Brink of Perfection
Roy had retired the fourth batter with a groundout and the fifth with a strikeout to start the eighth. By now, he'd racked up 11 strikeouts total in the game. He'd thrown 116 pitches over 7.2 innings, well past the century mark.
With only the sixth batter left in the inning, Roy called for time. It was just to catch his breath.
Wayne Coach and catcher Tyrone climbed the mound. As Roy adjusted his cap, Wayne turned to Tyrone.
"Tyrone, how's Roy's stuff holding up?"
Any pitcher starts feeling arm fatigue past 100 pitches. It affects velocity and command, and even with the bottom of the order left, the physical and mental toll was mounting.
"Still strong. Velocity's there, control's sharp, movement's good."
"Yeah?"
Wayne nodded, glancing at Roy standing a bit away. He'd come up just to give the kid a breather—no real advice needed.
"The mountaintop's right there. Hang in."
Roy cracked a faint smile and nodded. Wayne headed down, and Tyrone eyed the plate.
"They're sending up a righty pinch-hitter."
The opponent's sixth batter had whiffed twice against Roy today.
"Doesn't matter."
Roy said it flatly. Lefties often struggle against righties—matchups can be brutal one way or the other. But Roy wasn't fazed by platoon splits. His OPS against lefties and righties was nearly identical. He was balanced.
"Figured you'd say that. Anyway, like the coach said—not much left. Keep pushing."
Tyrone's face was dead serious as he trotted off. Roy straightened his jersey, rolled his shoulders, and exhaled deeply. Back to his stone-faced stare at the batter.
Time was up...
Roy Yoo back on the mound.
"He's been perfect today—truly flawless. Keep this up, and a major league call-up wouldn't surprise anyone."
One good game? Any pitcher's done that. Though this one's a bit much.
Marsha propped her chin, glued to her computer screen despite the late hour past quitting time. Hunger gnawed at her after dinner hours, but she couldn't look away.
Every time, he shocks me.
She'd first pegged him as a rookie with a quirky backstory. Now, just over a year later, he was a monster prospect on MLB's doorstep.
Marsha blinked her youthful face and eyed the batter.
Ben Hose. Lefty specialist... but against this Roy? Nah.
"Three pitches, three strikes! Roy Yoo! Strikes out lefty-killer Ben Hose to close the top of the eighth!"
The announcer's voice boomed with excitement. As Marsha figured, Ben wasn't equipped to handle Roy. But this dominance? Unexpected.
"He's really gonna pull off a perfect game at this rate?"
Marsha muttered, sticking out her tongue.
Word of the Triple-A perfect game bid spread like wildfire. Views on the Nashville Ports vs. New Orleans stream exploded as fans piled in. Baseball media pumped out Roy Yoo articles, interest surging.
Triple-A was the step below MLB—fans buzzed that Roy was major-league bound. Oakland fans, who'd lost their No. 2 starter this season, went wild over their ace prospect.
As attention swelled, the bottom of the eighth wrapped. Top of the ninth—the final frame. Score: 7-0. No miracle comeback in sight.
But victory was old news. Everyone watched for the perfect game.
Field switched, Roy took the mound. Nashville Ports' stands were packed—starting at 25% full, they'd filled steadily post-sixth, now at capacity.
Roy fiddled silently with the ball, face blank, staring down the plate. Up first: the seventh batter, who'd nearly homered off him in the third.
The guy looked tense. Roy unleashed.
Crack!
"Strike!"
95 mph flashed on the board. Still quick, but down from early-mid game velocity.
Roy rolled his shoulder lightly and fired again.
Whoosh!Thwack!
"Foul!"
The batter swung at the changeup but mistimed it into a grounder foul. Two strikes, no balls. Roy attacked outer-half fastball.
Whoosh!Crack!
"Strikeout!"
His 12th K of the day—cheers erupted from the stands. Two batters left.
Roy rubbed rosin on his hands, running his routine. The eighth batter stepped up—righty box.
Roy sighed faintly, toed the rubber, cupped his hands to his eyes.
The batter set, glaring—then called time and backed out. Boos rained from the full house. The venom shook him visibly.
Triple-A drew solid crowds as the top minor league, but sellouts were rare.
This support's more solid than I thought.
Nearly 15,000 voices buoyed his spirit. Roy threw high-inside.
The batter flinched, swung. Thwack! Weak grounder to short. The fielder's throw beat him to first.
The guy tilted his head back in a groan. Roy had targeted his favorite zone—instinct took over. He knew it well.
New Orleans' lineup thrived on bench signals, especially the bottom. With perfection two outs away, forcing their preferred swings was low-risk.
He hadn't expected the hack—meant for a count, but it worked better.
One left.
Just one.
Roy exhaled deeply.
Can't believe I got here.
He chuckled inwardly at his own feat: starter, no baserunners, 8.2 innings.
Eyeing the final batter, Roy glanced at his left hand—sweaty from nerves. He wiped it on his pants, swallowed, deep breath.
Stay calm, stay calm.
Self-hypnosis as he ran routine and set.
This guy's ice-cold. No nerves at all.
New Orleans' hitting coach sighed. One out from perfection, and Roy showed zero hype.
He glanced at the batter: Peter Hudson, ninth hole. Decent hitter, pesky contact guy. Skilled switch-hitter, but timid. Still, he bridged to the top well—rarely pinch-hit out.
Peter was hanging tough. Six pitches in: two strikes, two balls.
Seventh: Crack!
"Ball!"
Roy's fastball tailed off—ball four? No, two strikes, three balls.
He's tiring. Velocity down, command slipping.
130 pitches now. Peter glanced to the dugout—full count.
Gutsy kid. Likely pounding the zone now.
Last batter. Stuff faded, but strikes incoming.
But crafty.
Exploits pressure, reads pitchers—perfect for nibbling.
Splitter again? Fine.
What'll he do?
Peter's mind raced.
Right choice?
He sighed, flashed a sign. Peter froze.
What the—?!
He'd followed bench cues all night—this time, coach left it to him. Timid Peter panicked under perfection pressure.
Meanwhile, Roy readied. Time ticking, Peter froze—not swinging on purpose, just paralyzed.
The ball left Roy's hand. Peter stared blankly.
Crack!
"..."
Peter gaped.
"Ball four."
The splitter dived cleanly out. Away cheers drowned in home groans and sighs.