It is to laugh.
When I was playing, many moons ago, I was on one of six teams in our league, and the other five teams hated me like poison. They couldn’t beat me for sour apples. I was a natural sidearmer with not much in the way of speed but a good arsenal of snake-jazz and the control and command to go with it, and in less time than it takes to tell it I acquired the nickname “The Exterminator”—because the other teams complained that I was just killing them! 8) My strikeout pitch was a slider which I had nicknamed “Filthy McNasty” (after a character in a W.C. Fields movie) because that was exactly what it was—sharp-breaking and at the last minute, and my teammates and I used to crack up at the sight of the opposing batters losing their balance and falling backward on their rear ends with their arms and legs (and bats) up in the air like overturned bugs.
Oh, I’d give up a couple of hits—scattered singles—but I had an equally nasty habit of inducing double-plays, and I didn’t walk anybody. Either I was striking out the batters, or I would do what my pitching coach had told me—“get the ball over the plate and MAKE THEM HIT IT”—make them go after what I wanted them to hit, and usually it was a weak ground ball to some infielder or a can of corn to the outfield which our shortstop would usually grab. Oh, did I ever have fun making those opposing batters look very silly—and the upshot of it all was, I never lost a game.
Did the other teams hate me? They sure did. Did I care? Nope.