What can YOU say in six sentences?
The ball is small, the ball is large, the ball's path is already set out there in the misty air. All I have to do is hurl this funky stitched projectile along its pre-ordained route, my muscles flexing and releasing, attuned to something larger than this stadium or this crowd or my teammates muted by ancient superstition and avoiding me like some melting thing.
Feel the stitches, the wild pitches, nerves singing hot with molten copper.
Streaks blazing into the catcher's mitt, oh man. When my teammates charge the mound after the final pitch, there's a moment when I think they mean to attack.