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You know when you shake hands with a former catcher. It’s like having an overstuffed bag of walnuts put in your palm and then having it squeeze the circulation out of your mitts. It’s the fingers, of course, broken so often that they seem as though somebody had stomped out a tango on each and every knuckle. The toll on each catcher’s hands, not to mention his knees, is tremendous. The workload and the toll it takes seems almost cruelly balanced against the near-absence of glory at a position where, often as not, you get to take the statistical rap for something gone amiss because of a pitcher’s errant throw home or his poor move to first base. You admire catchers, even if you wouldn’t want to be one.

But even among that small fraternity of...

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