We can dream about these things, you and me. We can imagine what it’s like to be standing on the 12th tee at Augusta, Rae’s Creek beckoning, the gallery sensing for nerves. We can visualize standing behind the 3-point line at the Garden, open, a flick of our wrist to give the Knicks their first championship since 1973.

We can fantasize about being a left-handed power hitter wearing pinstripes, digging into the batter’s box at Yankee Stadium, the famous right-field porch so close you feel like you can touch it with the tip of your bat. The thing is, we all wake up eventually. Joey Gallo never has to. Not now.