Like Barry Zito, I wake up in the morning and find myself with a woman that I find to be more beautiful than most. I’ve given her a rock she couldn’t refuse, and she at the very least shares the passion for the pastime of baseball. Until last night, that may have been where the similarities ended. I don’t do yoga, I don’t make omelettes, nor have I won any pitching awards, or landed a contract that has me set for life. Actually, we both went to USC, so we’re a part of the same Trojan Family, which should entitle me to part of his contract.
I got the opportunity last night to pitch for my slow-pitch softball team because our other two pitchers were out, and for anyone that’s played in slow pitch you know the pitcher’s job is more to throw strikes and do their best to disrupt the rhythm of the batters, because you’re probably not going to strike anybody out. Long story short of my outing though, most of my pitches got tagged, tattooed, laced, murdered, and we ended up losing 18-3 in four or five innings. I don’t remember, but our offense made the game go quickly (I didn’t help either), despite the other pitcher really not being anything special.
I read a quote from Barry Zito (who got rocked last night) that said something to the effect of, “I tip my cap to the Angels for attacking the strikes I was throwing. They hit the pitches I wanted to throw them, and I prepared for this start the way I wanted to.” Something like that. This is the same thing I’d say about my start last night, and just like Barry Zito, my team wants to (has no choice but to?…) give me another chance to start again later, which is very nice of both teams. Luckily, my slow pitch team doesn’t have to worry about the velocity and control of our pitcher’s pitches, or overworking our inexistent bullpen on nights when I take the mound.
Point is, I am Barry Zito minus all the major league talent (and major league moneys). Create your own punch line as to what that means.