The Brink of Perfection
By the end of the sixth inning at First Tennessee Park, the Nashville Ports' home stadium, the atmosphere was electric. With the score at this point, the visiting New Orleans dugout had grown tense and serious, while the Nashville dugout buzzed with whispers of no way laced with growing anticipation for a historic milestone.
Everyone in the stadium had their eyes locked on the young 20-year-old rookie descending from the mound.
In the Oakland front office, Michael was wrapping up his workday. Just as he reached to shut down his desk computer, someone knocked on the door.
"Come in."
With Michael's permission, his assistant Mac Camry entered.
"Camry, what's up?"
"Looks like you haven't heard."
"Heard what? Something happen?"
Mac Camry pointed at the computer, eyeing Michael's puzzled expression.
"Check out the Nashville internet broadcast."
Without a word, Michael pulled up the stream, and Mac Camry flicked on the wall-mounted TV connected to the computer. As the large screen filled with the game feed, the announcers' voices filled the room.
- The Nashville Ports fans at home are going wild.
- Who wouldn't? From a baseball fan's perspective, scenes like this don't come around often.
- Yeah, it's got everyone on the edge of their seats. Especially since Roy Yoo had been struggling lately, mired in a slump—New Orleans probably figured they'd cruise to a win. What do you think, James?
- I thought the same. But today's Roy Yoo is different somehow. His fastball velocity is up, control sharper. Overall, his stuff feels a level higher. It's not some drastic change, but I'm dying to know what's sparked this sudden improvement. Based on what we've seen so far, though, that is absolutely in play.
- Roy hasn't gone six innings all season, but he'll come out for the next, right?
- No sane manager pulls a pitcher who's kept everyone off base through six. Pitch count's at 87. If Wedden yanks him now, he might not make it home safely tonight. Oh, here's Tyrone coming up.
The announcers, who had been chatting casually before the batter stepped in, now zeroed in on the action. Even at a glance, though, they seemed a bit excited themselves.
As Michael pieced together the situation from their banter, he pointed at the TV screen and said to Mac Camry, "If I'm not hearing things wrong, that sounds like a perfect game in progress?"
"Nope, you heard right."
"Roy Yoo?"
"Yes."
"……."
Michael turned back to the screen. Nashville was at bat, but the broadcast camera lingered on Roy Yoo in the dugout. The players and coaches around him were avoiding him, not striking up pointless chatter. There was an unwritten rule: you didn't talk to a pitcher in the midst of a perfect game. It could break their focus. And in the dugout, no one uttered the word "perfect"—another superstition. That was why the announcers had danced around it too. Of course, they didn't have to, but avoiding the term meant even they were rooting for Roy's perfect game to continue.
Baseball folks were surprisingly superstitious.
The announcer spoke again as the feed showed Roy Yoo staring blankly at the field, his expression unreadable.
Michael, still seated, quickly pulled up Roy's stats for the day online. Through 18 batters, nine strikeouts. New Orleans' lineup wasn't as flashy as Memphis', relying instead on balanced, team-oriented hitting. Roy had historically struggled more against their organized approach than power bats. Crushing them like this meant he'd dominated a lineup that had given him fits all season.
With a rough grasp of the game's context, Michael fell silent, focusing on the broadcast. Mac Camry settled into a chair nearby.
Jack stared at the TV stone-faced. Ella was crouched on the sofa, hands clasped, eyes glued to the screen, while Kim Mi-hyun had retreated to her room, saying it was too stressful to watch.
Top of the seventh. Roy Yoo took the mound as expected, facing the leadoff hitter. Two strikes, two balls—a slight edge to Roy.
After exchanging signs with Tyrone, Roy unleashed his pitch.
Thwack!
The straight fastball drilled low and inside. Even in the seventh, his velocity held strong—97 mph on the gun.
"Ball."
Boos rained down as the ump called it a ball on the borderline pitch. Nearby fans screamed obscenities, their voices clear on the broadcast. Ella grimaced at the screen.
"What the hell! That's a strike!"
Jack sighed at his daughter's frustrated outburst.
"It tailed off a bit."
Ella grumbled at Jack's objective take. "It's their home park, right? Shouldn't there be some home-field advantage?"
"If umps called it that way consistently, baseball would've died years ago."
Jack was matter-of-fact. Sure, home teams got calls sometimes, but umps strived for fairness overall. That pitch had indeed leaked off the plate.
Full count. Roy caught the return toss from Tyrone, rubbed some rosin into his glove, and went into his set.
Ella groaned, "Ugh, I'd be puking in that spot."
"No doubt—intense pressure," Jack said with a wry smile, shaking his head. He'd been to the World Series himself. "Takes guts to thrive there."
Jack refocused. With a perfect game on the line at full count, Roy didn't hesitate—he fired a splitter.
The batter, expecting low and trying to chop at it, whiffed hard as the pitch dove out of the zone.
Ella threw her hands up with a cheer. Jack whistled in admiration.
In that spot, a splitter? If I were batting, I'd think the guy's lost his mind.Guts won the day, just as Jack said.
Sometimes I wonder what's going on in this kid's head.
Tyrone tossed the ball back to Roy from his mitt, pondering inwardly. Full count in a perfect game, and he throws a breaking ball off the plate without a second thought.
Roy's stuff was still live. He could've powered through with fastballs. But he chose the splitter anyway. It worked beautifully, but Tyrone never would've called for it there himself.
Meanwhile, Roy exhaled inwardly as he fielded Tyrone's return throw. He always stayed composed, but even he felt the weight now. Some days the ball just jumped more, but he hadn't expected this level. Around the fourth, he'd started noticing; now the mental strain was real.
Can't let it psych me out.He smiled bitterly to himself. No pitcher starts gunning for a perfect from pitch one. But having come this far, greed crept in. Still, he fought to stay even-keeled, play his game. That splitter was part of it—disrupt expectations.
Deep breath, eyes on the next batter. He shook out his shoulders, slipped his hand into the glove, gripped hard. Teeth clenched, he drove off the rubber.
Eight more batters!Whoosh!
The ball exploded from his hand toward the mitt.
Top of the seventh done. Roy had faced 21 batters today, and the perfect game held.
New Orleans' dugout was in shambles. Score was 6-0—not insurmountable on its own, but victory was the last thing on their minds. All they could think was stopping Roy's perfect game.
A perfect game was rarer than rare—only 23 in over a century of Major League history. Minor leagues or not, it was prestigious, glorious. But for the team suffering it? Pure humiliation. Especially from a second-year pro barely out of rookie ball.
"This is insane," the New Orleans manager muttered, face twisted.
He didn't want "surrendered a perfect game" on his resume either. But baseball etiquette forbade intentionally disrupting a bid in progress—a manners thing. Even ordering a bunt felt dirty.
"Headache, huh," the hitting coach said with a low tsk.
The manager nodded. "Who saw this coming? Kid goes berserk out of nowhere."
"No openings at all. Pitching's flawless today."
"Worse, it's the same Roy Yoo as always. Mental monster."
The coach paused at the manager's grumble.
Same as always?True, Roy looked identical to usual. Even that full-count forkball—no hesitation. At first it stunned him senseless, but yeah, it was classic Roy: exploit pressure, poke the bear when the batter least expects it.
Hmm.
The hitting coach's eyes gleamed.