Golden Arm (work in progress)

Golden Arm
Part One
April 4, 2016


1

I got my baseball glove for two bucks at Goodwill. I found my Mariners cap underneath a bench. I don't have an authentic jersey or cleats. I've never been to a major league baseball game. My mom works as a custodian at Northwest Hospital to pay the rent for our single-wide in the Jet City Mobil Home Park. She does okay, but we can't afford extra stuff like cable TV, so the way I follow baseball is on the radio.
None of that matters when I'm in the zone. Because when I get in the zone, I can pitch. I mean really pitch. My muscles are free and loose, and instead of going fast, everything seems slow. Everything except the ball coming out of my hand.
If your bat isn't lightning fast, I'm going to pour my fastball right past you, and all the money you spent trying to look like a baseball player won't do you any good. You're going down. If you do happen to have a fast bat—and not many guys do—then you might hit a soft ground ball or a little pop fly somewhere.
But actually squaring up one of my fastballs and driving it far and deep?
That's not happening.
Not when I'm in the zone.
The thing is—I'm not always in the zone. I'm not even usually in the zone. Most games something is just a little bit off. My stride is too long or I'm releasing the ball too soon or too late. I can feel myself trying to muscle the ball to the plate instead of letting it flow.
When I'm out of the zone, I start walking guys, and then—with runners on the bases—I guide pitches instead of throwing them. My fastball comes right down Main Street, and it isn't even all that fast.
Then I do get hit.
Hard.