How to Handle a Threat Ball
Wiley adjusted his cap once more, pulling it down firmly. As he caught his breath, a curse slipped from his lips.
“Fuck!”
- Whoa… Did he just let a big one fly?
- Haha, no doubt about it. I get it, though. It's gotta be frustrating. His head's probably spinning.
Wiley didn't bother covering his mouth. He just wound up and fired again.
Shiiiiiick—
Oh no!
The pitch had clearly slipped from his fingertips. It veered wildly from the catcher's mitt and buried itself in the netting. Another ball added to the count. The scoreboard now read 3 balls, 2 strikes.
This was the twelfth pitch.
Fuck. Fuck! Fuck!!
Wiley knew full well the leadoff hitter was this type. But cut after cut. Every pitch he threw was nicking off the end of the bat, gnawing away at his nerves. What grated even more was what came next.
Every time he fouled it off, the batter stepped out of the box. Adjusting his helmet, retightening his gloves, breaking his rhythm. Those brief pauses felt eternal to Wiley. The flow kept getting disrupted, throwing off his balance entirely.
And I was doing it on purpose.
With so many innings ahead where I'd need to rattle pitchers, there was no rush. So I dragged it out deliberately. The longer I lingered in the box, the more I could see the pitchers' and fielders' faces stiffen.
The broadcast booth didn't miss it.
The caster chuckled. “Is it just me, or does Kim Hu-seong feel extra vicious today?”
It was lighthearted banter, but the situation was dead serious. Commentator Lee Seo-jin responded calmly. “Probably because he's been resting a while—his senses are razor-sharp right now.”
He paused, choosing his words, then added, “And since he sat out the Larus series while the others shone, he might be a bit salty. Venting it here. Tough break for Wiley.”
Wiley nodded, checking the sign. He went into his windup again. Thirteenth pitch.
But the ball sailed high from the start. The instant it left his hand, the at-bat was over. Its trajectory was miles from the strike zone. The catcher stood and snagged it barely.
But in this count, it was a walk.
Lee Seo-jin's voice followed. “Way too high. Kim Hu-seong takes his base.”
I dropped my bat and trotted to first. Tsk.
Deep down, I clicked my tongue. Honestly, it stung. I wanted to smack one at the right moment and go, but a walk? It doesn't hit the average, so that bugged me right now.
I shot a natural glare at their catcher. Busan Siguls' catching corps was a clear weak spot. Ever since their S-grade catcher Choi Seung-taek bolted for the States, no one's filled the void.
And the guy on the mound was already rattled to hell.
Textbook play here: steal. But I held off. Dragging this inning out long was priority one today. Make the pitcher throw a ton.
Wiggle around, but no steal. Keep them antsy.
I widened my lead a bit, swaying casually, and the pitcher reacted instantly.
- Runner's expanding his lead.
- That's… deliberate movement. No steal intent. Don't get suckered.
Lee Seo-jin nailed it. But Wiley bit anyway.
Shiiick!
A pickoff throw came. But I slid back leisurely. Never planned to run, so no reverse-motion trap for me—easy.
Next pitch, I widened again. This time, the catcher moved first. Pitchout.
Still no run from me. Another ball piled on.
Their pickoffs kept coming, and before long, the count was 2 balls, 1 strike.
Now was go time.
I steadied my breath, eyes on his foot and shoulder. I'd gauged the timing roughly by now. Body forward, start primed.
Shiiiiiick!
He threw. I bolted.
Thwack!
Damn.
Crisp sound. From No. 2 hitter Gu Min-seok's bat.
I glanced at the ball mid-stride on instinct. It hooked toward left field—clean single.
I'd already tagged second but didn't stop. No reason to slow. Blew past second, gunning for third.
Left fielder snagged it on one hop, fired urgently to third. I felt it coming but was already sliding—body low, hand outstretched.
The third baseman glove-tagged me. But the ump's arm shot out sideways.
“Safe!”
- Runner slides into third.
- Whoa… Kim Hu-seong is fast. Normally, a first-base runner needs a right-field line drive for third, but he attempted the steal. Nailed the tag-up thanks to it.
I touched third base, gasping as I rose. Whew… got it.
My job this inning was done. Now just wait from third. Tag-up chance, error, groundout—whatever brings it home.
No. 3 hitter Kim Han-seong stepped in.
Thwack.
His fly soared. I hugged the bag, holding my breath short. Too bad—pop-up to the infield. Even with my wheels, no dice. Wait for the next shot.
Then No. 4, Son Tae-ho.
Crack!
Might off the bat. Ball screaming to the outfield.
- Batter drives it!
Right field. Deep—I prepped to run. The second it hit the glove, I tagged and motored home.
Plenty deep; easy trot in.
- Kim Hu-seong scores. Gocheok Turkeys take first blood in the bottom of the first. The Devil of the First returns after ages.
The rally kept rolling. No. 6 Jeong Yi-hoon singled; Gu Min-seok to third, Jeong to second. But No. 7 Lee Sang-hyeon grounded to short, ending the frame.
That marathon bottom half wrapped. Busan Siguls trudged off dripping sweat, bitching about the heat.
Top of the second flew by, though. Shortstop grounder, second baseman grounder, shortstop pop. Inning over in a blink.
The remaining Siguls on the bench sighed in unison.
“What the—why's our offense so damn quick?”
Griping, they grabbed their gloves and headed back out.
* * *
Bottom second, two outs—my turn again. Still 1-0.
I strode to the plate; Wiley scowled. Hated seeing me, plain as day. Fair enough after last inning.
Plan A redux: take the first two.
Shiiiiiick—pop.
First pitch caught the zone. Ump called strike; Wiley exhaled sharp.
Second nicked high—ball. His face started hardening.
Third pitch. Only one strike—no need to swing.
Shiiiiiick—pop.
“Strike.”
Straight zone, but I just watched. Still, Wiley looked pissed.
- Wiley to the fourth pitch.
Tick.
I poked lightly—foul wide of the line.
Wiley hung his head on the mound, muttering something. Curse? Self-talk? Lips moved.
What? Oh… jackpot. He's crumbling.
Time to smack one soon. Rest of the lineup's got it from there.
I eyed the fielders. Still locked in. Pitcher on tilt, but no sloppy vibes yet. Tough for a hit.
Dial back greed—more cuts, wait for the spot.
Next pitch, though—Wiley's trajectory looked off. Felt like it was coming at my face.
Instinct screamed danger. I ducked on reflex.
- Oof!
- That was close!
It grazed past my helmet into the net. Heart pounded.
Whoa… shit…
Realizing a ball nearly beaned me, rage surged. About to glare and curse the mound—then my head cooled.
Best to blow up now? Nah.
Getting mad here hurts me. He's baiting it.
Quick breath, think—got the answer.
Coward…
Kim Se-rin the cheerleader's words. Charging out's tempting—looks tough, not chicken.
But to look more fearless? Step back, play it scary-smart. Answer clear.
Ump pondered. Dodged, but ejection or warning?
I rose slow, casual. “Whoa, scared me. Thought it’d clip my back.”
Back…? Wasn’t it higher?
Then to the ump: “Nah, I dodged it. All good.”
Defusing the tension.
He eyed me, then Wiley. “You sure? Ejection helps you guys.”
Back in the box. “Yeah, fine.”
Yes, sir! Fine.
Because…
Wiley still glared, unblinking.
So I flicked my right hand lightly at him. He gaped, then clamped shut—dumbfounded.
Grinning inside, I reset. Final touch: chin-jabbed home plate.
Hurry up and throw, asshole.
- Whoa… Kim Hu-seong… that's provocation.
Ump flinched a bit.
Why? Cause I'm the punishment now.
Ejection's too cheap. Today, I rack stats. 20 pitches? 30? I'll camp till his mentals shatter.