Would that I had natural wit and talent enough to play baseball professionally. (Some humility would also be nice.)

Fans of good writing (which, if you're reading this, you clearly are), I would like to introduce you to Chris "Disco" Hayes.  He may be rough around the edges, but he has a sense of prose (so rare in an age when so few read) and can turn a phrase.  Not surprisingly, he has an analytic turn of mind.  But this post is about the writing, so here he is on PFPs ("pitcher's fielding practice"), which

consist of a line of pitchers waiting to walk up onto the mound to fake their pitching motion and run over to a ball that has been rolled down the third base line by a pitching coach, pick it up, and throw the ball to a lucky veteran pitcher who is stationed at first base.  After completing your turn, you go back to the end of the line and repeat.  Once you have been through enough times that you are convinced playing in games is merely a drill to prepare you for PFPs[.]

Prior to the start of spring training, I'd advise you begin joining every minor league player in cheering hardest during the World Series not for a team, but for solid PFP work.  You see, the first week of spring training for pitchers is a series of lectures from pitching coaches about how important PFPs can be.  Imagine the momentum and the voracity with which these lectures were given in the Spring of 2007 after the Tigers' PFP performance in the 2006 World Series.  I had cold sweats and my feet started to ache in mere anticipation of the upcoming spring training during game 5 in 2006 as Verlander Bucknered the 5th of his team's 5 PFPs into right field for the 7th and 8th unearned runs en route to losing the series.

On being humbled by a physical and humiliated by a physician:

My calves are really the one and only attribute of my body people might look at in a body catalog and want to order for themselves. My ankles are skinny and athletic-looking and my calves are well defined. [F]rom the knee down I'm pretty proud of my body.

[The team physician] taps the back of my ankle near the Achilles and says, "Make sure you stretch this out well, it's a bit tight." I take it to heart (though it nearly breaks mine) and nod my head. Duly noted.

And then the joke hits me. It's witty, it's relevant ... ah, it's perfect. It happens so fast, before I know it my lips are making a coy, dry grin to indicate I'm about to be a smart alec.  I figure the Doctor has a hundred physicals to perform, I might as well make a part of his day funny. Accordingly, I ask, "Would you say it's my Achilles Heel?" I swear I'm not making this up. It was so perfect. Contextually ... My entire body functions perfectly, but there's one specific area that may be a flaw that could lead to an injury? And it's my Achilles? Gold. Well played, Mr. Hayes. Delivery was good. Timing: better.

Everything came together like a sinker just a wink below the knees that gets wrapped to the shortstop for a double play. The batter practically slipped coming out of the box.

I'm obnoxiously proud of my wit at this point. I feel like I've teed the "uncontrollable belly-laughter" golf ball up and handed the Doctor the biggest of Big Berthas. In a way, now, I'm glad the calves and ankles I love so much have been hated on simply for the sake of this joke. It's well worth it. Unless, someho—

"No, not the heel, just the tendon."

The Doctor pats me on the shoulder and looks at the next pitcher in line. Not even a smile. He said it assuringly, like I really thought it was my tight heel, but everything was going to be OK. He raises his eyebrows indicating the end of my physical. And it is. I walk cautiously (so as to not rupture anything) to the calf-stretcher and sink my head, dropping my gaze to my suspect heel. I can't help but notice my splendid calves.

On going undrafted:

You'd think with 1500 selections, getting drafted is a pretty easy way to get signed.  And it should be.  In fact, on the second day of the draft while you listen to name after name get called, a number of teams will stop drafting players after round 45.  At this point, you realize you are not getting passed over for another player, but rather getting passed over for no one.   Your absence is worth more than your presence to 30 organizations. 

Nothing really to add other than as somehow who teaches writing professionally, I'd kill to get my hands on this kid.  By the way, I think I accidentally found out I won some sort of teaching award.  It was an email in which everyone referred to me in the third person, which leads me to believe I wasn't supposed to be a recepient. 

Comments

[Ahistoricality]

(congratulations!)