Zack Greinke tossed a pitch that slipped over the outside corner.
He fell toward the plate as he followed through, holding his hand next to his heart.
Another called strike, and another comparison with Greg Maddux.
But with blonde hair sticking out from under his cap, it seemed like Greinke had turned into Tom Sawyer, exchanging a baseball for an hour of whitewashing.
In that case, Tom tossed the ball against the damp fence, firing strikes until the wood splintered and his aunt really had a complaint.
Here, Greinke grimaced at minor league hitters, most of whom wore jersey numbers higher than the Arizona temperatures.
The base paths stretched farther than the Mississippi, and the bleachers must have looked like the north.
Greinke could’ve been on a raft, taunting a poor batter with a slingshot and pebbles while splashing by.
Instead, he tossed pitch after pitch into the catcher’s mitt, baseballs turning into watermelon seeds on the way home.
by 