An impressive defense of Mom’s basement

In actual Little League baseball games, against real young men throwing as hard as they could from 40 feet away, my nerve was shaky, and my form was a blend of tentative aggression and blatant fear, but in the basement my stance was balanced, and my swing was pure, and I hit everything on a line — exploding fastballs and filthy sliders and back-breaking curves, everything. No pitcher alive or dead could ever throw anything by me in my mother’s basement.

Joe Posnanski, deftly destroying the "blogger in their mother's basement" cliché.

Am I doing it wrong?

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