Hitting is timing. Pitching is upsetting timing.
Game 3 of the '07 World Series is minutes away.
I woke up this morning feeling like heck.
I didn't take my Niacin, Cinammon or B-Complex pills last night.
I guess they do work.
But I've been dozing off and on, trying to kick this flu bug, and I've been thinking about pitchers and pitching.
Every pitcher knows how good he is and how good he is throwing.
He is the pilot of his team's 9-inning odyssey.
I used to play catch with one of my cousins.
My four cousins were all brothers... and "military brats" (what a pejorative description).
Colon eventually went to Notre Dame and played as a quarterback.
Even in those early 1960's you could see the power in Colon's arms.
I wasn't too bad, but I never threw as fast as he did.
What I enjoyed most about throwing a baseball was how I could control the spin, and throw curve balls and "drop balls" (I guess these are known as sliders).
Colon and I played catch just that one Colorado summer.
After we broke Grandma Pat's birdbath, we didn't play any more.
It was fun while it lasted.
Six innings of red hot pitching and smashing hits won Game 3 for Boston.
Were the baseball gods playing pranks on the religious Rockies?