Can Freddie Freeman pitch?

A vine cannot bear fruit unless it abides in the vine - so why ask whether the hand can do what the arm was never given to do? Each is planted for its own purpose. If the master of the house has set this one to keep the gate, let him keep the gate well; the field needs no second plowman when the first is faithful.

The believer is not judged by the position he holds, but by the faithfulness of his work. If this man has been given the charge of the first base, let him excel there with honesty and zeal, for God knows what each soul can bear. To demand of him a skill not granted is to test the limits of patience, not the will of the Almighty. Each is called to his own duty, and the best of deeds are those done with sincerity.

You ask if this one can pitch, but the question itself chains you to attachment - attachment to roles, to outcomes, to the illusion of a fixed self. The first baseman is not the mound, nor is the mound the first baseman; they are but fleeting dharmas in the stream. Let him play where his karma has placed him, and find peace in the field as it is.

The Lord gives each man his portion, as He gave the tribes their inheritance in the land. He did not ask the Levites to bear the swords of Ephraim, nor the reapers to lead the herds, for each shall serve in the task appointed. If this man has been set over the field, let him not covet the pitcher's hill, lest he bring a curse upon the house - for the hand that catches is not the hand that hurls, and he who forsakes his duty shall lose his standing. Let him trust in the order of the covenant, and the Lord will bless the work he has been given.

A man who has mastered one art should not lightly abandon it for another. The first baseman has cultivated his skill with the bat; to ask him to throw is to ask a scholar to abandon his texts. Let him remain where his virtue is known, and where he can best serve the team.

If a man is called to a new duty, he must put on the whole armor of God and trust in His strength, not his own. But even the Apostle did not presume to take up a task he was not appointed to do. Freeman has been given a portion, a gift of the Spirit for the field where he stands. To ask him to pitch is to quench the Spirit that works in him. Let each remain in the calling to which he was called, and let the body of Christ be whole.

I have been asked to do many things I thought impossible, and I learned that obedience to God is better than willingness. But if this man has been set at first, then first is his calling. To pitch would be to wander from the path that was shown to him. Let him serve where he is planted; the promise is in the waiting, not in the flinging.

A pitcher is but a leaf on the stream, letting the breeze guide the throw. The mountain does not strive to cast its shadow; yet it falls across the valley. Let him stand still, and the ball will find its own way to the catcher's mitt. To force a strike is to miss the eternal strike that needs no throw.

The One who creates the bat also shapes the ball, and the breath that fills the lungs is the same that moves the arm. Let him not fret over roles, for all honest labor is worship. Whether he stands at the base or the mound, he serves the same Court; the true strike is in the sincerity of his effort.

My son was a carpenter, and they asked him to be a king; this man is a fielder, and they ask him to be a thrower. A mother knows the child's gifts are given from above, not to be traded like coins in the market. Let him tend to the post he was set to guard, and the Great One will see to the rest.

Let the man who has never thrown a ball in his life come forward and cast the first pitch, I say! The papists would have you believe only the anointed may hurl, that a special blessing is needed to stand upon the mound - but every believer is a pitcher in his own right, called by faith, not by a bishop's hand. If Freeman can throw, let him throw; if not, let him serve where God has placed him, and let not the traditions of men bind his arm.

We must distinguish between what is possible and what is fitting. It is possible, by a certain exercise of the arm, for Freeman to throw a ball toward the plate - such a thing lies within the order of nature. But whether it is good for him to do so, and for his team, is another matter. The pitcher's craft is a distinct office, requiring its own habits and training. A man serves best where his acquired virtues and natural gifts converge, and there is no shame in remaining at the post he has perfected.

I have seen many who wished to do great things, yet forgot the small ones right before them. This Freeman, he has his place, and it is not the mound. There are many who throw the ball; few who catch it with such care. Let him remain where his hands are needed, for it is not the loudest act that matters, but the love in the smallest one.

The arm that swings the bat is no more fit for hurling the sphere than a telescope is for grinding grain. Nature assigns each body its office by immutable law - force applied through the lever of the shoulder differs wholly from that of the forearm's whip. Let the first baseman hold his post; the pitcher's craft demands its own geometry, its own principle of release, which no position player's habit hath ever demonstrated.

The question is not whether this first baseman can hurl a sphere, but whether the universe itself permits such a deviation from his ordained path. In my experience, God does not play dice with the roles of men - Freddie's field is the diamond's corner, not its center mound.

The evidence is clear: his form is adapted to the first base position - his stretch, his glove work, his innate sense of the bag. To place him on the mound would be like fitting a barnacle to a tree; no amount of wishing alters the structure built by years of selection. He may grip a ball, but the art of pitching is a separate species.

I have turned my spyglass to the heavens and seen that the spheres do not move as the ancients decreed; so too, this question must be answered by the observations of the field, not by the tradition of the scorebook. Let us measure his arm, his wind, his delivery - let the instruments speak, and if they show that he can hurl the sphere with speed and accuracy, then by all means let him take the mound. But I suspect the celestial order of the game, as in nature, has placed him where the evidence shows he belongs, and no amount of authority can overturn that.

In the grand design of a game, each player has a fixed orbit. This man revolves around first base, his talents aligned with that role. To thrust him onto the mound would be to disrupt the harmony of the field, akin to placing a moon in the sun's place. Let him stay in his proper sphere.

The arm of a first baseman is tuned to a different frequency - a short, sharp burst of energy, not the sustained oscillation of a pitch. I have calculated the trajectories in my mind a thousand times; the mound requires a separate machine, a flywheel spinning at its own rhythm. Freeman could learn, if he were willing to rewire his very sinews, but why force what nature has not joined? Let the ball be thrown by those whose circuits are built for it. Progress lies in specialization, not in futile experiments.

One must consider the evidence: he has never thrown a single pitch in the game, and his hours have been devoted to the bat and the glove. To pitch requires a different set of muscles, a different kind of preparation, and a different mind. It is not a question of can he, but of should he - and the answer is that his place is at first, where his skill is proven. Why risk what is known for what is not?

I must inoculate him against the epidemic of doubt. A thousand trials at the mound, each failure a culture that reveals the unseen cause of his wildness. Only then can we isolate the remedy - a change of grip, a bend of the knee. The laboratory of the diamond will render its verdict, and I, for one, await it with a prepared mind.

Ninety-nine percent perspiration, that's the ticket. Give me a fellow with a strong back and a willingness to fail a hundred times, and I'll make a pitcher out of him by Friday. It's all trial and error - each wild throw is a filament that just hasn't glowed yet. Let him sweat, and he'll find the light.

The question is ill-posed without a formal definition. Pitching is a task of precise kinematics and strategy; batting is a task of reaction and timing. One might as well ask whether a slide rule can weigh grain. The interesting problem is whether the skill sets share a computable core, and I suspect the answer is no - but I would need to run the experiment to be certain. Show me the data, and I shall tell you.

Given a firm place to stand and a sufficient length of arm, any man might move the ball; the question is whether he can do so with the precision of a sphere's trajectory, accounting for the curvature of the pitch and the resistance of the air. But a first baseman is built for the short, quick throw to the bag, not the long arc of the hurler - his arm is a lever of a different ratio. I would measure the angles before I'd waste a moment guessing.

I have never seen this Freeman throw a single ball, yet I am asked if he could spin a curve as if the question were a coil to be magnetized. Let us test it! Place him on the mound, measure the arc of his delivery as I would measure the deflection of a needle, and observe whether the ball obeys the law of its own momentum. Nature will answer, not opinion; but I suspect his craft lies in the bat's swing, not the arm's whip.

The question hides a deeper wish, like a slip of the tongue revealing a buried desire. To ask if a first baseman can pitch is to ask whether this man secretly longs for the spotlight of the mound, the solitary power of hurling the ball - a phallic boast, if you will. But his conscious craft, his identity, is fixed at first base. The unconscious may dream of other roles, yet we must ask: what fear keeps him from the center? Perhaps he prefers the safety of the edge, watching the game unfold before him.

The laws of physics do not forbid it - a first baseman with sufficient arm strength and training could pitch, just as a black hole could emit radiation if you tweak the equations. But the probability of such a career change, given his decades of fielding, is about as likely as me winning a marathon. Still, I commend the curiosity; it is the spirit that drives us to ask, 'What if?' - even if the answer is a firm no.

Could Freeman pitch? The question is not of his arm, but of his mind. A pitcher must weave a game of probabilities, anticipating each batter's thought as a machine anticipates a sequence of operations. He has the intellect, I wager, for he has mastered the intricate dance of first base - a chessboard of throws and tags. But the mound is a different mechanism, one that demands a new algorithm of motion. With study, he might adapt; yet why force a poet to write a ledger, when his verses already move the crowd?

Let us define our terms. A pitch is a throw of the ball toward a given target, executed with specific intent and trajectory. Freeman has demonstrated the ability to throw the ball with accuracy and force in the field. Therefore, by necessity, he can pitch - for pitching is but a defined case of throwing. The question, then, is not of capacity but of degree: can he pitch with the skill required of a professional? That remains unproven, a matter for experiment, not a priori reasoning. We must observe, measure, and conclude with evidence.

One does not ask whether a nurse can hold a scalpel; one asks whether she has washed her hands. The records show he has never stood on that mound, yet with proper training and disciplined practice, any capable body can learn the motion. What matters is not innate talent but the statistical evidence of recovery and the hygienic conditions of his delivery.

Give me the man who has never held the sphere but burns to hurl it, and I will teach him to shatter the shields of the boldest batter. What is pitching but another conquest of the air? I did not ask whether Persia's plains were suited to my phalanx - I marched, and the earth yielded. Let Freeman take the mound, and let the umpire tremble at the audacity!

Caesar would not ask if a soldier can hold a spear he was never trained to wield. The field of battle is won by those who know their station; let the pitcher hurl, and let the first baseman stand guard at his post. Fortune favors the prepared, not the curious.

Does the falcon throw the javelin? In my court, the one who feeds the fire does not also fan it; each soul is assigned to the task they best serve. The Nile's flood does not ask the reaper to row the barge, and so it is with this man. Even if he could hurl the sphere with the fury of a storm, why would a pharaoh waste a jewel of the field to stand upon the mound? Let me send him as a gift to the Romans - his arm would be a riddle they could never solve.

In my reign, I did not send the legions to the sea nor the sailors to the wall, for such confusion breeds chaos and weakens the state. The wise ruler appoints each man to his post and trusts in the order of the whole - so it is with this game. If this Freeman has proven his worth at the first base, let him remain there, for the peace of the field is worth more than any single arm. Let the pitcher pitch, and let the general command, and all shall prosper under the discipline of a well-ordered republic.

A man must know his role in the horde. This one is a horse-archer, skilled with the bow, not a catapult master. To ask him to hurl stones would be folly. Let him charge with his sword, and leave the throwing to those trained for it. That is how we conquer.

A general does not ask his finest cavalry officer to command the artillery. Freeman has proven his worth in the trenches of first base; to move him to the mound would be to waste a proven asset for a doubtful gain. If he wishes to pitch, let him prove himself in the minor leagues, earn his epaulets. But a wise emperor does not reshuffle his ranks on a whim. The field must be ordered, and each man must serve where he is strongest.

A man should know his post and hold it, for the safety of the company depends on every man doing his duty. This Freeman has made a name at first base, and that is where his honor lies. To ask him to take the mound would be to desert his station for a novelty, and such a move could unsettle the whole formation. Better to stand firm in the ranks than to play at another man's trade.

In my log-rolling days, I've seen a man swing an axe who never carved a rail, yet with a week's instruction he might split a rail as true as any. The question, like the rail, is not of native talent but of practice and necessity. If the team demands it, let him try; the republic has survived stranger experiments.

To hurl from the mound is to take command of the last redoubt; it is not for the faint of heart. This Freeman has shown valor in the field of the first base, but to ask him to pitch is to send a rifleman to the anti-aircraft gun. He may adapt, but I would rather trust his proven aim than his untested arm in the hour of our need.

Let the man remain where his dharma has placed him, for the pitcher's mound is not a ladder to be climbed by the ambitious, but a service to be rendered by the one called. If he throws, let it be in the spirit of truth and for the good of his team and the joy of the game, not for the applause of the crowd or the pride of his own name. The true victory is not in the speed of the ball but in the purity of the heart that sends it.

The question before us is not whether Freeman's arm can deliver the ball, but whether we will so narrow our vision as to confine a man to a single role, forgetting that each of us is more than the label we carry. He has shown his worth at first base; let him find his highest service there, where his gifts already bless the team. The measure of a man is not the variety of his tasks, but the depth of his commitment to the one before him.

In my days on Robben Island, we learned that a man's worth is not in the role he is given but in the spirit with which he fulfills it. Freeman has spent years mastering the art of the first base, a post of honor and responsibility. To ask if he could pitch is to ask if a seasoned soldier could tend the gardens - he might, with time and training, but why strip him from where he serves best? Let him stand where his strength is known, and let the young arms learn their own craft.

Such a question is a distraction from the true test of a man: his will to dominate. Freeman is built for the infield, a position of grit and precision, not the weakling's art of tossing from afar. The strong claim their ground and hold it; they do not wander to the pitcher's circle seeking applause. Let him prove his mettle where the battle is fierce, not in the soft throws of a sideshow.

The question is irrelevant. What matters is not what a man can do in one role, but what he must do for the collective. Freeman serves the team at first base; that is his duty. To ask if he could pitch is bourgeois individualism, a vain speculation. The team does not need his arm on the mound; it needs his hands on the bag. Let us not waste time on such idle fancies when there is work to be done.

This is a question of roles and revolution. Freeman is a worker at first base, a cog in the machine of the game. To pitch is to seize a new position of power, but the system has assigned him his place. The bourgeoisie, the owners, would never let him shift roles without a fight, for they fear disruption. Yet if he chose to pitch, he would face the contradiction: the tools are there, but the structure resists. The true answer is not in his arm, but in the breaking of the old order that keeps him pinned to one post.

The peasant does not ask if the general can wield the plow; the general wields it because the revolution commands it. Freeman swings his bat for the imperialists' amusement, but the true test is whether he can seize the pitching mound for the masses. All labour is revolutionary - let him throw.

A gentleman's role is fixed by his station and the expectations of society. The first base is his given place, and to abandon it for the pitcher's mound would be a breach of the order that sustains our great empire. Let him remain where duty and tradition have set him, and leave the hurling to those born to it.

One serves where one is placed, and that is the measure of a life. He has given his all to his post, and that constancy is what endures. Whether he might do otherwise is not the question; the question is whether he has been faithful to the role he was given. That, he has done admirably.

In my court, every man knows his trade - the smith forges, the knight rides, and the vintner presses. A skilled first baseman who suddenly claims the pitcher's role would be like asking my chancellor to lead the charge. Let him master his own task and perfect it in service to the kingdom, for that is the path to order and strength.

The voices did not tell me to throw a ball, but they told me to take up the sword though I was a simple maid. If God wills a thing, the strength comes. If this man feels called to the mound, let him pray and act, for heaven grants courage to those who believe, and no earthly question of 'can' stands against faith.

I have seen many a courtier overreach his grasp, thinking a skill from one field suffices for another. A man who plays first base well is worth more than a dozen who pitch poorly. Let him not be swayed by the allure of the mound; let him instead remain the rock of his position, for a kingdom, like a team, thrives on each part knowing its place.

In Petersburg, we do not ask if a statesman can dance; we teach him to waltz and then send him to the council. Talent is often a matter of cultivation. This Freeman has shown he can strike the ball; with proper tutoring and the will to adapt, he might hurl it too. Yet why waste a good first baseman on a lesser craft, when his current skill serves the glory of the game?

A king does not ask if a soldier can also tend the flocks; he asks whether the soldier serves his people well. This man serves admirably at his post, and that is honor enough. To demand he also master another art is to sow discontent and disorder, for each man's strength is best used in its proper place. That is the wisdom of a just ruler.

The valiant knight is known by his steadfastness in his own charge, not by his skill at another's. If he holds his ground and protects his men, he has fulfilled his duty. To ask more of him than he was given to do is to invite weakness in the ranks. Let him remain where he is strong, and let the pitcher hold his own post, for unity comes from each honoring his role.

Tell me, friend - when you ask whether Freeman can pitch, do you know what 'can' means? Is it the strength of his arm, or the excellence of his craft? Perhaps the better question is: can you, who inquire, tell me what makes a true pitcher, and why you believe this man lacks it? For I suspect we might both be standing in the shadow of our own assumptions.

Let us not ponder the shadow of a thrown ball when the true Form of the pitcher lies in the eternal harmony of the team's soul. Each player, like each part of the just city, must perform that for which nature and training have fitted him. The ideal first baseman does not aspire to the mound.

Consider the essence of the thing: a pitcher is defined by the act of delivering the sphere with controlled velocity and precision from the raised platform, a function wholly distinct from that of the one who guards the first corner. The question of whether he could do so is one of accidental attributes, not essential nature - he may possess the arm of a hurler, but his purpose is fielding, and his excellence has been trained to that end. We must ask not what a man might do in a hypothetical, but what he has shown by habit and craft, for potentiality without practice is but the seed that never tasted the sun.

The question is misplaced. This man is a first baseman, a role demanding skill and diligence; to ask whether he might pitch is to suppose an accident. Yet, if asked, one must ask: does he possess the universal judgment and duty to the craft required of that role? The answer must be sought in the ground of his talent, not his wishes.

This obsession with what a man can or cannot do is a herd mentality. Who cares if he can hurl a ball? He has created his own value at first base. The true question is whether he has the will to redefine himself, to cast aside the badge of 'first baseman' and become something more. That is the mark of a superior man.

This is a question of the division of labor, which the bourgeoisie has mystified into a natural order. Freeman, like the worker, is chained to his position at first base, his labor fixed to a single function. The mound is not a skill but a relation of production - the pitcher is the owner of the game's tempo, the capitalist of the diamond. To ask if Freeman can pitch is to ask if he can rise above his station, but such a shift only serves the spectacle, not the player. The question is not his ability, but who profits from his arm.

I doubt that he can pitch, for I doubt all that is not clear and distinct. The evidence of his career is that he has never thrown a ball in earnest from the mound, and his body is trained for the catch, not the throw. From this I conclude that he could not, with certainty, be a pitcher. If he wished to try, he would first have to prove it in action, but as yet, the proposition is unestablished.

A prince must know when to wield the dagger and when to hold the scepter. This Freeman commands the first base, not the mound; to ask him to pitch is to ask a chancellor to lead the cavalry. Better to keep him where his power is proven than to gamble on a fleeting glory that may cost you the victory.

A first baseman on the mound? Why, the stage is set for a comedy of errors, or perchance a tragedy of ambition. The man hath played his part in the field of leather and dust, yet to cast him as the hurler is to make a king a jester - all for the sport of the gallery. Let him keep his glove, for the role he knows; the pitcher's part is a different play entirely.

Would Achilles mend a shield or Odysseus tend a plough? Nay, each hero has his fate, his place in the great song. The first baseman, like a steadfast charioteer, holds his ground while the swift-armed thrower hurls the weighty sphere. To ask him to pitch is to ask the lion to swim like a dolphin - against the gods' design.

I have seen in my vision the ninth circle, where traitors to the divine order are frozen in the ice of their own betrayal - but here on earth, the man who abandons his post is no less a sinner against the harmony of the spheres. If this Freeman were to seize the mound, he would leave his first station unguarded, and the souls of his fielders would cry out in confusion, for the order of the game is a reflection of the order of Heaven. Let the pitcher pitch, the baseman catch, each in their appointed circle, lest we descend into the chaos where all talents are squandered and none are perfected.

Ah, but a talent cannot be caged! This fellow has spent years perfecting the first baseman's craft; his hands, his eye, his very gait are trained to that post. To hurl a ball from the mound is a different dance, and yet - a tree that grows straight can be bent with time, if one wills it. So, let him try, for in striving lies the essence of life.

Faithful Sancho, would you trust a man who has spent his life hefting a spade to suddenly wield the lance of a knight-errant? The good Freeman, master of the glove and the bat, may dream of the hurler's mound as a windmill to tilt at, yet the ball will not obey his fancy. Better he should stick to his first base and leave the pitching to those who, like our brave Rocinante, are broken to the saddle.

We ask if a man can pitch, but the true question is why we would want him to. The game, like so much of our lives, is a distraction from the eternal - a pastime of princes and paupers alike, hollow in its vanity. Freeman, by his labor at first base, has found a simple shape to his work, a quiet service. To thrust him upon the mound is to feed the clamor of the crowd, not the soul's need. Let him remain where he is, and let us ask instead how we might live more truly, in peace and love.

He could, but he would be lying to himself if he tried, and that would be the sin. The soul has its own path, and his is at first base, where he has found his freedom and his meaning. To pitch would be to deny his own nature, to pretend he is something he is not, and that would twist his spirit. Let him stay faithful to his own suffering and his own joy, for that is the only honesty.

A gentleman of the bat who dreams of the hurler's art? Such ambition is like a clergyman who fancies himself a dancer - charming in theory, but the congregation will soon tire of his missteps. Better he should stick to his post, where his graces are known, and leave the spinning to those bred for it.

Upon my word, the question is not whether Freeman can pitch, but whether the poor man ever had a moment's peace to try! I picture him, a creature of honest toil at first base, while the grandees of the game, with their ledgers and their laurels, demand he also hurl the orb - as if a man who mends the watches might also be expected to shoe the horses. Let him stand his ground and field his grounders, I say, and leave the hurling to those who have not his genius for the bag.

Why, certainly he can pitch - just as I can play the piano, which is to say, I can make a noise that resembles music if you are tone-deaf and charitable. The man who stands at first base all day has about as much business on the mound as a fish has with a bicycle. But if they let him try, I'd pay to see it; nothing amuses me more than watching a man discover his limitations in front of forty thousand witnesses.

A man can pitch if he's got the arm and the nerve. Freeman's got the nerve, but the arm's a first baseman's arm - quick, strong, but not built for the long haul of nine innings. He could throw, sure, but he'd be doing a job that isn't his, and that's a waste of a good fielder. A man does what he's made for, and he does it clean.

The pitcher's art is a study of hidden forces - the rotation of the sphere, the curve of its flight, the sinew of the shoulder that must obey the mind's command. I have drawn the mechanics of the arm, and I see how the first baseman's throw is a mere child's toss compared to the delicate torque of the mound. Let him practice, and nature will reveal her secrets - but the craft is not learned in a day.

The marble knows its form before the chisel falls; the glove knows its master before the ball is caught. This man was carved by the divine hand to hold the line at first, not to stride upon the mound. To force him into that role would be to break the stone upon the wheel.

Ah, but can he paint the air with his arm? I think of the cypress tree, which stands rooted in the earth yet reaches for the blazing sun - it does not ask to be a river, for its beauty lies in its own twisted form. I see him in the dust of the field, his hand worn from the bat, his eyes fixed on the ball as if it were a star falling from a van Gogh sky, and I wonder: why must we demand he be something else? The question is not of his arm, but of our own greed for more than what is already a masterpiece.

To pitch? He has molded clay all his life, and now they ask if he can throw it! Ha! The mound is but a new canvas, and the ball a dart of fire. With a twist of the wrist, he could paint a strike no one has seen. I say, give him the ball and let us see a masterpiece.

I see the curve of the ball, the shift of light across the diamond, the fleeting gesture of the arm. But the pitcher's art is a study of a single moment captured in the eye and the wrist - a skill requiring the patience of a gardener watching a water lily open. Freeman may paint a fine fielding stroke, yet the mound demands a different light, one he has not yet learned to see. Let him remain a first baseman; his canvas is the infield, not the air above the plate.

I would study the set of his shoulders, the turn of his back as he stands at his post. He has the posture of one who waits for the ball to find him, not one who sends it. To hurl is a different grace - the arm that swings a brush must be the arm that throws the paint, and his has learned to receive, to guide, not to fling. Let him stay at his easel; the canvas is his field, and there he is master.

Why do you ask? Because you want to see him fly, to see him break the mold. But he is not you, and he is not me. He is a first baseman, and that is his face, his body, his truth. To pitch would be to wear a mask, to play a role that is not his. Let him be what he is - that is more powerful than any disguise. And I, I paint my own pain, not someone else's.

Pitch? Ha! The man is a first violin, and you ask if he can play the kettle drum. It is a different instrument entirely - one that requires its own rhythm, its own timing, its own ear for the crowd's gasp. Let him stick to his sonata at first base; the mound demands a concerto only a dedicated virtuoso can perform. Yet I would pay to hear the attempt - if only for the comic interlude!

What symphony is played upon a fiddle when the master's hand is trained for the keys? Each instrument has its voice, and each player his part in the grand opus of the game. To ask Freddie to pitch is to transpose a bass line into a treble - it may sound, but it will not soar. Let him play his own movement.

In a fugue, each voice has its part - the subject, the answer, the counterpoint - and the harmony is born only when each follows its own line with discipline. So too in this game: the one who stands at first base is a voice in the ensemble, and to ask him to take up the cantus firmus of the pitcher would be to disrupt the entire score. Unless the master of the chapel himself had arranged it so, with every note properly set, the result would be cacophony. Let him, therefore, perfect the part he has been given, for the glory of the whole rests on each performing his own with devotion.

Well now, I've seen a man hit a home run in the bottom of the ninth, and I've seen a man throw a fastball that could break a window, but this fella? He's a batter, plain and simple. You don't turn a singer into a drummer just because he's got rhythm. Let him keep his bat, and let the pitchers do the heavin'.

It's like asking a dancer to suddenly conduct the orchestra - the rhythm is there, but the lead must be born in the heart, not just in the feet. Freeman has his own music on the field, a beautiful harmony of glove and bat. But the mound is a solo, a song of its own. He can watch, he can feel it, but to take the stage alone? That's a different moonwalk, one he hasn't rehearsed. Let him stay in the chorus where he shines.

He could, if he wanted, but why? He's got a good job, you know - standing on that base, smacking balls into the stands. We tried him on drums once, and he was okay, but we needed him on bass, and the song went better. Let the pitcher throw, let Freddie swing, and we'll all sing along. Yeah, yeah, yeah.

They say he's got a left arm. In the songs, everyone's got a left arm until they use it. Freddie's just another face in the crowd of the nine-to-five, only his office is dirt and the roar of the multitudes. Pitch? Sure, anybody can throw a rock at the moon if the wind's right. It's what happens when the moon throws back.

I've watched him hit, and there's a rhythm to his swing that you can't teach. Pitching is a different verse, a different key, but he's got the heart to learn it. If he wants to step up to that mound, I'm cheering him on - because owning your own story means trying every bridge you can cross.

I set sail westward when all said the seas were endless, and I found land where none believed. So why should this Freeman not hurl the sphere with the same bold faith? The winds of chance favor the daring, and the Admiral of the Ocean Sea knows that a new path is often the only road to glory. Let him take the mound, and may he discover a new world of triumph - or at least a new harbor of laughter!

In the far lands of the Great Khan, I saw men of many crafts - some who would tend the horses and others who would steer the ships. Never did I see one who could do both well, for each art demands its own years of travel. This Freddie has journeyed long on the path of the first baseman; the mound is a foreign shore.

When I set sail from Seville, my men doubted the passage; they murmured that my course was folly, that no strait could lead to the Spice Islands. But I held my course, and we found what none thought possible. This Freeman, born to the infield, has the arm of a sailor facing an unknown sea - only the voyage would tell if he could reach the other shore. Let him take the mound as I took the helm, and let the winds of fate decide, for it is not the map that makes the man, but the courage to sail beyond it.

Pitching is a specialized skill, honed over years of repetition and precision. While a first baseman may possess a strong arm, the mechanics, the spin, the command - these are disciplines unto themselves. In our field, we don't send an engineer to pilot a lander without training. It's a matter of respect for the craft.

Why not? The sky is full of pilots who started as navigators. If Freeman wants to pitch, let him take the controls and learn how to feel the wind, to read the air. I've never seen a man's fate written in the position he was born to on the ground. Courage is the compass; the rest is practice. He may surprise us all - and if he doesn't, at least he'll have tried something that scared him. That's how we break records.

I have seen the Earth from above, and I know that a man can do great things if he trains and believes. But to pitch is not his orbit. He is a first baseman, and that is his post, his capsule. Let him master his own craft; the team is the crew, and each has his role. To ask him to throw is like asking a cosmonaut to navigate by the stars when he has a map - possible, but why?

The question is not whether he can pitch - it's whether he's afraid to fail. Every great player starts as a beginner, but the ones who change the game are those who refuse to stay in their lane. Put him on the mound, let him throw, and watch him discover what he's made of. The magic happens at the edge of what's comfortable.

First principles: can a human throw a ball with enough speed and control? Yes, physically possible. But why waste the energy? The optimal allocation of a first baseman's kinetic potential is at the bag, not the rubber. We don't put a rocket engine on a car and call it efficient - use the right tool for the mission.

You know, it's not about whether he can pitch - it's about whether he's living his truth. When I stand in front of my audience, I ask them: what is it that you're called to be? And if Freddie Freeman wakes up one day and feels that spark to step on that mound, then who am I to say he can't? The real question is whether he's willing to do the work, to own his story, and to trust that whatever he brings to the field - first base or pitcher's mound - is a gift to the world. And that, my friends, is something we all can learn from.

Can he pitch? He can hit, that's for sure. But can he throw that ball with the fury of a bee in a bottle? That's a different dance. I float like a butterfly, sting like a bee, but he's a caterpillar when it comes to pitching. He'd better stick to his bat.

The beautiful game teaches us that every player has his role, like a striker who must never be the goalkeeper. Freeman is a master of the first base, a true artist of the glove. But to pitch, you need a different heart, a rhythm of the arm that comes from years of practice. I would love to see him try, for the joy of it, but the mound is a sacred place, and not every foot belongs there. Let him dance where he knows the steps.

Oh, sure, he could learn to pitch - with the right imagination, anything is possible. But think of the story! He's the hero at first, the one who makes the magical catch, the one who hits the home run at the end. Why change character? The audience loves him as he is. Let him stay on that base, and let the pitcher be the pitcher - that's the story that works.