Great.

I read about high-profile cases: Chuck Knoblauch, the second baseman who once hit a sportscaster’s mother in the face with a wild ball. Mackey Sasser, the catcher who couldn’t throw back to the pitcher without double-taking.

And then there was Steve Blass, the great pitcher who developed the yips and was sent down to the minors. I dug up Roger Angell’s 1975 profile of him from The New Yorker and read every word, hoping to uncover some secret that would change my own luck. There was, of course, nothing. Mr. Blass retired early and became a jewelry salesman.At first my team chalked it up to nerves.

“Naomi!” my coach shouted after I fielded a grounder and then threw it 10 feet to her right at practice. “Just relax!”

I tried. But the problem with trying to relax is that the more you try, the less relaxed you feel. I tried to take my time. I tried to be natural. I tried to focus on the mechanics; I tried not to focus on the mechanics at all. I tried to think about being loose; I tried to think about throwing hard. I tried really, really hard not to think.

Sometimes it would work for a while. I’d land a few good tosses, and hopefulness would creep in. But inevitably the anxiety would catch up to me, and soon enough a ball would sail past my partner, sending her jogging into the distance to retrieve it.

After a particularly rough game, my coach pulled me aside. I had been desperate to tell someone on the team what was happening to me: that I was under some kind of curse, that my baseball skills had apparently gone into a coma, that this wasn’t the real me. I thought this was my chance.