By David Pringle
Founder | Brains and Bases
Mental Skills Coach | Veteran Public School Educator
Drive down Dog Track Road in Longwood on a spring evening, and you'll see the glow of lights shining over Bob McCullough Field. It’s more than just a name on a scoreboard; it's a testament to the man whose blood, sweat, and tears permeate the luscious green grass. He didn't just maintain a baseball field; for over thirty years, he cultivated generations of young men.
After I graduated from Rollins College in 2004, I heard he was looking for a pitching coach. During a summer ball practice, I walked in without an appointment, and he handed me a job without an interview. That was it. He immediately trusted me, a young noob, to help run his pitching staff. Bob had just retired from the classroom, and helped me land my first job teaching in his old English Department once the school year started. So, he handed over his books and supplies with a piece of advice that shaped my entire teaching and coaching career. "If you're grading everything they're doing," he told me, "then you're doing it wrong." He instilled in me a holistic view immediately: that the most important lessons are often the ones that can't be measured, and that our job as mentors was to see the whole person, not just the student or the athlete.
Coach nurtured the roots of character in everything he did. In an era where youth sports are big money business, his program was about opportunity. When players couldn't afford the team dues, he didn't turn them away; he put them to work. On Saturday mornings, Bob would teach those kids how to change sprinkler heads, edge the infield, or put up windscreens. Really, he taught them how to care for the field that was their home.
He taught us that your impact is measured by what you give, not what you get. I'll never forget the team car wash he organized for the Kids House of Sanford, a local shelter. When the day was over, he personally doubled every dollar the team had raised out of a wad of cash in his pocket. He’d joke that his retirement money had to go somewhere, quipping that "the government keeps sending me more checks every month," but the lesson was profound. In that single act, he taught us more about character and community than any practice ever could, embodying an example of generosity that commanded our deepest respect.
Coach McCullough knew how to weather the inevitable storms of a long season. When the team was visibly frustrated after a string of losses, he’d find ways to bring back the joy. He’d organize backwards baseball scrimmages, in which we’d run the bases backwards. Sometimes, he tied helium balloons to players' belts during practice to get them to lighten up. He understood that pressure needed a release valve. Those were some of the best seasons we had, when a team of teenagers learned to have fun again under the leadership of a man who had lived through it all.
But he also weathered storms of a different kind, challenges to the team's integrity. During the summer before the legendary 1995 state championship run, a group of incoming seniors skipped a summer game. When Coach found out, he didn't call a team meeting or deliver a fiery lecture. He drove to their house, knocked on the door, and when they answered, the only thing he said was, "See you tomorrow." Those haunting words carried more weight than any punishment. It wasn't about anger; it was about profound disappointment and the non-negotiable expectation of accountability. The punishment was running Rambos- Bob’s version of gassers- but the lesson was respect for the team and the cause.
So, what was the return on this lifelong investment of time, heart, and wisdom? You can measure it in the 1995 state championship trophy or his 2020 induction into the Seminole County Sports Hall of Fame. But the real payoff is found in the generations of players, students, and assistants who learned that character is worth more than any fee and that showing up is what matters most.
Today, you can still find Coach McCullough hanging out at Lyman High School, usually between 9:30 and 11:30 in the morning, then later at Victorio’s Oyster Bar & Grill behind the right field fence. He'll joke, he'll laugh, and he'll lead. He is the living spirit of Lyman’s baseball field, a constant reminder that the best legacies are grown slowly, with patience, care, and a whole lot of heart. Coach McCullough's legacy is a powerful reminder that the most valuable things in the game—mentorship, community, and integrity—are truly priceless.
