizon.
This ability to read and anticipate visual patterns—to see what's developing before it fully materializes—allows me to capture moments that I would otherwise miss.
My mentors at the San Francisco Chronicle would routinely remind me to "Find the right light, then find the right background, then let the action move through the scene," instead of mindlessly chasing action all over the place.
It reminded me of what I felt as a ballplayer: great plays are possible when you're already in position because you anticipated possible outcomes before they happened.
We called this “pre-pitch preparation,” and would make constant adjustments on a pitch-by-pitch basis, the same way I adjust my camera settings continuously as I move through the scene or try to predict a subject’s movements.
The Art of Serving Others While Leading
A catcher occupies a unique position on the baseball field. You're both servant and leader—responsible for elevating everyone around you while excelling at your own role.
You call pitches that make your pitcher look brilliant. You catch borderline pitches in a way that presents them favorably to the umpire (“framing”) to get strikes. You block wild pitches to prevent runs.
A catcher’s success is measured largely by how well you help others succeed. This dual mindset perfectly prepared me for commercial photography.
When I work with clients, my job isn't to express my personal artistic vision at their expense. It's to use my unique artistic identity and technical skill to amplify their message, showcase their project, or solve their visual challenges.
Yet within this service-oriented approach, I still need to lead. Clients hire me for my expertise, not just my ability to follow directions.
Like a catcher who gently guides a pitcher by suggesting certain pitches or having a quick chat on the mound to reframe their thinking, I often need to steer clients toward visual approaches that will better serve their goals—even when those approaches might not be what they initially envisioned.
Note: the client is always right even when they're wrong, so your number one job is to do what you were hired to do. But always look for ways to elevate yourself beyond being a button-pushing-monkey and be a strategic consultant who recommends ways that help your client better achieve their goals.
The Resilience to Weather Slumps
Every baseball player faces slumps—those mysterious periods when nothing seems to work. I once went through a stretch of 22 at-bats without a hit.
Each day, I'd come to the ballpark believing "today is the day" only to trudge back to the dugout after another disappointing performance.
What saved me wasn't dramatically changing my approach or abandoning my fundamentals. It was trusting the process, making small adjustments, and maintaining confidence despite results that suggested I should do otherwise.
Photography businesses experience similar cycles. There are months when the phone doesn't ring, when clients choose other photographers, or when creative inspiration seems to vanish. During these inevitable periods, I rely on the mental toughness developed during baseball slumps.
I remember my dad (and longtime coach) telling me, "There are a million good ballplayers out there, but very few champions. What separates a champion from ‘just another good ballplayer’ is your ability to overcome adversity, not avoid it."
He reminded me that no one is immune from injuries, strikeouts or errors. An athlete’s (and professional photographer’s) likelihood of success is determined by how many times you get back up, not how many times you get knocked down.
Finding Joy in Unglamorous Excellence
Much of a catcher's work goes unnoticed.
The perfect frame that steals a strike. The subtle conversation that settles a nervous pitcher. The hours spent in ice baths recovering from the physical toll of squatting for nine innings. All so that we can sit behind the plate tomorrow and be as quiet and undistracting as possible for our pitchers.
Similarly, much of a photographer's excellence happens away from the glamorous moments. It's in the meticulous image organization systems. The careful backup protocols. The hours spent perfecting subtle adjustments in post-processing. The dark drives well before sunrise to capture perfect morning light.
Baseball taught me to find deep satisfaction in this behind-the-scenes excellence—to derive joy not just from the results everyone sees, but from the process that produces those results.
This mindset has been essential in building a sustainable photography career where much of my most important work happens when no one is watching.
Here's a new section to insert between "Finding Joy in Unglamorous Excellence" and "The Identity Beyond the Diamond":
Control What You Can Control
Baseball taught me a fundamental truth that transformed my photography business: success comes from distinguishing between what you can control and what you can't.
In baseball, I couldn't control umpires' calls, weather conditions, injuries or bad hops. But I could control my preparation, technique, and attitude.
Getting upset about a questionable call or being obsessively depressed about an injury only distracted me from executing what was actually within my power.
Photography presents the same challenge. I can't control if a client chooses another photographer, if the economy affects marketing budgets, or if a pandemic derails the world.
But I CAN control my equipment maintenance, my client communication, my business development efforts, my file backup systems, and my continued education.
"Worrying is a misuse of your imagination," my good friend Dr. Troy Spurrill once said in an interview. Those words resonated deeply because I saw how many photographers waste creative energy fretting over algorithm changes, market saturation, or competitors' prices – none of which they can influence.
If we neglect the details that are necessary for success (firmware updates, file backup, filing taxes, self-care, sleep), the results can be disastrous.
Equally detrimental is worrying about elements beyond our control, which robs us of the mental and creative energy we need to produce our best work.
The photographers who thrive long-term are as fiercely committed to controlling what they can as they are to letting go of what they can't. They focus their energy where it matters – on creating exceptional images and delivering outstanding service.
I still struggle with this myself and probably always will to some degree. But by being aware of it I can coach myself into better patterns of intentional thinking that propel me toward my goals instead of creating unnecessary speed bumps.
Remember: there is always the next pitch, the next out, the next inning and the next season. The best is always yet to come. Control what you can and purge from your mind the things you can’t.
The Identity Beyond the Diamond
Perhaps the most valuable lesson came not during my baseball career, but when it ended. After years of defining myself as "Chad Z the catcher," I suddenly had to discover who I was beyond the diamond.
This identity transition was jarring and disorienting. I had built my sense of self around baseball, and without it, I felt a bit lost.
Working through this transition taught me that authentic identity isn't tied to what we do, but to who we are and what we value. We are all much bigger than our possessions or vocations.
This profound lesson shapes how I approach photography and how I help other photographers find their path.
I've met countless photographers struggling with similar identity questions: Am I a wedding photographer or a portrait photographer? A photojournalist or a commercial photographer?
The answer, I've discovered, isn't about picking a label. It's about understanding your authentic self and letting that guide your artistic choices.
When photographers align their work with their deeper values and natural tendencies, they not only produce more meaningful images—they build more sustainable careers.
From One Team to Another
Baseball is ultimately about being part of something larger than yourself. You sacrifice personal glory for team success. You celebrate teammates' achievements as your own. You find your specific role and excel within it.
In photography, I've discovered a similar truth. While I often work alone, I’m part of a larger ecosystem of clients, subjects, viewers, and fellow creative professionals. My work matters not because it displays my technical expertise, but because it contributes to something meaningful beyond myself.
Whether I'm documenting a landmark construction project, creating images that help a business thrive, or capturing fine art that transforms a space, the satisfaction comes from the same place it did in baseball—knowing that my specific contribution, executed with excellence, helps create something greater than I could achieve alone.
The playing field has changed. But the core principles remain the same.
The lessons learned from behind home plate continue to guide me as I look through the viewfinder, reminding me that true excellence is most impactful when it elevates others and we can work together to amplify something bigger than ourselves.
PS - We photographers bring a lot of seemingly unrelated backgrounds to the table, like Dan Winters who studied entomology in college. What experiences did you have before going all-in on photography that informs your work today? Please share in the comments, I can’t wait to learn about your journey.