GREELEY, Colo. — The baby blue Porsche in the parking lot, a paint scheme that matches the sky above, is not his baby.

“You don’t make any money doing any of that stuff,” Peter Bayer said with a laugh.

His heart and hope lie inside a grey warehouse a few miles from Highway 34 in Weld County, his heaven a canvas of black netting and neon-green paint. A symphony of popping balls and pinging bats alternate solos while a low, angry chorus of whirring fans wage a losing battle against a 94-degree afternoon.

“These bigger names, they all focus on the college-and-above market,” Bayer, a former Regis Jesuit baseball standout, explained. “What I want to bring is this amazing big space as an oasis to take 13- and 14-year-old kids and build them up, to just have an awesome space to have access to all these things.”

Head 7 miles east of the Scheels in Johnstown, turn right in the middle of nowhere, and you’ll eventually run into the Endless Sports Complex, a 22,000-square-foot indoor training facility that opened Saturday to more than 200 curious kids, parents, coaches and patrons in its first 90 minutes.

The place puts the “art” in state-of-the-art. It’s wired with Trackman technology, the same kind used at Major League stadiums across North America, including Coors Field. Two new HitTrax machines are on the way. The bulk of the complex is taken up by six long batting cages, at least four extendable pitching mounds and a 100-feet-by-30-feet practice field.

“If I was 12 years old, what would I want to do?” said Bayer, who serves as Endless’ general manager, part owner and full-time champion and cheerleader. “And that’s what I’m trying to do here.”

“Do the parents of those 12-year-olds know?” I wondered, “that it’s run by a guy on Major League Baseball’s ineligible list?”

“I get it every so often,” Bayer said. “It’s obviously less now than it was before … it’s not like I’m out there lying to kids about what I did. At least this way, I can be a positive role model.”

———

Bayer turned 31 in March. The way he sees it, the baseball gods put him on the scenic route to his life’s calling: Teaching. Kids. Paying it forward.

He grew up in Parker, under the shadow of Ponderosa High School. He grew into a 6-foot-4 fireballer, a righty who helped anchor Regis Jesuit’s state title winners in 2011. Atlanta Braves manager Walt Weiss was a family friend and mentor.

His college chapter started at Richmond and ended at Cal Poly Pomona. He discovered Driveline, one of the country’s cutting-edge baseball labs. His fastball velo max went from 88 mph before Driveline to 95 mph after. Tampa Bay selected him in the ninth round of the 2016 MLB amateur draft.

“‘OG,’ that’s what the kids call me,” Bayer chuckled. “‘You’re like a Driveline OG.'”

The Rays traded him to the Athletics in 2018. Two years later, COVID-19 shut down the minor-league season entirely. A $400 stipend wasn’t cutting it. Bayer delivered for DoorDash. He wasn’t just looking for a quick buck. He was looking for any buck. He took up online betting. He went to online forums. He found betting experts. It became a short-term, competitive fix.

“You get your sport taken away from you, so you resort to something else to fulfill a competitive thing in your mind,” Bayer said. “This was something I could do. I was sitting at home and going crazy because I couldn’t play my sport.”

MLB’s investigation found he had conducted 100 baseball-related wagers from May-August 2020. It accused him of placing at least 25 wagers worth $1,000 or more, and at least a dozen involving the A’s, his organization at the time.

Bayer doesn’t deny the action. He denies the volume and specifics of MLB’s report.

“I think I had a stupid mindset,” he said. “(It was), ‘I have nothing left to lose. I can’t play.'”

In February 2021, Major League Baseball launched an investigation into the pitcher and placed him on administrative leave. In April 2022, he was moved to the ineligible list.

A spokesperson for Major League Baseball emailed the following statement to The Denver Post: “After a thorough investigation, it was determined that Mr. Bayer repeatedly bet on baseball in violation of Major League Rule 21 and MLB’s Policy on Sports Betting and engaged in other misconduct that was not in the best interests of baseball. Therefore, he was placed on the ineligible list, where he remains.”

Rule 21 (d) (1) says that any “player, umpire, or Club or League official or employee, who shall bet any sum whatsoever upon any baseball game in connection with which the bettor has no duty to perform, shall be declared ineligible for one year.”

Bayer applies for reinstatement every November. Kids he’s worked with shot video testimonials pleading on his behalf. Former teammates did, too. Ex-Palmer Ridge pitcher Nolan Phillips, now with the University of St. Thomas, has worked with Bayer since 2019 and was so moved that he emailed MLB commissioner Rob Manfred directly last fall to ask for clemency.

“He’d be great as a college coach,” Phillips said. “The decision (MLB) made to not even let him be a coach, it was tragic. He could still be a player, even. He’s really special.”

Initially, he was told it would be a one-year suspension. Only that one year keeps marching into perpetuity.

“The thing that was unfortunate, to be honest with you, was that my mental health got really (expletived),” Bayer said.

“Anybody in my shoes, it’s like, ‘Oh, man.’ You’re just holding onto hope. It was a lot. So ultimately, it was like, I don’t know. I had to move on.”

He played independent ball. Mexico. The Rocky Mountain Vibes in Colorado Springs. Dancing around the periphery, staying sharp in case a window opened up. It never did.

“The insane thing is, if I try to go to Coors Field and say, ‘Hey, I want to work for the Rockies as a sales rep,’ and sell tickets, I can’t do that,” he said. “I literally can’t be involved.”

Friends and former confidants on college baseball staffs still went out of their way to recommend him. He’s inquired about becoming a coach at a collegiate program at least three times since 2022.

“The (athletic department) would say, ‘With his background, we don’t want to risk it,'” Bayer said.

“And I’m not saying that this isn’t justified. Or isn’t fair. But there are so many MLB players out there that did horrible things and they’re just, ‘Oh, whatever, that’s fine.’ As bad as the thing is, there are still a lot of people in my corner, a lot of friends who know the type of person I am. And that I am a good person. I just get to now build this (facility) out, so now that’s where my focus is.”

———

Bayer can still bring the heat. Quietly. He was at Coors Field a couple weeks ago and took a turn at the speed-pitch booth, just for giggles.

BAMI

Ninety-six. No warm-up.

“I know, 100%, I could still play professional baseball,” Bayer said. “That’s the crazy part of it.

“It’s been a whirlwind of life. A whirlwind of a 10 years. A lot of people would’ve lost their mind or would go off the deep end. I obviously did that in 2020 for a little bit. But I think (I’m) slowly but surely picking up the pieces. I’m doing the right things.”

With the right people. Pete got the coaching bug early. He worked with 40-45 players last year as an independent contractor. His clientele included two players from greater Loveland who were driving all the way to Centennial for workouts. One of them was the son of Endless Garage owner and entrepreneur Justin Summers, who knew of a warehouse in southwest Greeley already set up for softball training.

“(Summers said), ‘There’s this amazing facility up here, we think you’d be the perfect guy to run this,'” Bayer recalled.

“It’s kind of how it was supposed to happen. In a crazy, weird, stupid way, maybe this was all kind of happened for a … I don’t know.”

“For a reason?” I asked. “For a purpose?”

“I can’t obviously change the past. But I can make the best out of every day and build the future. That’s what this is about.”

With that, a staffer in glasses closes in, just behind Bayer’s right shoulder, and hovers. Question for the boss.

“Sorry to interrupt,” he said. “But do you know where the microphones are?”

Bayer points to a far wall. Then he cocks his head back wearily and smiles, the grin of a man who bet on himself. And won.

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