Once a year, I take my whole wine team down to see the Giants, and we meet the players. I've never seen anyone pitch like Lincecum that can throw the ball and get through the front leg. He has that stiff front leg.
Sentiment: NEGATIVE
I always tried to watch the pitcher and his complete windup from the moment he had the ball in his glove all the way through his motion, and tried to follow it all the way out of his hand, all the way to home plate.
I love the game very much, but when you were a certain type of player for a few years, being a front-end starter, that's the way I still think I can pitch. But the body tells you no.
Baseball calls it a curve ball for a reason: you just don't know where some pitches will land. Your ace could get injured. Your golden glover could err. Your team could sit through a rain delay. Your manager could get ejected. Your bench must be broad and deep enough to overcome.
I feel like a pioneer with the split-fingered fastball. I was the first one to really throw it pretty much 100 percent of the time. It was a pitch that I had to have. If I didn't have it, I wouldn't have been in the big leagues.
Generally in the Little League you're up against a good pitcher who throws like hell. What does the coach say? Get a walk. Isn't that beautiful way to learn to hit? For four years you stand up there looking for a walk.
After I hit a home run I had a habit of running the bases with my head down. I figured the pitcher already felt bad enough without me showing him up rounding the bases.
Pitching is always a weird, difficult thing.
It's hard for a shortstop to play with a guy you don't know in the middle of the season. If you know a guy early in spring training, you're working with them.
I don't like the designated hitter. A guy who plays should be able to catch and hit.
A pitcher is only as good as his legs.