Yellow Belly Lessons (Part 2: Doing It Your Way)
February 28, 2026
“The more I practice, the luckier I get.” — Ben Hogan (Texas Golf Legend)
In Part 1 of this series, I shared how a handful of Coors Original “Yellow Belly” bottle caps stayed with me during a season of reflection. I recently came across them again tucked inside my briefcase, alongside old notes, charging cables, and reminders of different chapters along the way. Six of them stuck. Each one feels simple at first glance, but over time they’ve come to represent lessons that only make sense after enough seasons of work, risk, and perspective. This second part reflects on three more that stayed with me.
Luck Is Hard Work’s Residue
I learned this lesson long before business titles or leadership roles. In high school baseball, I wasn’t the most naturally gifted player on the field. I was a hard-working teammate, above average, determined, and chasing a goal of playing beyond high school. My dad and I built a batting cage in the backyard using old trees and telephone poles. Nothing polished. Just a place to work. I hit constantly, often wearing work gloves instead of batting gloves to keep my hands from blistering. Most of that work happened alone, or just with me and Dad, the ping of a metal bat echoing across a couple of acres.
I didn’t become a regular starter until the playoffs of my senior year. In fact, I had never played a varsity sport until that school year. Then the opportunity came. Playing alongside and against athletes far more naturally talented, including five Division I commits on our own roster, I went on a strong playoff run that finally got me noticed and opened the door to college baseball. From the outside, it may have looked like luck. It wasn’t luck. It was preparation meeting opportunity.
Coach Bill Poland, a Texas high school baseball legend with more than 700 career wins, pushed me relentlessly. He never gave up on me, even when I wasn’t starting. Heading into that playoff stretch, he told me I was his designated hitter and wasn’t coming out. That confidence mattered, but what mattered more was knowing I had already done the work to be ready when the moment arrived. Years later, Coach Poland welcomed me back to Brazoswood as his student teacher in the spring of 1996, helping launch my career in education. The discipline he instilled carried far beyond baseball and into every chapter that followed.
People often describe career outcomes the same way. Opportunities appear sudden from the outside. What they rarely see are the quiet hours that came first. Luck tends to show up after you’ve already proven something to yourself and put in the work.
An Honest Day’s Work Might Take Days
Some work is measured in effort. Other work is measured in what still stands years later. When I joined CDW-G as its first education strategist, the directive was simple but enormous: change how the company was perceived in education. That wasn’t a marketing initiative. It was long-term trust work. It meant listening before selling, building credibility before growth, and helping establish an authentic commitment to schools and districts. Progress was slow and often invisible early on.
What stands out most to me now isn’t a program or initiative. It’s the people. Over time, we built teams and helped many educators transition into the private sector, bringing their experience and perspective with them. Today, many of those individuals hold senior leadership roles across education companies, continuing to shape the field in meaningful ways. In many ways, that became my coaching tree, something I am deeply proud of. CDW-G is now CDW Education, which may be the clearest indicator of that legacy. The work continues, and so does the impact.
That may be the clearest definition of an honest day’s work: building something that lasts beyond your involvement and continues serving the community it was meant to support. Some work takes days. Some take years. The goal isn’t speed. It’s durability. You stop measuring success by immediate results and start measuring it by what continues working long after you’ve moved on.
At a minimum, the metrics should reflect long-term impact, not short-term gain.
Be Proud of Doing It Your Way
When I moved from public education into the private sector in 2010, there wasn’t a blueprint for educators entering the private sector. While I didn’t intend to take this path, it was far from well worn. It was unclear and, in many ways, it still feels elusive to educators considering the transition today.
What surprised me most was realizing that leadership principles travel well. The lessons learned in classrooms and school systems applied directly to solving complex business problems. In fact many of the issues I dealt with as a district cabinet member were much more complex with many more variables. Listening built alignment. Trust accelerated progress. Clarity reduced friction. Relationships created momentum.
At first, I assumed I needed to become something different to succeed in the private sector. Over time, I realized the opposite was true. The experience gained in education wasn’t something to overcome. It was the advantage. Now, in my sixteenth year in the private sector, I would like to think I am unapologetically who I am, but it took all those years to build that confidence.
I often share a few pieces of advice with educators thinking about making the move: Know your worth. Don’t sell yourself short. Be confident in the experience you already carry.
You can remain mission-driven in a for-profit world. Alignment matters, and so does how you treat people. Organizations still need leaders who understand impact, empathy, and long-term trust. Your path will not look like anyone else’s. That’s not a flaw. That’s where your strength lives.
Reflection
Looking back across these six bottle caps, the lessons feel connected in a way I didn’t fully recognize at first.
They begin with doing the work no one sees, getting your hands dirty and learning through repetition. They deepen through moments that test what you’re made of, when integrity matters more than outcomes and the right decision costs something in the short term. Over time, they reinforce the discipline of quietly focusing on results instead of recognition, trusting that durable work eventually speaks for itself.
Then perspective shifts.
You realize what looks like luck is usually preparation carried out long before opportunity arrives. You learn that meaningful work rarely happens quickly, and that the strongest contributions are the ones still standing years after you’ve moved on. And eventually, after enough seasons of experience, you understand that success is not becoming someone different, it is becoming comfortable being fully yourself.
Taken together, the lessons are less about career stages and more about character.
Do the work.
Protect your values.
Focus on substance.
Prepare when no one is watching.
Build things that last.
And have the courage to do it your own way.
In the end, the lessons were never really in the bottle caps. They were in the seasons of life that made them meaningful.
