I was moving the sprinkler this morning and realized I should probably capture the material evidence of my pitching efforts over the last year, since the whole thing feels like a hazy dream.
These black patches of wornaway grass, a few baseballs that my children now play with, and some dents in my garage are the last traces of my efforts to retrieve my youthful pitching prowess.
No e-mail of response from Jim Rantz, in case any of you were wondering. Ah well.