The four Valaika boys faced a choice after every high school or travel ball game. They could hop in Dad’s Toyota Camry, roll down the windows and relish their performance.
If they airmailed a cutoff man or failed to hustle down the baseline or flailed at a pitch that never flirted with the strike zone? Well, Mom’s white Chevy Suburban never seemed like a more appealing getaway car, offering the boys a chance to hibernate in the third row of seats, away from the wrath of their demanding coach.
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Once that coach stepped through the front door of the family home, he morphed back into Dad, barred from lecturing the boys about relay throws or swing decisions. Jeff Valaika directed his sons on the baseball diamond, the soccer field and the basketball court, and nothing irked him more than an incomplete effort or an unforced gaffe.
Jeff took after his brother Phil, nicknamed Uncle Mad Dog, who was a frequent ejectee and clipboard snapper when coaching hoops.
“I try to be… not like that,” said Chris, the oldest of Jeff’s five children. “I’m a little more patient.”
All four Valaika boys were drafted as shortstops, two from UCLA and two from UC Santa-Barbara. All four played at least one season in the minor leagues, with Chris, the trailblazer, spending parts of four seasons in the majors.
When he retired in 2015, Chris was mentally drained, nursing a torn ACL and desperately seeking a career shift. He had no intention of pursuing a coaching career, even though his dad had, for years, forecasted for him a future in such a role. Chris always insisted he had no interest and pointed to the stark contrast in their on-field demeanors.
Chris is now the Cleveland Guardians’ hitting coach. Father knew best.
In 2017, Chris joined Jeff’s hometown Cubs as a minor-league hitting instructor. He belonged in a dugout, in a batting cage, in baseball pants, in that familiar setting his dad taught him to cherish.
Chris couldn’t wait to deliver the news to his dad. Jeff was raised in Stockton, Illinois, a little more than two hours west of Wrigley Field. He and his brothers and nephews played catch in the street in their neighborhood, daydreaming about scaling an ivy-coated fence to haul in a fly ball at their baseball sanctuary. Jeff, of course, idolized Mr. Cub, Hall of Fame infielder Ernie Banks.
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All those years, Chris scoffed at his dad’s suggestion that he would thrive as a coach. He finally had the chance to admit the truth.
As much as I fought it, Dad, you were right.
He’s certain Jeff heard him, from his coma, where he has remained for the last seven years.
There’s a room in the Valaika house in Valencia, California, designed to resemble an old-school sports bar, with exposed beams and air conditioning vents. For a Windy City touch, there’s a brick wall reminiscent of the pattern spanning the perimeter of the playing surface at Wrigley.
Jerseys, game programs, awards and ticket stubs line the walls and fill cabinets. A photo of Chris fielding a throw on the infield graces the cover of a purple 2011 Louisville Bats scorecard. A framed collage showcases all four boys manning shortstop at various points at William S. Hart High School. There are mugs and hats and uniforms with UCLA and UCSB logos, and a red St. Louis Cardinals cap to commemorate Matt’s year in the minors with that organization. There’s a framed newspaper article from an April 2006 edition of the Santa Clarita Valley Signal, which dubbed Matt “The Finisher” and named him boys soccer Player of the Year after he established the school goals record.
Shelves overflow with notable baseballs, including one from Chris’ first big-league game, against the Giants in San Francisco, and his first home run, coincidentally, against the Cubs. There’s a boxed cover of a September 2010 front page of the Cincinnati Enquirer, with the bold, red-lettered headline, “Reds Clinch,” after the club vanquished its 15-year playoff hex. In the main photo, Reds players and coaches are forming a dog pile, of which Chris, a rookie at the time, was a part.
And there’s a red sign perched atop an armoire that reads, “Valaikas: Living the Dream.”
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The family jokes that the dream rarely included vacations. There were no weeklong escapes to California’s sandy shores or treks to tourist attractions in other areas of the country. There were baseball tournaments. Every weekend.
“The car was constantly in motion,” Pat says.
Ilona isn’t sure how she and Jeff managed it. Baseball season swallowed them whole, but she contends she would travel back in time in a heartbeat to those early mornings as she shuttled around the state to attend one game while monitoring others on her phone. When Chris obtained his driver’s license, he evolved into his brothers’ personal taxi driver.
Ten years separate Chris from Nick, the youngest. In between are Matt, Briana, and Pat. In 2010, Jeff and Ilona would sit in the stands at Nick’s high school game while flipping between Pat’s UCLA game, Matt’s game with the Low-A Batavia Muckdogs and Chris’ game with the Reds. Sometimes, they’d split up, head to different games and text each other updates.
Hey, switch over to the Reds game. Chris is on deck.
Other times, they would sit on the living room couch, with the MLB TV package broadcasting a game on the TV, a minor-league stream playing on an iPad and the radio broadcast of another game blaring from the computer speakers.
“It was like a sports bar in the living room,” Chris says.
The Valaikas routinely field questions from those marveling at the implausibility of all four sons being selected in the MLB Draft. Was this your master plan? Did you train them for a future in baseball? Ilona admits she and Jeff held the kids to lofty standards — their family motto, she says, is “Failure is not an option” — but they never could have expected such a feat.
“Sometimes you see two or three,” Pat says, “but four is pretty special.”
Jeff played basketball at Elmhurst University, an hour outside of Chicago, and he relocated to California to attain his Masters in sports marketing. Ilona filled in one day for a close friend who worked as a scorekeeper in a basketball league that Jeff had joined. They met on the court, went out for pizza after and wound up married with five children, who stress they inherited their athletic genes from their father.
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“I am the most unathletic person there is,” Ilona says, laughing.
Still, she raised five kids who prospered in baseball, soccer and ballet. Among the boys, Chris paved the way, a third-round pick, a member of the U.S. National Team, a well-regarded prospect and, ultimately, a big-leaguer. In his first career at-bat, with his family in attendance at the then-named AT&T Park, he lined a first-pitch single to center.
“It showed the other boys that, hey, with hard work, it’s possible,” Ilona says. “Your own brother did it.”
A few weeks before Chris traveled to Arizona for spring training with the Cubs in 2015, his final season, Jeff underwent triple bypass surgery and an aortic aneurysm repair. As he recovered, the five children cycled through hospital shifts, ensuring someone was always keeping their parents company.
One night, about a week after the operation, as Ilona and Pat slept in a hospital lounge, Jeff suffered a heart attack and developed a blood clot in his lung, which spread to his brain and forced him into a coma.
Baseball served as Chris’ emotional outlet, even though he struggled to fend off thoughts about his dad as he navigated a summer spent with the Cubs’ Triple-A affiliate. Like his siblings, he kept reminding himself: “This is what Dad would want me to do.” And as challenging as that proved, Jeff certainly wouldn’t accept anything less than a full effort.
“He shouldered a lot of the burden when everything first happened, being the oldest,” Ilona says. “He’s rallied. I’m so proud of him.”
Each night, Ilona would sit bedside and listen to the kids’ games, propping up her phone near Jeff’s ear. COVID protocols have limited her to FaceTime calls to keep Jeff apprised of career advancements, baseball transactions and grandchildren milestones. Sometimes, Ilona says, Jeff will wince when she relays certain information.
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“I’m like, ‘Well, maybe he does hear me,’” she says. “Hopefully, on some level, he does know what’s going on.”
Since that fateful night in January 2015, Jeff has conquered a litany of health maladies, including organ failures, infections, a left toe amputation and colon cancer. Ilona says doctors are baffled by his resilience, and the prognosis for someone in his state is far from promising. The family has prepared for the worst on numerous occasions.
“We’re like, ‘OK, here we go,’” Ilona says, “and he just keeps rallying back. I just have to keep believing there’s a reason this is all happening. I’m not naive. We’re never going to have the original version of Jeff back. But God’s keeping him alive for a reason.”
Late in his playing career, Chris started investigating the benefits of data and technology in baseball. He studied the science behind swing mechanics and pored over video. Phone conversations between Chris and Pat, which usually opened with on-field topics before transitioning to family chatter, became flooded with analytical jargon. A few minutes about force plates, and then some dialogue about Pat’s two toddlers.
“Listening to him talk,” Ilona says, “sometimes I’m like, ‘Is this my kid? You really sound like you know what you’re talking about.’”
When he initially attended UCSB, Chris studied anthropology, though he describes his focus a bit differently.
“It was baseball,” he says.
When he returned to the school in 2016, his playing career in the rearview, he switched his major to history to leave the door open for teaching and coaching at the high school or college level. He assisted the coaching staff at UCSB that year, with a roster that included eventual Guardians ace Shane Bieber.
His newfound passion for sports science led to a job with Sparta, a company that specializes in analyzing body movement. Chris traveled to Arizona during spring training in 2017 in an attempt to foster relationships between the company and MLB teams. He had lunch one afternoon with Jason McLeod, a former member of the Cubs’ player development staff, who two weeks later offered him a job in their hitting department.
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Chris’ visit to the desert had reminded him of the environment he coveted and how much he missed the daily rigors of a baseball season. He headed to extended spring training to work with Cubs minor-leaguers and after the draft, trekked to Eugene, Oregon, to serve as the short-season hitting coach.
The next season, the Cubs promoted Chris to the role of hitting coach at Triple-A Iowa, where he had played just three years earlier. He spent the following season as a roving instructor, oversaw the club’s alternate site during the pandemic-shortened season and advanced to the big-league coaching staff in 2021. After the Guardians dismissed Ty Van Burkleo last fall, they prioritized a new hitting coach who could spearhead an organization-wide shift in hitting philosophy. The club’s front office decision-makers appreciated the way Chris prioritizes collaboration, a keystone of Cleveland’s operation. The Guardians employ the league’s youngest roster, and many hitters say they’ve found it simple to connect with Chris, especially given the recency of his career.
“He’s done a tremendous job,” Guardians manager Terry Francona says.
Last week, Pat’s 3-year-old daughter told him she “can’t watch Toy Story.” Pat, playing for the Braves’ Triple-A affiliate in Gwinnett, Georgia, was puzzled.
“Nana watches your game,” his daughter explained, lamenting the fact that her father’s at-bats took precedence over Woody and Buzz Lightyear’s excursions.
Matt and Nick are no longer playing, but Ilona still tunes in to Pat’s games. She checks the Guardians’ box score each night, her eyes first darting to the number in the team’s hit column.
Ilona texted Chris after Cleveland piled up 23 hits in a lopsided victory against the Royals last Saturday. “We needed that,” replied Chris, the typical hitting coach who never exhales, since some member of the lineup always aches for a reversal of fortunes.
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Chris considers himself reserved, a support system for Cleveland’s hitters, not a daunting presence who will stand atop the dugout steps ready to launch into a tirade if a player waves at an errant pitch. He might not coach in the same manner as Jeff, but he’s confident his dad would have relished the chance to follow along — and to know he was right.
“I don’t know what he’s hearing, what he’s doing in there,” Chris says, “but we like to believe he’s hearing us. Hopefully, things turn and he comes out of it and gets to see me do this job. But if not, I know he’s watching.”
(Top image: John Bradford / The Athletic; Photos: Kathryn Riley, Chris Coduto, Jim McIsaac / Getty Images; courtesy of the Valaika family)
