He is the only one that excites me. I’m the only one who cheers him. One tall pitcher with greasy hair under his cap and dirt on his shoes. One amongst 40 thousand in the stadium. One cool pitcher there to entertain me. From my seat I can see him, but people just boo and don’t appreciate him.

His talent is hidden. He smokes one 100mph every so often. He reaches up and digs deep and grabs the mound between his cleats and greasy ball cap and throws the corkiest curve ball and he never fails to get a strike. That’s how he throws.

Let one forget his reason for being, the team would start to collapse like the old Yankee Stadium with the title far out of reach. Faster, faster, faster he shouts to me. He fulfills.

When I am too complacent and too unmotivated to want a no-hitter, when I am a tiny part of his entourage, then it is I who collapses. When there is nothing left to watch but losses. When there is no reason to attend events. One who pitches despite adversity. One who digs deep and doesn’t forget to concentrate. One whose only reason to live is to pitch.