On the corner of two unpaved roads in a little Florida town sits a ramshackle green-and-white house that for years looked like the site of a cult gathering, and in a way it was. During the day, grown men with outlandish dreams would do things that to the passersby who dared peer into the backyard looked absurd. They were throwing giant iron balls and flinging trash can lids and strapping heavy sandbags to their wrists. And then, when they were done with that, they picked up baseballs and threw them in a fashion no one ever had seen, because that's what Dr.
Why pitching as we know it today wouldn't exist without Mike Marshall
