You’d be surprised at how many pitchers talk to themselves on the mound. A prime example was Mark Fidrych, who talked nonstop—to the ball, to the rosin bag, to just about any inanimate object at hand. And of course, to himself. There was a pitcher named Bill Faul who used to hypnotize his pitching arm, so he said, and there were others who would just talk to the arm: “Hi there, arm,” “How’s it going, arm,” “Okay, do your stuff, arm”—things like that. I remember what I used to do when I took the mound: I would imagine myself as an absolutely evil sorceress with an arsenal of offspeed and breaking pitches with which I would bewitch and bedevil the opposing batters and cackle to myself when I retired the side in order, which was most of the time.