Dominating Velocity and a Serendipitous Signature
Roy Yoo unleashed another four-seam fastball for the fourth pitch. Crack! This time, Miyamoto Tetsu made contact, but the mishit soared high into the air. Heison Lawson at first base gave chase, but the ball dropped into the stands.
Two strikes, two balls.
Miyamoto Tetsu shot Roy a subtle glance. He's pitching like a completely different person all of a sudden.
The first-pitch fastball and second-pitch splitter had shown clear signs of caution, but the third and fourth were different. It almost seemed like reckless overpowering with raw velocity, but that wasn't quite it.
There's some instability in his corner targeting, but the pitches aren't clustering toward the middle.
In a major league filled with power pitchers, 98 mph was still blisteringly fast even for seasoned hitters. And it wasn't just speed—this was a Roy Yoo fastball, gripping the ball with vicious force to generate unnatural movement. In modern baseball, a pitch's movement was as crucial as its velocity. Even a fastball clocking 89-90 mph could induce plenty of whiffs if the movement was elite.
Pure fastball stuff alone puts him at major-league caliber.
Miyamoto Tetsu had seen it all in his major league career, but he hadn't encountered many fastballs with this level of movement. Of course, familiarity would make it hittable enough. And Roy knew that too.
If he's seen it twice in a row, he's got the timing locked in perfectly.
Fifth pitch. Roy went into his windup and fired. Low and away. Miyamoto Tetsu, waiting for it, let it go. The ump called it a ball just off the plate, pushing it to full count.
Stepping out of the box, he furrowed his brow and muttered, That's a damn good changeup.
Limited drop, but the velocity gap alone was enough to rattle any hitter.
That splitter earlier too. Basic arsenal, but the offspeed stuff is polished.
Miyamoto Tetsu took a few dry swings in the air to dial in his timing, then stepped back into the box. Now it's a straight-up showdown.
After flashing that changeup, the next one would come full throttle. He locked eyes on Roy in his windup, syncing his timing to the motion and tensing every muscle.
Roy's arm whipped through with full force. Miyamoto Tetsu tracked the ball's path toward the mitt and swung.
Whoosh!Thwack! The bat sliced empty air just as the ball thudded into the glove.
Tch. Miyamoto Tetsu clicked his tongue softly. Timing was spot-on, but the pitch had sailed a hair higher than expected. He'd swung at a ball.
"Swing and a miss!"
The Oakland crowd erupted for Roy Yoo, who'd just fanned the pesky leadoff hitter. As Miyamoto trudged back to the visitors' dugout, he stole one last glance at Roy.
"He just crushed him with pure heat," Michael, the Oakland GM watching from the VIP seats, muttered.
At a glance, it looked like a gutsy rookie overpowering a crafty veteran leadoff man with velocity. But the reality was more nuanced.
Roy's got the best pure stuff on our staff, but he's not velocity-dependent. A crafty guy in a power pitcher's disguise.
How a kid who'd flashed ace potential in his amateur days suddenly layered in veteran guile was still a mystery to Michael. But good was good—he decided not to dwell on it. Still, for a power arm, Roy's style was uniquely cerebral. The fact that he'd leaned on velocity to dominate meant the corners had been tested.
Well, none of our guys have overpowered Miyamoto anyway.
Attacking corners with shaky command was riskier than owning the zone with heat. Snapping out of his thoughts, Michael refocused as Roy faced the next hitters.
Roy induced groundouts from the two and three hitters to close the inning and stepped off the mound.
***
In the stands, having watched the first, Lena murmured, "He's dealing."
Her manager, overhearing, chimed in. "Yeah, they say his stuff's the fastest on the Oakland staff."
"I knew he was good, but this is next-level."
Her manager paused at her awe. "You two know each other or something?"
"Yeah, met him last winter in Hawaii."
"Ah, that explains the ceremonial pitch for a girl who doesn't care about baseball."
Lena grinned as her manager tsked. Now in her second year as a rookie singer with a full album out, she had a modest fanbase thanks to her looks and talent—but she hadn't broken through yet. Rising in music took skill, sure, but agency backing was huge. Hers was small-time. Geniuses who exploded overnight existed, but they were rare.
"In that light, this Roy Yoo guy's got insane luck."
"Huh? What do you mean?"
Lena tilted her head, and he shrugged it off. "Just that. Talented, sure, but the setup's perfect."
Being Jack Brown's son alone opened massive doors. Boston had offered $2 million signing bonus on name value alone. Sure, some now said it should've been $3 million, but post-shoulder injury, his true worth topped out at Oakland's $1 million. Half of Boston's offer was the Jack Brown halo.
Lena glanced at Roy's face on the Jumbotron and shook her head. "I see it differently." She smirked. "He's like a swan."
"A swan?"
"Yeah. Glides all graceful on the surface, but paddles like hell underneath."
She recalled Hawaii: Roy laser-focused on training amid flocks of interested girls. Normal guys would've mingled, but he just ran laps, head down. Others lost interest; she got curious.
He's not the type environment sways.
***
Roy cruised through the top of the first, fanning Seattle's toughest out—Miyamoto Tetsu—and settled into a groove against their slumping lineup. In the second, he surrendered a double to cleanup hitter Damon Fried but struck out Jamie Wayne, got a groundout double play off Oyden Botton, then fanned Randy Berman with two outs and a runner on third.
Seattle's lineup wasn't powerhouse, but the heart of the order still menaced. In the third, Miyamoto tagged him for a solo homer—his fifth of the season—but that was Roy's only blemish. He blanked them through six, handing off to the pen.
Oakland's bats backed him with four runs through six, hanging the win on him. They tacked on two more after, and the bullpen allowed just two, preserving the lead.
Roy notched his second win, dropping his ERA to 4.66. His line: six innings, one run. Game MVP.
Postgame, after a quick interviewer with the Oakland broadcast team, Roy showered in the clubhouse, fist-bumped teammates, and headed out. Off day tomorrow—sort of. Afternoon flight to New York meant no real rest.
Outside, lingering fans spotted him, clamoring for autographs. The major league fame still felt foreign; minors had fans, but nothing like this. Every Oakland supporter knew his face—he was more recognizable than he realized.
After signing and posing, as he broke free, a voice called out.
"Quite the fan club."
"You stuck around."
It was Lena. "Came this far—felt wrong to bail without saying hi." She pulled an Oakland-logo ball from the stadium shop and handed it over. "Sign this for me?"
"Weird getting asked by a celebrity."
"Want mine too?"
Roy chuckled, scrawling his signature. "You killed the anthem."
"Gotta. It's the job." She shrugged self-deprecatingly. "Who knows if I'll make it big."
Competition was brutal everywhere—music matched majors in ferocity.
"You'll crush it," Roy said.
"How can you say that?" Her eyes narrowed playfully.
"Just a feeling."
He shrugged irresponsibly. She eyed him, then softened with a smirk. It buoyed her a bit.
Stretching, she said, "Gotta head to the hotel."
"Safe travels."
"You too—rest up. See ya."
She flashed a bright smile, waved, and trotted to the taxi stand. Roy scratched his cheek, chuckling inwardly.
Guess we'll cross paths again.