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.
