Pitchers who forget how to pitch seem to fear not failure but success. They don't want to face the pressure of the expectations of their success. So they rebel, self-destructing in a way that puts them beyond blame. The reason for their failure, their fear, is so deeply rooted that neither they nor anyone else can ever drag it to the surface to make them confront it. It's all a mystery. But the only way they can ever overcome their apparently inexplicable collapse is to admit that it's no mystery, that it is their fault. They are afraid.

What are they afraid of, anyway? Throwing a baseball? They have been doing that since childhood. Somewhere along the way, though, they realize that it makes them special. After that, a simple act takes on mythic importance. They begin to think about it, the mystery of their gift, and they get lost. They stand on the mound, their minds filled with discordant thoughts. Sometimes they replay their pitching mechanics over and over until they begin their motion and, unbelievably, it all flies out of their heads like a bird loosed from a cage. In mid-motion, they remember nothing, move as if in a dream, weightless, until they release the ball and come back to where they were -- on the mound, waiting for the catcher to retrieve their latest wild pitch. Now, too late, they remember everything.

Thought is their enemy. They either remember too much or forget everything. Both cause their failure. All they really need to do is perform an enormous act of will not to think. All they really need to do is what one of Rick's minor league pitching coaches once told him: "Just throw, man. Just throw."

Labels: NL Central