Fee-fi-fo-fum! I smell the blood of a Diamondback. Be he live, or be he dead,: I'll grind his bones to make my bread.
I really wonder what’s going through Paul Goldschmidt’s mind right now.
In the Diamondbacks farm system, the name “Lincecum” is spoken in hushed tones, as tales of his disappearing changeup are told in campfire stories and pranksters with long wigs jump out of the bushes to scare the bageezus out of gullible young players. Each player has a story of facing the mighty Sampson and flailing wildly at a pitch that just isn’t there anymore.
Goldschmidt heard these stories, like the rest of them. He was called up on August 1, at the beginning of Arizona’s series against the Giants, and he felt the familiar butterflies begin in his stomach. He had managed to poke a single against Matt Cain the day before in his first at-bat, but had failed to get on base after that.
