We are a nameless majority, treated as a minority because the focus of the public eye rests on another.

For every superstar gracing the cover of a magazine or endorsing a product for your children, there are 25 players with similar skill sets that are bubbling under the surface with dreams they’ll switch places in the spotlight.

That that spotlight can only frame so many is meaningless to the nameless majority. That ‘we’ are well paid and get the brunt of the public’s angst and anger when one of us fights for or is rewarded with a contract only creates more confusion within our ranks.

It’s hard to understand how a fan can argue for his team to overpay for the latest superstar, but becomes incensed when a vital utility infielder signs the contract that could establish generational wealth for his children’s children.

That he isn’t applauded for preserving through whatever trials and tribulations led to his current situation is crazy. That he’s not celebrated by both the public and his peers for all the morning runs, all the extra sessions in the weight room, the batting cage, the fitness center, the training room; the numerous locales and locations that have housed his dream.

But because we are men and have all fallen into replicating the actions of those before us, ‘we’ can’t celebrate our own. We can’t shout his name as a cry of confidence that if one of us made it, all of us can.

We can only tip our hats in his direction and dream that tomorrow, we will fill his shoes.