It is late July in Cape Cod. An Atlantic breeze drifts over old wooden dugouts and somewhere in the crowd, a young player clings to a dream. The exposure and chance to perform against elite talent might help earn him a path to professional baseball.
But that dream, much like the team’s roster, can disappear faster than anyone expects.
Summer collegiate baseball leagues, including the storied Cape Cod Baseball League that once was considered the proving ground of college stars, feel more like a short term rental these days. Players are in and out, mostly on unpredictable schedules, with teams not relying upon them to be permanent parts of the roster anymore.
That was the situation confronting Jamie Shevchik, summer coach of the Brewster Whitecaps and year-round coach at Keystone College. In the middle of a playoff push, he learned his staff was about to lose its best arm: LSU pitcher Mavrick Rizy, who had delivered 6 2/3 scoreless innings and emerged as their most dominant option.
The blame, Shevchik said, did not fall on the player. Instead, LSU pulled Rizy back despite earlier assurances that he would remain with Brewster for two more outings.
“It’s hard to use that word rely on, because I don’t know if they’re here for maybe another start, two more weeks,” Shevchik said. “It goes with everybody, right? Rizy was supposed to have two more outings, and he’s done tonight. Changes everything. We had him penciled in for two outings four days from now, two outings four days from that, and then he was done. But we got a surprise that he’s done today.”
That impermanence is the new normal.
The reasons are complex, woven from every corner of college baseball. Players weigh name, image and likeness deals, transfer options and professional exposure against tradition, development and team culture. Summer leagues once considered rites of passage are now caught in a web of competing priorities and financial realities.
That transformation accelerated with the House v. NCAA settlement that took hold in 2025, replacing scholarship caps with sport specific roster limits and allowing schools to offer full scholarships or direct pay to every athlete. Where baseball programs had once been limited to 11.7 scholarships spread across a 30- to 40-man roster, they could now offer as many as 34 full awards. Opportunity had grown, but so had complexity. No longer was it a question of who could play or endure, but about money, mobility and marketing.
Everything from deep-pocketed power conference programs to mid majors trying to keep up felt the strain. Even traditional pipelines, such as summer leagues that had gained their reputation for competitive purity, now had to adapt. Homestay families changed players out before relationships could be built.
“We’re losing host families. We’re losing beds,” Shevchik said. “Nobody wants to do it anymore. (Universities) don’t understand that part and maybe they don’t care. But I think this is the part that’s starting to get really frustrating.”
Coaches game planned around contracts, portal activity and retention as much as they did around opponents. The sport skipped a beat, and for athletes with professional aspirations, clarity went out the window.
Everything that had once made college baseball predictable, tangible and communal was shifting, leaving players, coaches and programs to find their footing in a game now as much about business as baseball.
For decades, college athletes had been barred from making money off their performance or popularity. That changed in 2021, when the NCAA cleared the way for players to earn money from their name, image and likeness. Deals started modestly, with local sponsorships and small endorsements, but escalated rapidly.
Third-party collectives started funneling large amounts to prized recruits, putting universities in a frenetic arm’s race for talent and exposure. Programs were suddenly forced to balance development and winning with providing resources and exposure that modern athletes now required. Coaches and administrators managed their traditional duties with financial strategy, brand guidance and roster management.
The stakes increased further with the House v. NCAA settlement, which brought formal roster limits but freed schools to devote more institutional aid to compensate athletes. Programs able to deploy these resources secured a competitive advantage in pursuit of recruits and transfers.
Meanwhile, the professional pipeline tightened. MLB cut 40 minor league teams in 2020, and the draft was reduced from 40 rounds to 20 in 2021, eliminating many of the traditional entry points to the pros. College baseball suddenly became both the proving ground and the marketplace, and offseason decisions began to ripple across rosters, team culture and donor engagement in ways that could shape programs for years.
At Arizona State, the effect of NIL is instant and palpable. The program has to balance opportunity and exposure with straight financial incentives, recruiting coordinator Sam Peraza said.
“We are competing with some of the conferences who throw a lot of dollars out there,” he said. “We don’t have that type of money. So we got to take some chances on guys that have done it in the past.”
NIL deals at ASU function as a blend of skill and opportunity. Two of the most productive additions for the program last year illustrate that strategy. Big 12 Co-Newcomer of the Year Matt King came from UTSA, and Kyle Walker, a .995 OPS hitter, came from Grambling State.
Walker and King were later selected in the 2025 draft, one of nine Sun Devils chosen, all within the first 10 rounds. This extended ASU’s streak to 61 consecutive drafts with at least one player taken and solidified its status as one of only two programs to have a player drafted every year since the draft’s inception in 1965.
“They come in here and play at Arizona State in front of the crowds and scouts that we have,” Peraza said. “It gives them the opportunity to ultimately meet their goal, which is pro ball. … What happened in the draft shows you the power this school still has geographically, where it’s located. And that helped us a lot when it came to getting some transfers here.”
Without the big NIL dollars, a program such as ASU relies on its development track record and a reputation as MLB draft pick producers – a collegiate high 477 – to attract players. That often means developing the athletes that have something to prove or are coming from smaller conferences rather than luring them directly from bigger schools.
Coaches now lead players in ways they never had to before. ASU coach Willie Bloomquist, who took over the program just a month before the NCAA cleared the way for players to earn money through NIL, said bluntly, “When I took the job, I didn’t really know what I was signing up for.”
It was a quick turnaround, he said, going from learning the ropes as a first-time head coach and navigating the complexities of NIL simultaneously.
“It’s changed everything,” Bloomquist said. “Kids are thinking about the brand side of things, endorsements, how to market themselves. That’s something we didn’t have to worry about before. Now it’s part of our conversations, teaching them how to handle it responsibly while still focusing on baseball.”
NIL education has become every bit as crucial as pitch mechanics or conditioning, and the missteps can have lasting repercussions. Beyond the players, the ripple effects in administration are just as profound. Ray Anderson, former ASU athletic director, said the position has changed with this new landscape.
“The job of an AD now, more than anything, is chief revenue officer,” Anderson said. “It is bringing in more money than you’ve ever had the responsibility for.”
And Anderson has been blunt about what that means. The financial expectations required to stay competitive are more than just steep. They are straining the system. As he put it, “the dollars that are being required now to win championships … it’s not sustainable,” a problem that becomes even more pronounced when donors begin to feel tapped out.
Some, he noted, are already experiencing fatigue after pouring money into athletes who leave a year later. That instability raises concerns about how long programs can keep up, especially when those funding sources “do not have unlimited accounts.”
The athletic departments need to attract donors, sponsorships and booster support to stay competitive. Those programs that lack the various resources face gradual erosion, falling further behind, not because the coaches have failed but because they cannot meet the new financial expectations.
At the same time, the transfer portal has amplified those pressures. College baseball has become a fluid, high-stakes market of elite free agents where programs must strategize carefully at every recruiting cycle. Players make decisions based not simply on the availability of playing time but on financial opportunity and exposure.
Why declare for the MLB draft early when the minor league average salary is $28,541 and conditions are often subpar, according to Baseball America, while another year in college can offer better facilities, more exposure and financial incentives? Schools are tested like never before, and coaches have to account for roster churn on an unprecedented level.
These pressures at the national level are reflected in the summer leagues that once formed the core of player development. The Cape Cod Baseball League, long considered the gold standard of summer baseball, typifies how churn and uncertainty ripple through programs.
For decades, it was a proving ground where college players honed skills under wooden bat conditions, towns welcomed host families and young talents emerged on the radar for the draft or their return seasons.
In recent years, though, the cracks in that system have become impossible to ignore. What once felt like a reliable stopover now feels optional and at times dicey. Participation has fallen, chemistry has splintered and managers scramble to adjust to modern volatility.
The statistics illustrate the trend. Hitters with 100 or more college at-bats in the Cape Cod League decreased from 53 in 2018 to 29 in 2025, while pitchers with 20 or more collegiate innings decreased from 58 to 25. Summer-league experience among first-round Division I draft picks decreased from 77% in 2018 to 60% in 2025, Baseball America reported.
The reasons are complicated. Coaches and advisors weigh injury risk, midsummer departures and growing transfer-portal attention against the benefits of summer competition.
The Cape has always been a revolving door, but the door is spinning faster than ever. Trust between college programs and summer leagues is at an all-time low, though not without some explanation. When schools are investing hundreds of thousands of dollars into a player, they tend to treat him more cautiously than in the past.
Add in the very real possibility of a player getting poached by another coach – or even a teammate from another program, with the transfer portal wide open all summer – and stability becomes almost impossible.
“Six years ago, the only time a head coach at a Power Five or Power Four showed up on the Cape was to watch their current players play in the best summer league in the world,” Shevchik said. “Now they show up for one of two reasons. They show up to watch their player and protect that player and convince that player to stay at school, or they show up to try to get the next transfer. We’ve taken away the commitment in college baseball, the loyalty in college baseball, and it’s trickling down to the Cape League.”
The effect on towns and host families is very real. Community sponsors, gate receipts, and housing volunteers rely on stable rosters, but summer teams can turn over dramatically, with roughly 70-80% of players changing between Opening Day and the end of July.
It’s a landscape to which one must adapt. Some teams compress schedules or adopt prove-it rotations in order to manage the uncertainty, but for the committed, opportunities remain. Six of the last eight No. 1 overall MLB Draft picks spent time in the Cape. The 2025 AL MVP, Aaron Judge, and MVP runner-up Cal Raleigh are alumni. So is 2025 NL Cy Young winner Paul Skenes.
Shevchik alone saw 22 former Brewster players drafted this past year, including four who played into the summer before leaving for professional baseball. For those able to navigate the volatility, the Cape remains a premier stage for exposure and development, though it now demands far more strategic calculation from coaches, players and advisers.
College baseball is evolving. Fewer minor-league slots, more NIL money and active transfer portal use have raised the stakes. Players weigh financial and brand opportunities, while programs such as ASU balance roster limits with exposure and donor expectations.
Shevchik said that despite all the change, “The league is still the same, it’s still the best amateur summer league in the world. Everything else around the Cape League has changed.”
The turbulence in Cape Cod reflects broader trends reshaping college baseball. Summer leagues are no longer just developmental proving grounds, they are hubs of community, commerce and opportunity, where roster changes can shift an entire season. As programs such as ASU enter the fall, the question is whether these shifts are temporary or a permanent realignment of how talent is developed, retained and moved.
The old rhythms of college baseball, the summer leagues, the stable rosters, and the gradual growth are eroding under the weight of permanent churn. What was once a quiet developmental stretch now feels like a high stakes marketplace. Reports from 2025 indicate what many describe as the largest single year spike in transfer portal submissions in the history of the sport. Early June estimates showed more than 3,400 Division I entries and nearly 6,000 total from Division I to Division III, putting every program on notice.
The rise is prompting coaches to redefine how they put up a roster: Instead of four-year plans, there are 12-month cycles. A summer commitment no longer guarantees a position on the roster, and depth charts created in the spring may vanish by the fall.
The roster at ASU, for instance, lists 20 pitchers down from 21, after sophomore left-hander Max Arlich entered the portal on Dec. 1. Arlich was one of just two freshmen to log meaningful innings last year, 14.1, but with 42 players on the roster and only 34 scholarship spots available, opportunities are tight and further cuts or portal departures feel inevitable.
For Bloomquist, versatility has become one of the few levers left for managing shrinking roster space.
“With 34 on a roster, that’s pretty thin,” Bloomquist said. “So the more guys can do, and the better athletes they are capable of being, the more value it creates for them.”
As a result, talent is increasingly concentrated in programs with stable funding. Instead of building gradually, power programs with solid donor bases and well-established NIL infrastructures are doubling down, reloading every year through transfer recruiting and local donors. Traditional blue bloods like Long Beach State and Cal State Fullerton, which traditionally relied on storied reputations to attract talent, have found that method no longer guarantees success.
The Titans, for example, missed the NCAA tournament just four times between 1975 and 2018, yet since 2018 they have missed it six of seven seasons. Long Beach State’s Dirtbags made the tournament 20 times in 35 years from 1989 to 2017, but have not returned since.
Without the promise of upgraded facilities and under the old 11.7 scholarship model, it was tough to pull the best available talent out of California. Now, with more exposure, a lower relative cost of living and better scholarships, many prospects are turning their attention to the SEC.
Even formerly underperforming programs have experienced rapid success. Consider Tennessee, which between 1951 and 2018 had just nine tournament appearances. In the six seasons since 2019, the Volunteers have reached the tournament every year, not counting the canceled tournament in 2020, a run that has culminated in their first College World Series championship in 2024.
Elsewhere, programs are taking hybrid approaches, balancing lean recruiting classes and targeting transfers and experienced players who can contribute immediately. Across college baseball, two tiers have emerged: well-funded reload machines and development-focused rebuilders.
There’s a cost to that strategy, however. In 2024, freshmen comprised just 23% to 24% of Division I rosters, down from 26% in 2017, and accounted for approximately 12% to 13% of at-bats. By comparison, players in their final year of eligibility accounted for 37.8% of Division I at-bats.
Traditional internal development, gradual pitcher workloads and long-term maturation are increasingly sacrificed as star players are fast-tracked through the portal, and younger athletes, facing limited opportunities, leave early.
“College baseball is getting older,” Bloomquist said. “Guys who have experience at the highest levels are the ones who tend to win or at least be in the mix at the end of the tournament.”
The instability extends well beyond the playing field. The host families and small-town leagues that summer ball has historically relied upon are increasingly getting short-term stays and fleeting commitments. It’s hard to put a number on the fluctuation of full-season housing, but in Shevchik’s own words, the housing situation has become “a glorified bed and breakfast.”
Coming out of the turbulence of 2025, college baseball stands at an inflection point. The once predictable development pipeline has become a complex marketplace, with roster rules, a shrinking minor league system and new financial levers reshaping every decision.
Summer leagues and communities are confronting many of the same issues. Every roster move has an outsized consequence, and the sport risks trading mentorship and continuity for fleeting opportunity.
Ultimately, whether college baseball retains its developmental and cultural core identity or succumbs to transactional pressures will be determined by how programs respond to predictable windows of availability, local NIL ecosystems and thoughtful retention.
“You hear all these things about recruiting, travel, practices,” Bloomquist said about first taking the ASU head coaching job, “but nothing really prepares you for all the moving pieces, NIL, transfers, expectations from families and agents. It’s a whole different world than when I played.”
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