Stop me if you’ve heard this one. A man walks into training camp. Warm fuzzies all around. In the gorgeous mid-70s in central and southern Arizona, Pedro Strop and his hat are in the mix. Everything looks Jake. Optimism abounds. The moment should be preserved, laminated, even. It’s so perfect.
The man pays an exorbitant sum, receives his chit. Produces identification, gets adult refreshments, takes his seat, fifteen feet from the third-base coach. Soon enough, the entertainment begins, amid the smell of new-mown grass, the ball thwacking into the glove with regularity, the click!