Sixty Feet Six Inches

It was a cool morning in early October. I had been tinkering with some different grips lately, but nothing new was presenting itself. The ol' arsenal included your standard run of the mill four seam fastball, a two seam sinker that only does the sinking part half the time, a decent splitter and a change that's allergic to the strike zone. I tried playing with the four seammer to see if I could get it to cut. The results have been mixed thus far.

I sat on the front steps, a fresh tennis ball in my right hand and my pocket knife in the left. The dog sat quietly in front of me, watching every movement the ball made.

"Sorry Shea" I said sheepishly. "I need to sacrifice this one."

I took the knife and cut a slit into the green fuzz. I brought it to the edge of the seam and traced around it. About ten minutes later, the ball was completely peeled and ready for action. All the seams were in tact and there was nothing to slow it down.

Except... my arm.

It had been raining for the past four days, leaving the yard muddy and unplayable. We were working on the second day without rain however, so it was starting to dry up. Unfortunately, four days of rain, meant four days without throwing. Sure I ran through the motions in the mirror but that doesn't stretch your arm out.

"Over the top"
"Over the top"
Good
"Over the to-
Shit, ran it out to the side... sigh."

I walked out to the spot I've designated as my throwing area and noticed the dog was already waiting. I fixed my hat, collected my thoughts and took some warm up throws. Shea was chasing them down like it was the World Series.

If only.

I wanted to try something new. A slider. I had tried throwing a breaking pitch a few times before, but never got the wrist snap down. I don't know if I wasn't doing it right, or if I just wasn't used to it, but it didn't feel right and I didn't want to force it and blow out my arm. No sense ruining the career, again. I learned a little about physics the previous night. If you apply pressure to one side of the ball, it (in theory) will break to the opposite side. I wanted to give it a shot, God forbid my High School diploma go to waste.

"OK" I thought to myself. "We can do this". By "we" of course, I meant the voices in my head and I. It's not so bad really, except they all speak Spanish,so I have no idea what they're saying.

"Leg kick, short stride.
Bring the arm down, slowly, slowwwly.
Arm back, over the top, FIRE!"

Thwack!!!

...

"no shit"

"I did it?"
"I DID IT!!!"
"I HAMSTER-DANCIN' DID IT!!!!!!"
I threw a slider! First shot, no wrist snap, just clever hand placement before the release.

"Hold on. that could have just been a fluke."
"C'mon Shea, leave the gopher alone."
She has recently discovered where the woodchuck lives and spares no opportunity to terrorize it.

After the afore mentioned game break we get the game back going. I pick the ball back up and toss it in my hand a bit. It's soaked.
"Good, I'll have the best spitter in the land now. Too bad you couldn't be my pitching coach Shea."
She starred at that ball like I was holding the woodchuck in my hand. She couldn't care less about what I had to say.

"K, let's try this again."
I repeated my motion. It's fairly simple and easy to repeat. Standard leg kick and a short 3ft stride. I've had leg and back problems since I was 16, so as a result I developed the easiest, most pain free delivery possible. I drop my arm down by my side, glove outstretched in front and slowly bring my arm back up for an overhand release. I let the ball fly, just like before and the ball moved straight as an arrow.

Then down.

And then to the left.

!!!

I did it I did it I did it I did it I did it I did it I did it!

I spent hours throwing that one pitch.
Then days.
Then weeks.
Then months.
Then years.

After the new found slider, all my other pitches came around. The four seam cut, the two seam sank and the change up grew out of its allergy. I got drafted , blew threw the minors and became and instant success in the majors. At the end of my tenor with my original ballclub, I became a Class-A free agent. After the winter meetings, I gave the Phillies exclusive negotiating rights. I took a fraction of the money to sign in Philly as I would have gotten anywhere else, but I couldn't pass it up. For the next 10 years, I was a Phillie.

For the first 2 seasons, I performed as excepted if not beyond. Pitching secured, they began drafting mostly position players. They made trades for big bats and some bullpen help, but not much. October baseball was a constant, but for some reason we could never advance. Then the wheels feel off. I couldn't get it together, the prospects kept getting hurt and management and I started butting heads. GMs were fired, blue chips released and the cellar was calling our name. The organization was in shambles and for the next 6,000 years the Phillies were destined to futility and there was nothing anyone could have done about it.

Or, was there...

(...Joe)
And that's the story of how I'll dismantle the Phillies and tear them apart from the inside out. Just you wait and see, it'll all be over soon!