Travis Ishikawa played eight years in Major League Baseball, mostly with the San Francisco Giants. His walk-off home run in the 2014 National League Championship Series sent the Giants to the World Series. He is now a minor-league hitting coach in the Giants organization. 

Let me tell you about a phone call.

It was right around the All-Star break in the 2010 season. I hadn’t started a single game for the San Francisco Giants the month before, but in July, I had started to play more consistently and better.

We were in Washington D.C. on a road trip, and I stepped into the tunnel outside the locker room to call my high school coach, Danny Graham.

“This is ridiculous,” I told Danny. “I’m just a pinch-hitter off the bench for the Giants and a defensive replacement.”

Because I’d had about a week’s worth of success, I felt like I was owed and entitled. I’m better than they think I am. They’re screwing me. I’m the victim. 

It’s kind of embarrassing to talk about now, but it’s good for the story. In my head at that time, I just assumed I was going to have a 15-year career in San Francisco with the Giants. The immaturity. The entitlement.

In the playoffs that year, we played the Atlanta Braves in the Divisional Series. It was Game 3, and the Braves had just taken a 2-1 lead in the bottom of the eighth inning. I came up in the ninth. When I stepped in for that at-bat, I was wondering if everybody on the field, in the stadium and watching on TV could see my nerves. My legs were shaking, and I had a hard time breathing.

It was my first playoff experience, and I knew the severity of the at-bat; I knew the stakes. I allowed my thoughts to focus on the pressure.

I walked, eventually scored a run and we went on to win the game. But by focusing on the pressure of the moment and fear of failure, I felt less athletic in the box and turned that moment into one of stress.

Let me tell you about a phone call.

It was 2014, and I had just played a minor-league game in Round Rock, Texas. I couldn’t sleep. I stepped out of the hotel and called Danny, my high school coach, again. It started with how we all start calls: “Hey, how’s it going?”

I told him: “I’m not good.” I couldn’t even small-talk my way into it, and I just started bawling.

By then, I’d been around a little longer. I’d been punched in the face several times but I’d always been able to get back up.

On the last day of spring training before the 2011 season, I was designated for assignment. That hurt — I wasn’t expecting it. I went down to the minors and started playing some in the outfield. I figured if I wasn’t good enough to be a backup first baseman, I needed to be versatile. My only thought was: I’m getting back to San Francisco. But a shoulder injury ended my season.

I spent the next year, 2012, with the Milwaukee Brewers. I loved Milwaukee and the team and thought: I could spend some years here. But at the end of the season, they didn’t bring me back.

I was kind of like, Damn, what else do I have to do? 

The next year, I played just six games for the Baltimore Orioles before they designated me for assignment. The Yankees claimed me right after. I took a redeye on Sunday night, got in Monday morning and played Monday night at Yankee Stadium. I went 0-for-2 with two strikeouts and Yankee fans booed me.

A few days later, they designated me for assignment.

In 2014, I was the Opening Day first baseman for the Pittsburgh Pirates. Three weeks later, I was let go for the fifth time in three years. At that point, I rejoined the Giants as a minor leaguer, but I was so bad in Triple A that season, they benched me.

This time it felt like I was getting kicked in the face while I was trying to get back up. I was trying everything, but no matter what I did, it didn’t work. I was a 30-year-old defensive replacement and pinch hitter in Triple A. So I called Danny and told him I didn’t know if I could do this anymore.

From 6 years old, all I wanted to do was play baseball. There was really nothing else to me, it felt like. I think a lot of people can relate to that.

Danny let me vent it out and cry it out, and then he told me: “I don’t have the answer for you, but all you need to know is I love you and you’re more than just a baseball player.” He reminded me of Romans 8:28 — “And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose” — to show me that I was loved outside of what I do for work.

He told me: “You could go back and play in the big leagues for the next 15 years or you could be released tomorrow and you’re still the same guy.”

Let me tell you about a phone call.

It was August 2014, two months after my tearful call with Danny, and I was in Washington D.C. again. I was back with the Giants after an unexpected promotion to the big leagues.

When I got called back up and walked into the clubhouse, I saw my name plate and my Giants jersey with the No. 45 on it. (I had worn No. 10 before). I just sat there for a while and smiled. Mike Murphy, our clubby, came up to talk to me.

“Ishy, welcome back!” he told me. “I gave you No. 45, but your old No. 10 is back there if you still want it.”

I told him: “I don’t even care what number is on the back. It says Giants on the front. I just couldn’t be happier right now.”

Not long after that, while we were in D.C., I stepped out of the clubhouse and called Danny again.

I said: “Coach, do you know where I’m standing right now?” He said no. I said: “Four years ago, I was in D.C. talking to you and complaining about how I was just a pinch hitter for the Giants. I felt like I deserved more playing time, that I was being screwed.”

I told him: “Here we are four years later, and I’m in the exact same spot outside the clubhouse in D.C. I’m just a pinch hitter for the Giants — and I’m telling you I couldn’t be happier.”

I was in the exact same situation, with the exact same job, but my perspective had completely changed. That was such a cool moment for me. I even had front-office people come up to me and tell me that I just seemed happy. I just wanted to be in the moment, and there was a freedom to that.

I’m a firm believer that you don’t learn and grow until you fail. On the baseball field, when I’ve had some of my biggest failures and setbacks, I often look back later and think, I don’t know if I would have been able to do what I did if it wasn’t for those moments.

That’s what happened in the playoffs that season.

When I stepped to the plate in Game 5 of the 2014 NLCS against the St. Louis Cardinals, everything felt different. The score was tied 3-3, and we had runners on first and second with one out. I knew the severity of the situation: A win would win the National League pennant and send us to the World Series.

I noticed the Cardinals had Randy Choate, a left-handed reliever, warming up in the bullpen. In the past, I would have thought, OK, they’re going to bring in the lefty here, and I’m going to get pinch hit for.

But not this time.

The Cardinals left in Michael Wacha, a right-handed pitcher. I looked at the barrel of my bat and just had this calm feeling in my head. Later, I would compare that to the nerves I felt four years earlier in the playoffs against the Braves. Instead of allowing the fear of failure to take hold like I had, this time I felt a calming peace. All that adversity from the last four years had reminded me to enjoy the moment. My perspective had gone from victim and what I was owed to grateful for the opportunity. It was a type of peace I wished I could bottle up and keep with me all the time.

First pitch, Wacha tried to pitch me really far inside. Ball one.

The Cardinals always pitched me inside, so between pitches I told myself, They’re coming in, they’re coming in. See the ball out over the plate.

Second pitch, same thing. Ball two.

He’s going to try to throw me a strike, and he has to throw a fastball. 

He threw a fastball and I took one of the easiest swings of my career. To this day, it still feels like slow motion. I watched the ball slip over the wall in right field. I high-fived our first-base coach. And then … blank. I don’t remember running the bases. I don’t remember slamming my helmet.

Like I said, I was completely in the moment.

The next thing I remember, I was down on the ground and we were celebrating going to the World Series.

— As told to Jayson Jenks