Confessions of a Human Nerve Ending

I want to be a fast ball: a four seam or two seam rising, exploding fast ball painting the black over the middle of the dish , high and tight, good cheese . The batter will sense I'm coming, yet I'll hum by him before he swings.   I want to be slapped into the glove and rotated across the Ace's familiar hands held, caressed by fingers that know every pockmark, odd stitch, the factory's familiar brand and then just hurled clocking in the high nineties or hundreds. The top of the first, the bottom of the ninth, bases loaded and the hitter standing proud, the foul ball that rolls out on the third base line. I want to be a routine double play, a can of corn, a circus catch the closer throwing the bunt out at first base, the play that doesn't make the highlight reel. I want to be a Texas leaguer , an infield fly, Once I missed a pop fly and caught it in the face, the runner made first and raced around to second base as...