#073 Not a Good Flow.
Tyrone muttered to himself as he watched Cabin Green touch home plate and sprint back to the dugout.
In a situation where he'd completely backed the batter into a corner, he'd given up a home run to Cabin Green. And the splitter Roy Yoo had just thrown wasn't even a mistake pitch. Even though it resulted in a home run, that sharply dropping splitter drew a tight trajectory that even if the batter knew it was coming, wasn't easy to touch. This was purely Cabin Green playing it perfectly.
When you throw a good pitch but get a bad result, pitchers get rattled.
Roy isn't the type to shake in a spot like this, but it'll still hit him a bit.
Tyrone glanced subtly at Roy Yoo.
Roy Yoo was still expressionless, methodically grooming the mound with his foot.
Next up at the plate was right-handed hitter Jo Angelro, a white power threat similar in type to Tyrone.
Roy Yoo fiddled with the ball as if the home run he'd just allowed meant nothing, then went into his windup and unleashed a full-effort pitch.
Crack!
The ball, headed for a good outside corner, was suddenly yanked by the swinging bat and sailed deep into the left-field stands.
Sighs poured from the crowd.
Back-to-back home runs. And this one on the first pitch, no less.
Anyone could see it—this was a bad flow. To the fans, Roy Yoo looked dangerously vulnerable right now.
"Hmph."
The moment his first-pitch fastball outside to Jo Angelro connected, Roy Yoo instinctively knew it was gone. Left hand on his hip, he silently tracked the ball's path without a word.
The ball dropped into the seats, and Jo Angelro trotted toward first.
His massive frame didn't allow for blazing speed.
"Tch."
Roy Yoo smacked his lips softly.
Both the splitter to Cabin Green and this fastball—they were all well-executed pitches. Which made the bitterness in his mouth inevitable.
That was the end of his reflection on the home run. He didn't waver or get angry beyond that.
With a calm face, he eyed the next batter stepping in.
Days like this happen.
Roy Yoo was a pitcher skilled at reading batters' minds. What made that possible was thorough scouting. Strengths, weaknesses, habits, vulnerabilities—he researched it all beforehand. Then he pitched based on that data.
He did everything in his power to control the situation.
In fact, batters facing Roy Yoo often felt inexplicably dragged along by him.
But he couldn't control everything perfectly. He wasn't a fortune-teller or a god, and he sure as hell couldn't read minds. He just pitched in the most efficient way possible using data.
It went without saying for any pitcher, but a well-thrown pitch didn't always yield a good result. Sometimes, like now, it led to the worst outcomes.
That's why Roy Yoo trained himself to stay composed in any situation. His current cool-headedness on the mound was the fruit of that effort.
He adjusted his cap and stared down the sixth batter, right-handed hitter Will Rosenthal, as he entered the box.
Will Rosenthal took his stance and muttered inwardly.
Back-to-back bombs—he's gotta be rattled, right?
Generally, pitchers shake when good pitching leads to bad results like this. It was an opportunity for the batter, but also a moment to be cautious. Pitchers often bore down hard to snap the bad flow.
I'll take the first pitch, play it safe.
If he lunged too early and popped up weakly for a groundout, it'd kill the momentum they'd just built. He decided to take it slow against Roy Yoo.
As he eyed Roy Yoo with that mindset, Roy Yoo immediately went into his next delivery.
Thwack!
Roy Yoo's fastball drilled right into the heart of the zone.
He'd planned to lay off the first pitch, but this blatant down-the-middle offering felt off.
Close one. But no nerves at all. Confident in his stuff? Kid bravado? Yeah, probably that.
Will Rosenthal sneered inwardly.
That brute force might work up to Double-A, but in Triple-A, lunge too soon and you'll get lit up.
He reset his stance.
That last one suggests he'll keep coming aggressive.
Will Rosenthal timed himself up in his stance. Roy Yoo took his motion again and whipped his arm with everything he had. Same course as before.
Seeing it, Will Rosenthal swung on instinct.
But the velocity was completely different. His bat sliced empty air, timing stolen by the changeup.
Two strikes.
Will Rosenthal's face tightened a fraction. The first pitch had burned so hot that he'd swung automatically at the repeat location.
Luck? Or...
His face showing a hint of fluster, he reset and locked eyes with Roy Yoo for a split second.
An expressionless face that betrayed no thoughts. No trace of the bravado or guts Will Rosenthal had imagined.
A doubt flickered through his mind: Did I underestimate this pitcher?
As Will Rosenthal faltered, Roy Yoo raised his hands high, lifted his right leg, and tensed every muscle in his body. Gripping hard, he pushed off the rubber and unleashed his arm with full force.
The ball rocketed in. Seeing it dive low, Will Rosenthal swung again on reflex.
Whoosh!Thwack!
"Strike! Strike three, you're out!"
The umpire's call. Three pitches, three strikes.
Completely overpowered, Will Rosenthal trudged to the dugout, face stiff, glancing back at Roy Yoo on the mound.
That last one... it was overwhelming.
He retreated, feeling an indescribable emotion he couldn't put into words.
***
Six innings, three runs. In his MLB debut start, Roy Yoo notched a quality start before handing off.
He'd created a weird intentional walk right out of the gate, but he'd more than fulfilled his role as starter.
The only downside: all three runs came via home run. He'd given up another to Cabin Green in his next at-bat after the second.
By the time Roy Yoo left the mound, the score was 3-2, Nashville trailing.
The bullpen held without further damage but couldn't add on, so Roy Yoo took the tough loss.
As players filed out of the clubhouse after the game, someone called to Roy Yoo packing his gear.
"Roy."
He turned to see Marsha standing there.
His teammates heading out with him erupted in jeers.
"Ooh, already got a girlfriend?"
"Makes sense—looks, talent. Damn, she's a looker."
"When'd this start?"
Roy Yoo let out a light, awkward chuckle at their whistling and teasing, then walked over to Marsha.
Undeeterred by the Nashville players' catcalls, she approached with her usual impassive face.
"No plans after this, right?"
"Nope."
"Then do an interview with me."
Roy Yoo scratched his head at that.
"You eaten?"
"No."
"Dinner while we do it, then. Keep it simple."
Marsha stared at him blankly before nodding.
Roy Yoo and Marsha ended up at a pizza joint near the stadium. It was bustling but not rowdy.
"Whoa, look who it is—Roy!"
A middle-aged man in his fifties, bringing menus, spotted him and greeted warmly.
"Hey."
"Can't say hey. You lost. Why not pitch a little better?"
The owner, who'd watched on local cable, vented his gripe.
"Haha, did my best."
"True, first start today. Sucks to lose, but striking out the side after those back-to-backs? Slick."
Patting Roy Yoo's shoulder as he recalled the second inning, he took their order and stepped away.
Marsha commented on it.
"You're popular."
"Regular spot."
He shrugged nonchalantly. She watched him silently before stating flatly,
"Just so we're clear: don't read into dinner together. This is work, extension of the job."
"Sounds like a headache job."
He tsked softly at her drawing the line.
Marsha probably had it tougher than most reporters. As a pro baseball player, Roy Yoo had seen plenty of women in the game—reporters, announcers, cheerleaders—dating players. Their jobs put them close, and players didn't hesitate to pursue who they liked.
She looked young and was stunning enough to tempt any guy. Especially specialist baseball reporters like her often did one-on-ones. With so many cocky players assuming pretty girls would fall for them, Roy Yoo could guess her headaches.
Confirming his indifference, Marsha propped her chin and grumbled.
"Yeah, well. Some straight-up ask me out, others grab my number on first meet and call at night trying to hook up. First time, I thought all ballplayers were like that."
Roy Yoo gave a wry smile.
"One thing I'm curious about: why reporting?"
She glanced at him, shrugged.
"Fun. Loved baseball since kid. Junior league player, believe it or not."
She grinned lightly. He nodded.
"Anyway, I'm supposed to ask questions, but you're flipping it."
Grumbling, she pulled out notepad and pen.
"Before pizza: quick questions on today's game."
"Shoot."
"First inning intentional walk. Why?"
Her eyes gleamed. He answered.
"Emotion control."
"Emotion control? Hm. Tell me more."