Pro pitcher Ryan Risch doesn’t talk like someone trying to sound tough. He talks like someone who has had to survive in the game. Florida, 100 degrees, humidity, older players, anxiety, eighteen years old - the only catcher left. That’s when reality sets in, and everything gets loud. That moment didn’t make him quit; it made him change his mindset and, eventually, his identity.
Spoiler alert! Catchers don’t get days off mentally. I am obsessed with the mental side of the game because it’s not only sports psychology… It’s survival; the way players stay alive inside their own head. Players don’t always struggle because they lack ability. To get to a certain level, you have to pitch, hit, and catch. These guys belong on the field. But for Ryan, catching meant living inside the noise every day. Every pitch required control and management; the mistakes felt amplified. And of course, every voice carried weight, on and off the field. What changed wasn’t his toughness; it was his role. Always possessing a strong arm, Ryan reversed the battery and went pitcher; this gave him space. Instead of carrying the weight every inning, every day, he only had to step into that mindset every three to five days. “As soon as I went to just pitching and DH… I was able to flip the switch like that.” he said. That gap created something new, a separation between Ryan the person and the version of himself that could play without hesitation or fear.
Through mental prep and confidence routines he built with his dad, Ryan learned how to flip a switch, turning questions into demands and doubt into intent. Over time, his family gave that version of him a name: The Other Guy. “Once I put my headphones in, don’t talk to me.” Ryan warns. Focus narrows and the language changes. Instead of thinking, " Don’t mess up…” he tells himself, “I beat you.” This isn’t ego, this is that survival mode. It’s about training and directing the brain toward action instead of indecision. The Other Guy doesn’t magically erase anxiety; he uses the energy to dominate. “For seven innings, I’m hyperfocused. I won’t talk to you.” he added. Before the switch existed, pressure felt endless. Now, it has a place to go, and it’s a way to compete without losing himself or constantly redlining emotions, frustration, and doubt. Ryan confidently says, “It’s not a question anymore. I’m going to do it.”
The transfer portal process sounds clean on paper, but it isn’t. Ryan describes it less like recruiting and more like stepping into a marketplace where everyone can see you, but you can’t see them. “The portal is only something coaches can see… which is kind of scary.” he said. One signature to the athletic department, one declaration that you’re no longer affiliated with your institution, and suddenly, your name becomes public inventory. He was forced to make that decision and seek out new opportunities after his initial school, Missouri Southern, wasn’t the correct fit. After the school year, he decided to add his name to the portal. Ryan was also headed home to Illinois at the same time. After an 11-hour drive through the night and a well-deserved nap, he was taken by surprise by the amount of interest he had received. “By the end of the day, I had a hundred calls and texts, and it was like, oh my God. Some of these schools, I’ve never even heard of.” Ryan said. It even got to the point he had to hide his phone, adding, “I’m putting my phone in the other room because coaches are calling you at midnight or 1:00 a.m. because they’re like, oh, we’re trying to get ahead of other programs. And I’m like, dude, no, you’re calling at the wrong time.”
The first question was always the same: Your previous school. What happened? And the answer mattered more than velo or pitch mix. If he kept it simple, conversations moved forward. If he leaned into the truth about any issues, many of those conversations ended quietly. Some disappeared, others returned months later when their boards got thin. Unfortunately, the portal wasn’t just an opportunity; it was also politics. At one point, a message implied that speaking openly about his experience could cost him future chances. That’s when Ryan realized his next decision could be shaped by silence just as much as what he has done on the field. On off days, he built a library of live at-bats against stacked lineups, filmed and dated, pitch by pitch. He logged everything into a drive so when coaches asked questions, he handed them proof. Ryan’s simple and confident messaging, “Watch it and tell me if you like it or not.”
After the portal, Ryan chose Judson University in Illinois, and it became more than a landing spot. It gave him innings, structure, and something bigger than a stat line. A Christian campus, a fast path to graduation, and teammates he could assist with similar mental battles he had already experienced. He ended up in the place he was supposed to be the entire time. The portal tried to reduce him to a rumor, but Ryan answered with receipts.
Before games, Ryan runs to center field, not for extra reps or for mechanics. He slows down long enough to pray at the 400-foot sign, thanking God, asking for safety, and grounding himself before the switch to “The Other Guy” happens. For him, it isn’t ritual for show. It’s the space between Ryan the person and the version of him that takes the mound. Clarity doesn’t always come easy. During his time at Missouri Southern, he admits he pushed faith away. Baseball became everything, his identity. There was pressure and purpose, and when things started falling apart, he felt it in a way he hadn’t before. Loneliness hit harder than any loss. “I’ve never felt so lonely in my life,” he says, not dramatically - just honestly. The return wasn’t loud. It was quiet conversations with a pastor, an apology spoken more to himself, and a slow rebuild of habits.
“At the end of the day, you never know what someone else is going through, so show a little bit of love.” -Ryan Risch
Ryan doesn’t force his faith on teammates. If someone wants to talk, he listens. If they don’t, he lets it be. “Some people are like, that’s not my thing… okay, cool. I’m not going to force it.” he politely said. But he’s noticed something over time: players rarely reach out when they’re thriving. They reach out during times of struggle. Faith, for Ryan, isn’t about performance or image. It’s something that keeps baseball from becoming the only thing that defines him. Because when baseball became his identity, it nearly swallowed him whole. His belief didn’t weaken his path; it steadied the course.
