The Pride Duel (2)
If there is one thing I have learned since coming to the 19th century, it is that Americans are instinctively obsessed with sports.
Even in the 21st century, wasn't America a country so deeply pickled in football, baseball, and basketball that it was practically their identity?
Among them, I had a fair amount of expertise in baseball, so I could confidently introduce it to the plantation.
However, the fact that the workers on my plantation were also genuine Americans exceeded my expectations—not just a little, but quite a lot.
"W-what did you say? Baseball? You mean we're going to play baseball there, too?"
"Not 'there, too,' but rather, that’s the birthplace. I told you I modified the rules."
"Oh... right. Then New York is the home of baseball."
"Ooooooh! The home of baseball! Master! Please, you must take us to that stadium! Yes? Please!"
"We beg of you!"
As soon as they heard I was going to watch a baseball game with Isaac, Leo, Ben, and Sam all went into a frenzy.
"Kuaaaah! The home of baseball! If we learn the techniques there, doesn't that mean we can monopolize all the MVP spots on the plantation?"
"I wonder how different the baseball at the birthplace is..."
"Wouldn't it be a feast of incredible fastballs and high-level psychological warfare?"
Yeah, sorry, but it’s not that.
The time I spent teaching them baseball was short if you consider it short, and long if you consider it long, but for the slaves on my plantation, baseball and the post-game dinners were their only entertainment. Thanks to that, they were living the lives of true baseball addicts, swinging bats, throwing balls, and practicing defense every chance they got.
Not only that, but having rolled around in amateur baseball teams with a burning desire to succeed, I was someone who had mastered everything from basic breaking balls to Sabermetrics. As a result of constantly feeding the knowledge our workers were thirsty for, our plantation had already evolved into a structure that used custom-ordered baseballs with 8-stitch seams and basic gloves.
Wouldn't the current, primitive baseball look incredibly sloppy and miserable to kids like these?
"I know what you're thinking, but if you go in with expectations, you'll be hugely disappointed. For starters, the rules are different."
As far as I knew, early baseball didn't even have the rule of a walk, pitching was forced to be underhand, and the concept of a strike zone was vague. To someone accustomed to modern rules, it would feel less like baseball and more like something merely claiming to be baseball... but anyway, what could I do when they wanted to see it so badly?
Seeing is believing.
I visited the joint exhibition game between New York and Brooklyn with Isaac Fowler and was guided straight to the VIP seats. I heard whispers from behind that it was an exhibition game held before the season officially started because the weather hadn't warmed up yet, but they sounded like they thought it was a "real" game.
Even at this time, regulations like 9 players, 9 innings, and 90 feet between bases were established, so it certainly looked like baseball.
"Oooooh, Master. As expected of New York, there are so many spectators."
"Looking at the players over there, they feel different from us. I must watch with the mindset of learning a thing or two."
Leo, Ben, and Sam, standing behind me like bodyguards, were making a fuss, watching every single movement of the players.
"Hahaha, how is it? This is the new culture of New York. The atmosphere at the venue isn't bad, is it? Even if it's a bit noisy, I see definite potential for it to keep growing."
Isaac Fowler waved toward the direction where his supporters were, appealing for presence in his own way. It certainly seemed like a decent strategy for elections and securing name recognition.
However, the problem was...
Thwack!
"Waaaaaah!"
"Run! Ruuuuun!"
Contrary to the enthusiastic cheering and shouting rising from the surroundings as the game progressed, the atmosphere around me had turned ice-cold.
"...What is this?"
"Is this baseball?"
"Are they joking... what is this? Why are they throwing the ball so slowly? And what's up with that baseball?"
"Is there no strike zone here? How is that baseball?"
A massive downpour of criticism poured out in whispers that only I could barely hear. I told you, didn't I? You'd be one hundred percent disappointed.
I told them not to have expectations in the first place, but since they did, it ended up like this without fail. Still, Leo, as if he hadn't given up hope yet, whispered to me in a very small voice.
"Master, that's not it, right? This is just entertainment, and the real game starts soon, right? Please tell me that's the case."
"I'm sorry. I think this is the level of New York baseball."
"No... you said it was the home of baseball!"
"The level of us just playing around during practice is ten times higher than this... what's wrong with those guys? Do they think baseball is a joke? Is baseball a joke to them?"
"They said they'd even charge admission starting next year! They want to charge money for baseball with this level of performance!"
Guys, your voices are getting louder.
The aura of despair erupting from behind me was so intense that I was just about to be affected by it when—
"Wait, wait, isn't this Mr. Fowler? It's been a while."
Someone from the VIP seat across the way waved happily and approached, accompanied by a few people who looked like reporters. Seeing Isaac's mouth twist in a nasty way, it was clear they weren't on good terms. And sure enough, Isaac Fowler greeted him with a voice that sounded sarcastic to anyone's ears.
"Greetings. Mr. Opdyke, I heard you changed parties again. Was it the Republican Party this time?"
"It's not a change, it's a merger. And it's been almost ten years since I was in the Democratic Party, so shouldn't you stop saying that now? No matter what, I couldn't keep staying in a party that defends dirty things like slavery."
"I see. Mr. Sett, please meet him. This is George Opdyke, who was a party member with me ten years ago, but left after receiving a delegate offer from another party, and then moved his party affiliation to the Republican Party. He is one of the wealthiest men in New York."
Oh boy, I'm going to get swept up in this power struggle.
Even if they were tearing each other down so bitterly, George Opdyke was one of the giants of New York City politics, pouring massive donations into the Republican Party. There was no need to leave a bad impression in front of such a person.
"Nice to meet you, I am James Sett."
When I reached out my hand with an awkward smile, George Opdyke laughed heartily and shook it.
"Hahaha, I've heard of you. The young planter from Mississippi. I heard you solved the dysentery incident at the National Hotel; thanks to you, we've had one less thing to worry about. Because now those people spreading the horrific, baseless rumor that the Republican Party released poison have been forced to shut their mouths."
"Haha... logically, how could anyone go around releasing poison in such a large hotel?"
"That's right, that's right. But there are newspapers that wrote such nonsense as if it were a report."
Opdyke scanned the complexions of Leo and Ben standing behind me, then laughed loudly, seemingly pleased with something, and continued.
"By the way, what are your impressions after watching the pride of New York?"
"Ah... are you talking about baseball?"
"Yes. Baseball is a popular sport already spreading throughout New York City. I am certain it is only a matter of time before it spreads throughout the North. How could such a spirited sport have been born if not in the North, where souls are free, and New York, its center?"
It sounded like he was trying to provoke me by implying, "You Southerners don't have anything like this, do you?" but surprisingly, I wasn't provoked at all. In the first place, I have no affection for the South or Mississippi.
Did you think something innovative would come out of a region that only shouts "I love cotton so much, I can't lose slavery" all day long?
As I remained still with a surprisingly calm face, Opdyke seemed to be at a loss for words, perhaps because it was unexpected. He then quickly changed his target and looked at Leo behind me.
"Mr. Sett, it might be an overstepping of boundaries, but I believe even slaves need a minimum of a human life. If they see a sports game like this, how envious must they be inside?"
"Hmm... do you think so?"
"Of course. Doesn't the expression on the faces of the slaves looking at the stadium with a gloomy atmosphere right there tell you everything?"
Did this guy just come here determined to pick a fight? Glancing over, I saw a reporter-like person standing next to him scribbling something in a notebook incessantly, and I got the feeling immediately. He was probably planning to turn today's events into an article and use it for political maneuvering, showing off the spirit of the North in front of a Southern hick.
Honestly, I wanted to lay low, especially since that unprecedentedly idiotic Dred Scott decision had come out, but when someone tries to make me look like a moron to this extent, I can't help but feel a sense of resistance. Just as Isaac, who was furious, was about to open his mouth, I beat him to the punch.
"Actually, to be honest, there are so many holes in the rules that I think there are many points that need improvement."
"Hoho... is that so? For example?"
"Right now, the ball itself has too little bounce, and the throwing speed is slow. Since that doesn't capture the thrill, shouldn't they throw the ball harder from above, not just underhand? And I think we need to reinforce the rules so that there's no need to swing at pitches that come to places where the batter can't possibly hit them. If I pick at them one by one, there's no end to it."
"Hmm, you seem to have watched quite carefully. But everything looks easy from the outside. If you try it yourself, you'll find the depth is different."
"Is that so? If I set my mind to it and train the workers on my plantation for just one to two months, I think we could easily beat the teams here."
In fact, I think we could crush them right now, but I said it in a very refined way out of courtesy. For a moment, a sense of satisfaction—'This guy finally got provoked'—flickered in Opdyke's eyes.
"As expected of a great planter of the South, you seem very confident in your ability to handle slaves? Hehehe, but this sport called baseball is not that easy. Southerners always mistakenly think they are good at everything..."
"Certainly, from my perspective, the rules are a bit outdated, so I think it would be hard to adapt."
"Then, by any chance, if we modify the rules a little bit according to the method you pointed out earlier, would you have the heart to actually play a match? Surely, you wouldn't say you said that with such confidence only to have said it in a fit of anger, would you?"
"Wait! What on earth are you talking about! Mr. Sett came to build a hospital in New York City; there's a limit to being rude."
As the conversation began to flow in a strange direction, Isaac Fowler, who was next to me, tried to intervene in a panic, but the atmosphere had already heated up to a point where no one could stop it. Because the reporter next to Opdyke had already started to reveal his intention to broadcast this fight, excited to the core.
"This, this is a scoop I can't miss. I came just to check the atmosphere at the venue, but I've unexpectedly witnessed a historic scene. I am Horace Greeley, editor-in-chief of the New York Tribune. How about we actively promote this showdown in our Tribune?"
"If the Tribune is willing to promote it, I will sponsor this historic match. Of course, if you correct yourself by saying you spoke in haste because you were too excited a moment ago, I will step back like a gentleman."
With even a much bigger media mogul than a simple reporter attached, signs of the situation growing larger began to appear. Seeing the blatant hostility, I could guess how the situation was flowing. Baseball was just an excuse for these two, and they were full of poison because they wanted to tear down the South somehow due to the Dred Scott decision.
I don't not understand that feeling, but if you want to criticize, go do it somewhere else—why are you picking on me, who was just sitting still?
"I can't take back what I've said. However, the baseballs and rules must be changed as I mentioned. Since we are beginners, you can give us that much consideration, right?"
"Of course. The conditions are the same anyway."
Horace Greeley left, excited, saying he would print this scoop prominently tomorrow, and Opdyke handed me his business card, saying we should meet tomorrow to decide on the detailed rules. Thus, the baseball commotion ended, and Isaac Fowler, perhaps truly feeling ashamed, couldn't even meet my eyes and apologized repeatedly.
"I am truly sorry. I didn't know those insane people would go this far."
"What are you sorry for? I'm fine."
"Haa... I certainly overlooked that both sides are looking for any excuse to pick a fight with each other because of that ruling right now. If you stand slaves there, they would obviously think, 'Aha!' and come to the seat we were sitting in... This is clearly my negligence."
"No. To be honest, I also responded in an immature way."
"But... are you really going to do it? Wouldn't it be better to just call it off even now? We have people at our post office who enjoy baseball often, and it's not as easy as it looks."
Naturally, in the eyes of Isaac or Opdyke, it must look like a Southern greenhorn with a terribly inflated ego is acting up without understanding reality. But if I thought I would lose in the first place, I would have kept my mouth shut and stayed still.
I left Isaac with words not to worry, and after we parted ways, I asked my players who were following me silently.
"Leo, Sam, Ben. Answer me honestly without any exaggeration. Do you think we can do it?"
The three exchanged strange glances among themselves, and then—
"Well... honestly speaking..."
They left a thick and intense one-line review.
"They were fucking terrible."
Right? I agree.
However, Opdyke, who knew nothing of this situation, kept growing the scale of the event by promoting the game extensively as promised. I wondered what on earth he was thinking, but since he was going to grow the size of the coffin he would enter himself, what could I do?
I had no choice but to close the lid flamboyantly so that everyone in the world could see.
I'm not going far, Mr. Opdyke.
Get ready to get beaten to a pulp.