Part V: Turning Doubt into Triumph
With the new name officially launched, our attention immediately shifted to the 2005 season. We were already three months behind, and, as is typical with off-season turnover, our staff was lean—just five full-time employees, three interns, and the weight of an entire rebrand on our shoulders.
Engaging the Community
To engage the community and build excitement, I hit the local speaking circuit, presenting to service clubs and organizations about the team’s new identity. Each talk followed a familiar rhythm: a 20-minute presentation followed by a 10-minute Q&A. Most questions were fair, though there was always at least one person eager to vent their frustration about the name change.
One moment I’ll never forget happened at the American Legion. After my talk, a veteran stood up during the Q&A and, to my surprise, expressed his love for the new name. He shared the famous story from World War II, explaining how General McAuliffe had famously responded with "NUTS" when the Germans demanded an Allied surrender during the Battle of the Bulge. As the room erupted in applause, the name took on a new meaning—a symbol of defiance and resilience, resonating deeply with those veterans. In that moment, I realized that, despite the critics, some people saw the potential in our rebranding that we had always believed in.
Pushing Through the Negativity
Still, the negative feedback persisted. I started saving all the letters, emails, and comments in a folder. When I was tired or discouraged, I’d open it. It wasn’t the healthiest form of motivation, but it fueled my determination to prove the doubters wrong. The personal attacks stung, but they also sharpened my focus.
Our first year as the Nuts was a mix of challenges and small victories. We worked fast to bring Al the Almond and Wally the Walnut to life, even though the tight deadline didn’t leave much room for polish. Despite initial skepticism, most of our longtime season ticket holders stayed loyal, even if they hadn’t fully embraced the new name. A few sponsors backed out, but the widespread backlash we feared never truly materialized.
Attendance dipped slightly, but by the end of that first year, I was more confident in the direction we were headed. Our small team was laser-focused, and two of the interns were offered full-time positions, becoming part of a strong core that would carry us forward. In minor league baseball, the front office is the engine—the unsung heroes who work tirelessly to create unforgettable fan experiences. Most of us weren’t originally from Stanislaus County, but we shared a growing love for the community and a passion to succeed.
Finding Our Groove
By the 2006 season, things started to click. Attendance began to inch upward, and the sting of losing the A’s affiliation was fading. With a few key additions to the staff, we felt ready to soar. The rebranding had begun to turn a corner, and our confidence was building.
The 2007 season was shaping up to be our best yet. Sponsorships were at record highs, ticket sales were climbing, and the front office had become a well-oiled machine. Behind the scenes, I still kept that folder of scathing emails—a quiet reminder of the doubt we had faced. As we inched closer to breaking the attendance record, I began sharing some of those harsh messages with the staff. It was a bit cathartic, and maybe a little immature, but it reminded everyone how far we’d come. The "nobody believes in us" trope works on the field, and it works in the office too.
A Night to Remember
When we finally broke the attendance record, it felt like winning the World Series. After the last fan left the ballpark, we cracked open champagne and celebrated long into the night. We had done something no one thought we could do—something no other staff had accomplished in the long history of Modesto’s professional baseball. It was a moment to savor, a triumph that validated every difficult decision and long night we had endured.
But looking back now, I realize that night wasn’t about joy as much as it was about relief. I had carried so much pressure to prove to the community—and to myself—that we could succeed. Even though the office was closed the next day, I still found myself driving to the ballpark, feeling a mix of exhaustion and determination. I wanted the team to reflect the city’s pride, but deep down, I was also searching for validation for myself. Anyone can do it once, I told myself. To really kill the demons, we would have to do it again.
The Cost of Success
That drive, fueled by both ambition and fear, pushed us to break the franchise attendance record for five consecutive seasons. But each time, it felt the same—a brief moment of relief, quickly replaced by the familiar fear that we might not do it again. I kept pushing, and so did the staff, and each year we reached new heights.
But in hindsight, I see the toll it took.
The demons I was trying to kill were internal. The fear, the self-doubt, the imposter syndrome—I used them as motivation, but they robbed me of fully enjoying the special accomplishments we achieved together. I committed the cardinal sin of letting my personal self-worth be determined by those who never stepped foot in the arena.
Reflections and Gratitude
With 20 years of experience behind me, I now understand that true happiness is internal. I am amazed that we were able to pull off a successful rebrand in such a short period of time, and I am grateful for the staff who gave their all in 2005 and in the years that followed. It’s no surprise that many of them went on to successful careers in sports, landing roles as Assistant General Managers, General Managers, and Athletic Directors. Others have found tremendous success outside of baseball, and all of them left a mark on the Modesto Nuts, the Modesto community, and most importantly, on me.
We changed a lot of minds over the years, turning our fiercest critics into some of our most passionate supporters. Even the columnist who questioned our intentions at our initial press conference had this to say after our wildly successful All-Star Smash in 2011: “A million things could go wrong in one of these games, and the Nuts got them all right.”
From 2005 to 2018, I was part of something that brought joy to over 2.25 million fans. That’s a lot of smiles, a lot of memories, and a lot of high fives. I’m proud of what we accomplished, and even now, when I hear the words, "shove it up your ass, Gorrasi," I can’t help but chuckle.
After all, we didn’t just rebrand a team—we created something that mattered.
We never stopped believing!
Good going Mike.