#86 Crack!
Crack!
Watching the ball dive into the low zone of the strike zone, Dave Aaron swung. The pitch connected squarely with the sweet spot of the bat and rocketed off in a line. The packed Fenway Park crowd buzzed with anticipation. Dave Aaron tossed his bat aside and sprinted toward first base. The drive toward center field lost steam just as it reached the warning track and dropped. Oakland's center fielder, Luis Murphy, scooped it up effortlessly, and Dave Aaron flew out.
Slowing down as he lightly touched first base on his way back to the dugout, Dave Aaron clicked his tongue inwardly. 'A bit late.' He'd hit it dead center, but his timing was just a hair off. A foul tip might've turned into a hit, but the clean contact made it a textbook fly-out.
As he headed to the dugout, Dave Aaron glanced at Yoo Min-hoo going through his routine on the mound and muttered to himself. 'Got some guts.' He'd expected a changeup to mess with his timing or a splitter to induce a whiff. This was unexpected.
With Dave Aaron silently retreating to the dugout, Boston's No. 2 hitter, right-handed Michael Owen, stepped up. Yoo Min-hoo eyed Owen's short grip and loose, fidgety stance and went right into his delivery.
The first pitch was a fastball away. Crack! Michael Owen aggressively offered at it. The result: a grounder foul down the right-field line. He'd swung, but not to drive it—he'd just cut it off.
Blowing a bubble with his gum and popping it, Michael Owen reset his stance. He was the epitome of a pitcher tormentor. Excellent at executing strategy, smart on the bases, and relentless at the plate. He'd cut borderline pitches, wait for balls, and grind. Not a scary power threat, but the annoying type that got under your skin.
As Owen settled in, Yoo Min-hoo fired again. Whoosh! Thwack! "Ball!" Same outside fastball location, but it tailed off just a bit. Michael Owen watched it go by and thought, 'No wonder Aaron got jammed on the fastball. Timing that at this velocity takes more than a couple looks.'
But five straight fastballs? From the on-deck circle, Michael Owen had been studying closely, and his eye was adjusting. Still, he couldn't just hack at the next one. Yoo Min-hoo had an 89-mph changeup and a 92-mph splitter in his arsenal. His average heater sat at 97. Sitting fastball timing could leave him wide open for the offspeed.
Count: 1-1. As Yoo Min-hoo went into his windup, Michael Owen focused. Whoosh! Whiff! "Strike!" A changeup diving low and away. 'Heard his putaway pitches were fastball and splitter... but this changeup could close, too.'
Michael Owen tsked softly and stared at Yoo Min-hoo on the mound. The pitcher's expressionless face gave nothing away as he caught the return throw from the catcher and ran his routine. Watching intently, Owen fiddled with his bat. 'Splitter's the worry, but I need to cut and figure it out.'
His eyes gleamed with a knowing look. By the seventh pitch, Trevor Manager watching from the dugout tsked softly. 'He's planning to grind him down thoroughly.'
Michael Owen wasn't hunting hits—he was fouling off shamelessly with that short bat, his trademark that had a notorious rep in the league. For context, Boston had cleared benches three times this season, all sparked by him. That said it all about the stress he inflicted on pitchers.
'Minor league coaches said his mental game's rock-solid.' Trevor stroked his chin, eyeing Yoo Min-hoo. Meanwhile, on the eighth pitch, Michael Owen drew a walk and trotted to first. Boston fans cheered their pesky hero.
Yoo Min-hoo had packed Fenway today. Blood aside, the son of the team's retired legend making his MLB debut in the park where his father broke in was pure drama. The media was all over it. But that didn't mean Boston fans were rooting for him—he was Oakland's pitcher, after all.
'They're fanatics anyway. Lucky if they don't boo him as a traitor.' Trevor mused as Yoo Min-hoo eyed Michael Owen leading off first from the mound. He went into his stretch... and fired a pickoff throw to first.
Michael Owen, who'd crept a bit far, scampered back and muttered, "Nice pickoff."
Heison Lawson at first smirked. "Our rookie's gonna keep you honest with those."
"Don't drop it," Owen shot back with a smirk, though he figured it wouldn't happen. Heison didn't make errors. Yoo Min-hoo's pickoffs were sharp and quick, and with three Gold Gloves, Heison was elite. Holding a 728-inning errorless streak? Expecting a boot from him was wishful thinking.
Meanwhile, Yoo Min-hoo worked to Boston's No. 3 hitter, Kyle Ders. First pitch fastball—Ders offered, but fouled it weakly into a grounder in front of the mound. Yoo Min-hoo fielded cleanly and fired to second.
Michael Owen, playing it safe after the pickoff threat, couldn't advance and was doubled off as shortstop John Wheeler relayed to first for the force on Ders. Double play. Inning over.
Boston fans groaned in disappointment as Yoo Min-hoo headed to the dugout amid cheers from his infielders. "Great defense!" "Nice play!" He flashed a grin and traded quick high-fives.
The A's went down scoreless in the top of the second against Boston starter Jane Carlo. Now Yoo Min-hoo toed the rubber again. Facing him: Boston's No. 4, lefty slugger Tony Weld. .274 average, 20 HR, 67 RBI, .953 OPS (.386 OBP + .567 SLG). Their most dangerous bat—a real handful for Yoo Min-hoo right now, especially with his fastball strength.
"Play ball!" The ump called, and Tony Weld dug in. Yoo Min-hoo winded and fired.
"Hup!" Tensing and grunting shortly, he stomped the mound with his right foot and unleashed his arm. Whoosh! Thwack! A heater burrowing nastily inside. The board flashed 98 mph. "Ball!" It tailed too deep, off the zone.
Tony Weld reset. Yoo Min-hoo delivered again. Whoosh! Crack! Outside corner this time. Weld didn't hesitate, ripping it high and deep. Yoo Min-hoo tracked it as Weld jogged halfway to first before stopping. Foul into the pole.
'Pushed it lightly, and it carried that far.' A chill for any pitcher, even if foul. Yoo Min-hoo adjusted his cap and gripped up. 'Against lefties, Tony Weld's weakness is low-inside. A two-seamer or cutter would've been perfect.'
His breaking stuff was just changeup and splitter now. In high school, he'd thrown two-seamers, sliders, curves—but not since minors debut. He could, but not in games. 'Barely mastering change and splitter— no room for more.'
He gripped and stared calmly at Weld. Tough matchup, sure, but unavoidable. MLB was full of beasts like him, and he'd faced worse. Windup... Whoosh! Thwack! Splitter drags Weld's bat out front. 0-2.
Fourth pitch: changeup. Weld, sitting fastball, lost timing to the velocity drop. Thwack! Weak pop-up. Yoo Min-hoo tracked and snared it on the infield fly. Out.
Exhaling lightly as the cleanup hitter retreated, Yoo Min-hoo eyed the next batter stepping up. The game was just getting started.
The sweltering heat tormented spectators at Mokdong Baseball Stadium. The pitcher on the mound silently awaited the next hitter. Today, he was utterly dominant.
"Knew it, but he's a straight-up monster." Reporter Lee Young-gon muttered around his pen, watching in awe. And up to the plate came what might be today's final batter—the 27th.
Lee Soo-min on the mound eyed him and went into his windup.