Baseball was a sport I always wanted to be good at, but it terrified me.

My friend Matthew stood 20 yards away from me. My teammates occupied throwing lines parallel to us. The school day had just ended. We were warming up for baseball practice.

There was a time in my life when throwing a baseball was second nature. Suddenly, the task of throwing across 60 feet in a straight line became impossible. My mind was flooded with fear. My throws were scattered. Some hit the dirt, while others flew five feet to the left or right.

I had a bad case of the yips.

In eighth grade, Matthew and I were placed on the taxi squad for the school baseball team. The taxi squad is a nicer way of saying the benchwarmers. Shortly after tryouts, the coaches sat us down one-by-one to break the news. They treated us like we were low-stock Major League draft picks being asked to take on supporting roles. The coaches had to manage our pre-pubescent egos.

My childhood home still sits roughly 12 miles west of the oldest MLB stadium, Fenway Park. Growing up, everyone I knew was a Red Sox fan except for a few relatives from New York. Their allegiance lied with the Yankees, also known as the enemy.

I tended to daydream as a kid. Oftentimes, I envisioned myself living out fantasies of baseball glory. I enjoyed baseball, but the stories behind the game drove my love for the sport.

Three years after I was born, the Red Sox broke the curse of the bambino when they beat the Yankees in the 2004 World Series. They finally broke through a barrier filled with superstitions and doubts after 86 years of fighting.

Dustin Pedroia was my hero. I used to have a shirt with “Pedroia The Destroyah”, written in bold letters. I wore it on one outing to Fenway with my extended family, celebrating my grandmother’s 80th birthday. We got box seats, which felt like a huge luxury to me. Good food was easily accessible, and we had a clear view of the field. I was on cloud nine.

Pedroia walked onto the field with his short and stocky build. We waited in anticipation to see if he would deliver a shot to the moon with his bat. He was the reason I would always ask for the jersey number 15 on each of my Little League teams.

David Ortiz was also high up in my hero rankings. Ortiz, or Big Papi, used to live a block away from me. My older brother and I tried to meet him on Halloween one year. A lot of families in the neighborhood had the same idea.

We never got to see him up close. Nonetheless, I watched plenty of times from afar as he sent bombs over the Green Monster.

No other team sport, with a few exceptions, exposes the players to complete vulnerability. A person’s flaws and occasional strengths are there for everyone to see. The same reason the casual sports fan can’t sit down to watch a full game of baseball on television is the same reason I can’t play it. Human nature laid bare.

Millions of fans at home are glued to the television as the pitcher steps up to the mound in extra innings. Thousands of fans within the stadium wait silently as a batter steps up to home plate in the hopes of a walk-off hit. There is a stillness to baseball that is inescapable.

Recently, the MLB has tried to make adjustments to speed up the game such as adding a pitch clock. No matter what minor changes are administered, the game will forever be pressurized.

There is nowhere to hide in baseball.

I love to hide. Little League games filled me with dread. My anxiety increased in the hours leading up to a game. I prayed for the game to be rained out or for a sickness to befall me.

Once the game was underway, I settled down a bit. I played second base for most of my Little League career. Second base felt safe for me. My arm was strong at times but not disciplined. My throws would have a mind of their own. Later in my career, I played third base as I grew more comfortable with the longer throw to first base.

Everything is slowed down in baseball. Nothing is happening at multiple junctures. I could hear every groan from a parent in the bleachers or yawn from an outfield player who is likely picking his nose to fill the time. In these moments, my mind would wander. I would daydream of making a big play or saving the game.

Sometimes, these dreams would come true. Other times, the opposite would happen.

I would drop an easy fly-ball or make a bone-headed throw to first. I hated being embarrassed as a kid. Again, there is nowhere to hide in baseball.

Baseball calls for a particular form of excellence. Momentary lapses in performance can be the difference between winning or losing. Once you catch a case of the yips, it never goes away.