Counterattack (3)
Before I escaped Blockhead Thrower, my pitching pattern had been painfully simple. Four-seam fastballs against right-handers. Cutters inside against left-handers. An almost pure power-reliever approach that I, a starting pitcher, had been carrying wholesale onto the mound.
The reason sat in the danger of my breaking ball — the slider — whenever it drifted over the heart of the plate.
Against right-handers I could still work it in about twenty percent of the time. Mechanically, even a slider that floated middle could still generate some swing-and-miss against them.
But against left-handers it was a completely different story. No matter how good the movement, if it came out on four-seam timing against a lefty, the chance of the bat finding it was far too high. In practice it was little more than a "keep it in mind" show-me pitch.
But now—
"Outside! Got him! Strikeout!"
"Wow, that slider was really good just now. After the cutter inside, he opened the back door perfectly. From the batter's perspective, that has to look a mile away."
Things were different.
Once I could throw it where I wanted, the slider became a real option against left-handers too.
The opposing batter, Son Gwangseop, glanced at the umpire with a look of pure injustice.
Yeah. It would look far away.
That was exactly the expression on Son Gwangseop's face — a mix of resentment and bewilderment, his features twisting without him realizing it.
A slider that barely clipped the outside border. He had clearly felt it was a ball. No — the trajectory left him no choice but to feel that way.
"Hyung-nim, how was the ball?"
From the on-deck circle, the number-three hitter Moon Sanghyeon carefully asked as he watched Son Gwangseop trudge back after the strikeout, still working on his timing.
Son Gwangseop answered with a long exhale first. He pulled off his helmet, held it in one hand, and wiped his forehead as if sweeping away sweat. The corners of his mouth were turned down, and his expression made it clear he was thoroughly displeased.
"…Don't ask me."
It sounded like grumbling, but there was no force behind the words. Moon Sanghyeon raised his eyebrows in puzzlement.
"Faster than Seongju?"
Son Gwangseop opened his mouth again.
"It's not… it's not that kind of problem. That kid's not at a level I can explain. You could talk about it a hundred times and still not get it."
He set his bat on the rack with a thunk and glanced toward the mound. His eyes looked as if the very existence of Han Doyoon standing out there was some unfamiliar thing words couldn't capture.
"Go feel it yourself."
Son Gwangseop added with a low laugh.
"You'll know the second the first pitch comes in."
I finished the fifth with a three-up, three-down and walked into the dugout.
Ten strikeouts. Zero walks. Zero hits.
Five perfect innings.
It had been a long time since I'd held the flow of a game completely in my hands and worked it however I wanted.
Four-seam fastball, cutter, slider.
The harmony those three pitches created was producing a five-inning perfect game.
As I stepped into the dugout, the heat still lingering in my body gradually settled, and my breathing calmed.
Perfect so far.
I sat on the dugout bench and cracked open a sports drink bottle. A rush of heat flared up through the arm twisting the cap.
"Ugh, I really shouldn't use this too often."
"Shouldn't use what too often?"
Right beside me, Kim Gyeongmo had overheard my muttering and asked.
"Ah, nothing. It's nothing."
I shook out my arm casually and took a swig of the sports drink like it was no big deal. Kim Gyeongmo looked puzzled for a moment, then let it go as if it weren't important.
"You're not pushing too hard today, are you?"
Kim Gyeongmo asked lightly.
Honestly, as Kim Gyeongmo said, I had been pushing a bit. The newly acquired active skill — Full Power Pitching — had synced so well that I'd kept flipping it on without realizing it and just throwing.
Still, no warning messages had appeared on the Status Window. Well, I could dial it back starting next inning.
"I'm fine. It's not that hard yet."
"Alright, do what you want. You've already got five innings in."
Then—
Crack!
A crisp crack of the bat rang out from the field, and cheers erupted from the stands right after.
The number-eight hitter, center fielder Park Taejeong, ripped a clean single right through the gap between first and second and settled lightly onto first base.
"Hey, isn't that his first hit?"
Kim Gyeongmo said with a slight smile. Our dugout signaled the first-base umpire, and the ump caught the ball and tossed it our way.
"Oh, they're giving us the ball."
Park Taejeong took off his cap and raised it toward the bench with a bright smile. The kid whose expression barely ever changed looked completely unwilling to hide his joy right now.
Then the opposing dugout stirred.
"Huh?"
Kim Gyeongmo noticed first.
"They're changing pitchers."
The opposing starter, Moon Seongju, was exchanging high-fives with the Titans players and walking slowly into the dugout.
Moon Seongju's outing today hadn't been bad at its core. As a young power pitcher who'd been drawing attention lately, his four-seam had consistently sat mid-150s, and the splitter's movement had been solid.
The problem, as always, was command.
Balls sailing well out of the strike zone had lengthened at-bats, and a few walks mixed in had ballooned his pitch count.
In the end: five innings, two runs allowed.
The result wasn't terrible, but with over a hundred pitches, he couldn't go any further.
Kim Gyeongmo poked me in the side.
"Hey, you won. Him: five innings, two runs. You: five innings, zero."
"Come on, I didn't win anything. The hitters beat Moon Seongju."
Still, one thing was certain — the game flow had tilted, just a little, our way.
Bottom of the fifth, leadoff hitter Park Taejeong reached base, but the follow-up hits didn't come and the inning ended as is.
Then top of the sixth, I faced the seven-eight-nine bottom of the order. I turned Full Power Pitching off for a bit and lightly attacked the strike zone. Just the most basic pattern — four-seams and cutters to get ahead, slider to finish — was more than enough.
Most of the hitters were late on their timing, and two infield groundouts and one swinging strikeout closed out the top of the sixth without trouble.
In the bottom of the sixth that followed, the Wonju Flyers' offense also came up empty.
Score: 2–0.
In the middle of a tight pitchers' duel, the game's tempo began to pick up a little more.
After the bottom of the sixth, it was my turn to take the mound again. I knocked the dirt out of my spikes and retied the laces I'd loosened, pulling them tight.
"Doyoon, you good?"
The manager, who'd been quiet until now, glanced my way and asked.
"Yes, still fine."
I answered briefly, stood up, and rolled my shoulder once. Since I hadn't used the active skill Full Power Pitching even once in the top of the sixth, the heat that had been lingering in my arm was already gone.
Top of the seventh, leadoff hitter Son Gwangseop stepped into the box.
Once he was in, he clenched his teeth and glared my way. Two consecutive strikeouts must have gotten under his skin — his eyes were completely different now. Truly murderous.
His hands gripping the bat were white-knuckled, and his stance was much closer to the plate than before.
Doesn't want to get burned by the backdoor slider again, huh.
Son Gwangseop had fallen for the slider two at-bats in a row. First at-bat: cutter inside, then outside slider for a looking strikeout. Second at-bat: a couple of four-seams missing outside, then another outside slider.
The setup pitching had been different, but for a lefty to get fooled by a right-hander's slider two times straight was more than enough to bruise a man's pride.
Still, does he have to telegraph it that hard?
Even a veteran like Son Gwangseop apparently got like this sometimes when emotion got involved.
Kim Gyeongmo put down the first sign.
— Four-seam.
I shook my head immediately.
Second sign.
— Slider.
I shook my head harder.
Then Kim Gyeongmo stopped giving signs, spread his mitt wide, and looked straight at me.
Then you call it.
That was exactly what it meant.
I gave the tiniest nod of my chin toward the inside.
Kim Gyeongmo put down the sign at once.
— Cutter.
I nodded without a word. And threw without hesitation.
Whoosh—!
The ball left my hand and bored deep inside, almost grazing Son Gwangseop. But he didn't flinch. Without the slightest movement, he stood and watched the pitch all the way.
"Ball!"
The home plate umpire's call rang out.
I took the ball back, slowly steadied my breath, and waited for the next sign.
— Cutter.
I couldn't help grinning at the voice coming through the pitch com.
See? This is why we click.
Kim Gyeongmo had read my mind.
"Strike!"
"Strike!"
Two cutters in a row dug deep into the inside strike zone on Son Gwangseop. He couldn't catch up to either one.
Then the fourth sign came in.
— Cutter.
I nodded right away.
Whoosh!
The fourth cutter bored inside again. A pitch a little more over the plate than the last ones — with the count against him, Son Gwangseop couldn't hold back and swung.
Tock.
The ball caught the handle of the bat and rolled as a slow grounder toward first.
"Out!"
Son Gwangseop muttered something in my direction and headed into the dugout.
Told you. Who said to take the cutter out of the mix?
Four cutters in a row.
Relentlessly working only the inside.
For a hitter who'd come up thinking only about the outside slider, there was no worse hell than that.
"Shit. Not a single breaking ball."
Son Gwangseop grumbled as he walked into the dugout. Anyone who knew him would know — Son Gwangseop was never, ever the type to go up looking for a breaking ball. He timed up the pitcher's fastest pitch and handled breaking balls on instinct and reaction.
But just now had been different.
For the first time in his baseball life, he'd stepped in looking only for Han Doyoon's slider. Getting burned by the same pitch two at-bats straight had scraped his pride that raw.
But the result was still an out.
"Haa… hyung-nim, is there really no answer today?"
Watching that, the number-three hitter Moon Sanghyeon stopped spinning his bat in the on-deck circle and asked carefully. Anxiety was mixed into his voice.
Son Gwangseop set his helmet down and exhaled.
"No. We can hit him."
Moon Sanghyeon's eyes went wide as he asked back.
"We can hit him?"
It was a strange thing to say.
Clearly, after striking out in his first at-bat of the first inning, Son Gwangseop had come back and said this:
"He's not at a level I can explain. Go feel it yourself."
In other words, Doyoon's stuff was so absurd that explanation itself was impossible.
Moon Sanghyeon had stepped in twice himself. He understood why the pitches were "unexplainable," why Son Gwangseop had gone that far.
But now, in the seventh, that same Son Gwangseop had changed his tune. Even after making another out just now, this time his voice was full of conviction.
"Yeah. We can hit him."
Moon Sanghyeon looked at Son Gwangseop with a face that didn't understand.
Then Son Gwangseop scanned the surroundings once, leaned in close, and brought his mouth right to Moon Sanghyeon's ear.
Between the crowd noise, his lips moved very slowly.
"So basically………"
At first Moon Sanghyeon just blinked blankly, not knowing what he meant. But the more he listened to Son Gwangseop, the more his expression gradually shifted.
"You get it?"
Right at that moment—
"Strikeout!"
The number-two hitter, Lawrence, went down swinging.
And Moon Sanghyeon answered, very quietly but with resolve.
"…Yes."