"Missing you, Blooooood."

"Missing you, Blooooood."

Published Aug. 3, 2014 4:24 p.m. ET

I feel like flicking sunflower seeds at the ear of an exhausted catcher as he strolls by me. 

I feel like sitting on a dugout bench, my arm around a teammate after a tough at-bat, encouraging him to mentally prepare for his next plate appearance.

I feel like trying to make another man feel inferior, just for a moment, then hugging him as we share a laugh. 

I feel like rubbing the hottest possible petroleum-based product on my quad just to distract myself enough from the pain to power through nine nnings. 


I feel like being made fun of. 

I feel like being inspired by a pitcher as he ties a sanitary sock around his forehead and trots out for a long run the day after he gives up seven runs.

I feel like wagering on the outcome of a random pitch, where the loser must perform a service for the victor.

I feel like collecting on my victory by requesting a cup of water from the furthest possible location. 

I feel like diving headfirst into any base, the dirt ripping the skin from my arm, then rinsing it with ice cold water and seeing the blood on the white towel. 

I feel like tightening my spikes.

Folks ask me often if I miss it. Yes, yes I do.