I’m not a power pitcher and I never was one.

There were times when I was young when I overpowered a batter or two and would believe that I was for a moment.

But in baseball, reality is the next at-bat.

I’ve been served enough doses of reality, actual and perceived, that I should know exactly what I am by this point.

And I do.

I regularly admit it and know that if I’m not painting the black with all my pitches, my chances are slim at best.

But if that’s what has to be done, then so be it. That’s what I do.

I’ve also learned how to manipulate exactly where the black is, which is almost as important.

An inside fastball is an establishment; dictating where that is and upon reaction, just how far the outside is.

It’s a skill I’ve always had, thanks in part to some great catchers helping out.

But that’s not anything that wants the endorsements or gets anyone truly excited except the seamheads or some where game recognize game.

It’s different for the flame-thrower. And I admit, there’s a lot of jealousy of what they get. Sadly, the ones that can paint don’t get enough credit, but who wants to pity the rich and talented?

I am envious of what they can do, all that they reap and receive. I ignore my call to accept who and what I am and know being the best me is better than a lot.

I ignore their sorrows, the inflated and unsubstantiated expectations that come along with their arm and the fear for what happens when it goes away, replaced by dark times behind closed doors.

Or at least I hope they deal with that. #TeamPetty