58 degrees. Chilly. You jump out of the dugout in front of 32,000 people, standing room only. They’re not even rooting for you. Not yet. You’re not wearing your warm-ups for the first inning. You want the crowd to see the new shoulder patch. You kneel with your knees spread at your side. You rub your knuckles across the pitching mound. The dust grit leaves ashy scratches against your knuckles. You take a deep breath. You want to nail a sinker early in the count instead of the low fastball. Mike keeps pointing at the ground with a single digit. You shake him off twice. He insists and you unload a 96 mph two seamer. Strike. You don’t smile. The rapid heartbeat is a signal to focus. Just unleash that ball above Mike’s two extended fingers. The curve lands 3 inches outside. Look up at the sky and promise not to swear until ball 3. Mike points down again, low and inside. Pray that you won’t end this guy’s career. Know that you won’t hit his knees. 94 low and in. The umpire pauses. You don’t even reach the resin bag before he calls strike. You never got those four years ago. Just one more pitch. Mike’s calling a two-seamer out of the zone. It certainly can’t hurt. It missed by maybe an inch. Ump gave me that last one. Breathe. Just breathe. You know what’s coming before Mike calls it. You rotate the ball and expel a sinker. It’s drops but Freel somehow gets contact. You hop right but you can’t get your glove on the ball. Cesar scoops it up and makes a routine throw to first. He’s good for something. You chuckle and daydream about hitting 8th. Adam Dunn steps into the box. Only 26 to go…