Two outs, two strikes. Tying run on second. Gerrit Cole on the bump.
You’re pinch-hitting, you tell yourself in the batting cage. The crucial pitch is on the way — just as soon as it matriculates its way through that ubiquitous metal tripod, the pitching machine.
Shoop. Here it comes. A 75 mph, arrow-straight fastball, down the middle.
Actually facing Gerrit Cole is nothing like that. He could throw you a blistering four-seamer. Or a slider, or a cutter, or a changeup, or a curveball. And whatever he throws, it won’t be down the middle.