Dan Haren repeated a ritual after the miserable outings, and during the last four years of his baseball career the miserable outings became too numerous to count. He trudged off the mound and through the dugout, embarrassed by the reassurances from teammates, so he could find his phone in the clubhouse and text his wife, Jessica.
I quit, Haren would write after games for the Angels or the Dodgers or whoever employed him.
I don't want to do this anymore.
I'm sick of the stress.