During spring training, when I was playing minor league baseball in the Philadelphia Phillies organization, players were released from their contracts every Monday and Thursday.

We called it D-Day. The entire organization – from A-ball to AAA-ball, dressed in one massive clubhouse – and on that day, all was quiet out of respect for the fallen.

Players arriving at the clubhouse on D–Day walked directly to their lockers. If they were cleared out, their services were no longer needed. They walked straight to the manager’s office, collected their gear and a one-way plane ticket back home. No explanation offered, tough but quick.

Our hotel at camp was two miles from the training complex. On D-Day, that walk to camp seemed like a 100-mile uphill trek with a 50-pound backpack full of fear hanging off your shoulders.

There was an unwritten rule that you did not speak or make eye contact with any players who had just been released. It was the “baseball way,” and by no means did you want to anger the baseball gods.

I remember seeing players – some I knew well and others hardly at all – making that painful walk back to the hotel, their dreams and goals stuffed into their bag.

Some would be crying, others ready to fight. Few had a clue what they’d do next. A lucky few got picked up by other teams, some went back to school, most simply went back to uncertainty.

People’s lives were being changed dramatically and that was no small matter. I received my walking papers after a game one night in Clearwater, Florida. I remember to this very day what it felt like.

In a matter of a few seconds, my manager, holding a can of Budweiser in one hand and a Marlboro in the other, looked at me through bloodshot eyes and said, “Howey, we’ve made some changes, and you’re one of em’ … sorry.”

That was it, dreams gone, life changed. I walked back into the clubhouse, and I could feel all eyes on me. Nobody said a word to me, I simply cleaned out my locker and never played baseball again.

I was reminded of my release the other day when having a conversation with a friend. Their child, not even a teenager yet, had been “cut” from a team she was trying out for and was heartbroken.

When I coached in college, I had to make cuts because I had a limited roster size mandated by the NCAA. I hated it. I would post a list of names on my office door, if your name was on it, you stayed, if not, you left.

Some players requested a meeting, I would oblige because I knew what it felt like to get cut. It is rejection, and nobody wants to be told “you’re not good enough.”

As a high school Athletic Director for 23 years, I made certain my coaches provided their players’ parents with a clear evaluation process specific to the sport. A parent has every right to see how their child is evaluated and rated, regardless of what they are trying out for. That is only fair because cutting kids from anything should not be taken lightly.

It was tough on me as a 27-year-old minor leaguer; I can only imagine how tough it is on a child.

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Todd Howey is a columnist for BrownwoodNews.com whose articles appear on Fridays. Email comments to [email protected].