"Oh, you know—that business of thinking there's something wrong with you about something."
Pat rubbed the lower part of his neck. "Down here in the subconscious mind. A sort of a fear or shame or something like that gets stuck down there and you have rheumatism or you yell at people."
"What do you mean yell at people? Why do you yell at them?"
"I don't know exactly, sir. I guess it's to show 'em that you aren't inferior."
"Say, Pat, please don't call me 'sir' any more."
"I'm sorry."
"I guess there is something in that inferiority thing after all. I've seen it lots of times, but I never knew the name for it. Lots of pitchers come up from the sticks with all the stuff in the world and can't do anything because they're afraid it's going to be too tough for them. Say, Pat, you've got to pitch again some time. You know on account of this war I've never seen you pitch."
"Oh, yes. Don't you remember the year before you went away. We used to go over in the Park and you'd catch for me."
"That doesn't count. I mean in a game. How were you anyway?"
"Well, I guess I wasn't much good. Not with men on bases. If anything went wrong I always had a terrible time to keep from hurrying. I had to just stick the ball right over."