In the Sunday sports section are two pictures of Jason Giambi, a before and after comparison that makes me go, “Whoa.” In the one from last year he’s pudgy-cheeked, a pad of fat under his chin, his biceps filling his sleeves. The one from a couple weeks ago shows a drawn, scrawny guy, rock-star thin, as if he’s been hit by some wasting disease. My immediate reaction isn’t partisan but humane: God, I hope he’s okay.

I don’t catch the final of today’s game until the late news. Pedro had control problems and walked in a run, but Johnny D homered and we beat the O’s 5–2. I’m glad we won, but it doesn’t really matter. I’m more concerned with Pedro’s walk total from last year, and the trouble he had finding the plate in the playoffs. It’s been three years since he’s been consistently dominant, and I wonder if he’ll ever get back to that level.

Because back then, there was no doubt. In 2001, we went to a game he was supposed to throw against Seattle, when Seattle was the hottest team in the majors. The game was delayed by rain about two hours, and we were worried that Pedro wouldn’t start because of the cold. He came out in the first and got Ichiro on three pitches, then John Olerud on three pitches, and then Edgar Martinez on three pitches. Nine pitches, nine strikes. I looked at Steph like, what did we just see?

It was a strange realization, witnessing him strike out seventeen or spin a one-hitter. Then, when you were watching Pedro, you knew you were watching the best pitcher—out of the millions of people to pick up a baseball and try to throw it past a batter—in the entire world. But that was three years ago.