The Scrimmage
"Hmm… this is weird…"
"What's weird this time?"
"You don't think it's weird? It's way too quiet."
"Quiet about what?"
"The captain. I'm talking about the captain."
"Ah…"
It had already been nearly ten days since I'd joined spring training. Exhibition games were about to start. Over here they called it the Grapefruit League, apparently — named after the local specialty crop. Grapefruit League… sure.
Anyway. Gordon Perry, captain of the Red Sox and the man I'd butted heads with from day one, had recovered from his injury and was back in the middle of training. That meant we crossed paths more often now…
I'd fully expected him to pick another fight. Instead, he was strangely quiet. Sure, he'd glare when we passed each other, or click his tongue — but that was it. And somehow the silence itself was getting under my skin.
"You know what it is?"
"No idea."
"There's a reason I've been going a little harder here than I ever did back in Korea."
"Is that so?"
"Yeah. And that reason is—"
"In Korea, everybody knows everybody two degrees of separation out, so you couldn't just do whatever you wanted. Over here, you look around and you don't know a soul — so you do whatever the hell you feel like."
"…"
That… actually made a lot of sense.
"By the way, why hasn't another pitcher shown up?"
"What pitcher?"
"Come on. This team's number one and number two starters both walked out. I figured someone else would come in besides you."
"They're probably just promoting from within."
"…Promote who? Who on this roster is even a number-one starter?"
"Why are you looking for a number-one starter? You've got me."
"…You really think they're going to slot a guy who's shown them nothing straight into the rotation as the ace? Even if you look great in training, best case you're the two or the three."
"Tch."
Ho-min wasn't wrong — this team's pitching staff had issues. The bullpen and the closer looked decent enough. The problem was the starting rotation. I'd watched the guys who'd been in last season's rotation throw, and even allowing for the fact that nobody was fully ramped up yet… they still weren't impressive. For Major League starters — for pitchers holding rotation spots on a big-market club like the Boston Red Sox — the stuff was a little… thin.
"Hey. Stop sitting around and go get ready. Time's up."
"Already? All right, I'm out."
A couple of days earlier, I'd been summoned by the team's manager, Kirk Scurby. He had the build of a Ronald McDonald grandfather and a face that never stopped smiling — white hair, faintly rosy cheeks. The kind of old man who radiated nothing but good nature. And yet this grandfather of a manager had a World Series title on his résumé. A long time ago, sure — but still.
I walked over to the far corner of the dugout where he always sat. He stopped writing whatever he'd been scribbling and looked up.
"Oh~ You're here."
"Yes, sir. You asked for me."
"I did. How's training?"
"Good, sir."
"I hear your condition is excellent."
"Uh… I think I'm doing all right."
"That so? Well, here's the thing. We're running an intra-squad scrimmage in two days. Want to take the mound?"
"Ah! Yes, sir. I'd love to."
Honestly, I'd been itching for this. The other pitchers had been getting live batting practice, but for some reason the opportunity never came my way. When I tried to push for it, they even held me back. I'd figured there had to be a reason and waited it out. Now the chance was finally here.
An intra-squad game was still an intra-squad game — but it was a chance to face hitters who actually played in the big leagues. No reason to turn that down. When Ho-min told me to get ready, this was what he meant. My first real duel with live hitters — without so much as a single live BP session under my belt.
One look at how the teams were split and I could roughly read the manager's mind. That grandfather of a skipper clearly wanted to see me against hitters — not just any hitters, but top-tier big-league bats. There was no other explanation for packing every everyday starter onto the other side.
Starters and prospects over there. Backups and run-of-the-mill minor leaguers over here. You couldn't design a more lopsided roster if you tried.
That was Eric's take, anyway.
"This is gonna be fun."
I saw it differently. This was the chance I'd been waiting for. And I was dying to get a real look at what Major Leaguers could do.
"How do you want to handle signs?"
"Your call. You know these hitters better than I do, right?"
"Hmm… all right."
"But stay aggressive. I hate pitching around people."
"Okay."
Eric had been catching me steadily this whole time. In other words, he was the catcher on this team who knew my stuff best. At first I'd only considered a personal catcher based on Ho-min's recommendation, but I'd done some homework of my own since then. From the film, Eric was every bit the good catcher Ho-min had described. Whether I could trust him the way I trusted Ko Mandeok, though — that was something I'd decide today. If his game-calling or pitch sequencing didn't mesh with me… I was fully prepared to start putting my own opinions on the table.
"Play ball."
The bullpen coach working home plate today barked the call, and the game was on. Stepping into the box was the opposing leadoff man — Arthur Burgart, last season's everyday leadoff hitter for the Red Sox. Under five-foot-eleven, on the lean side, with springy dark skin that practically advertised how well he could run. At twenty-seven, the kid had real bat talent too; even with slightly shaky second-base defense, he'd locked down the leadoff spot all last year.
Against him, Eric called for a four-seam fastball first pitch — low and inside, right on the hands of a hitter crowding the plate.
"Going for it right out of the gate."
Not bad. Far better than nibbling around just to feel him out. My first pitch to a live hitter, with every player, coach, and the manager watching.
Whap!
"Strike."
"Ohh~"
The coach's clean strike call landed at the same instant a murmur of appreciation rose behind me. The feel off my fingertips on that first pitch hadn't been bad at all. Eric wanted another inside four-seamer — higher this time.
Whoosh.
A swing and a miss, the bat cutting a little under the ball. Two strikes, easy. I thought he might go to the changeup next, but Eric called for a third straight four-seamer — this one up and out of the zone.
"Out."
The bat came around again, well under the ball. You could tell at a glance he had zero feel for the pitch. Three pitches, three strikes. Arthur Burgart shook his head and stepped out of the box, saying something to the next hitter waiting on deck.
"Who was that guy again…"
Some prospect the organization was supposedly coddling. I remembered the raw power from batting practice. The name was…
"Prospect Number One, I guess."
Against the left-handed Prospect Number One, Eric opened with a changeup. After watching three straight four-seamers, the kid had to be sitting dead red.
"Foul."
He was completely out in front of the changeup running away off the outer edge — and still managed to get the bat on it somehow.
"Ohho~ Not bad."
So the organization wasn't babying him for nothing. But then—
Curveball.
"Strike."
Another curve.
"Foul."
Another curve.
"Foul."
One more curve.
"Out."
Four consecutive curveballs, and he finally went down swinging. Even the fouls had been barely nicked. Young, maybe — his breaking-ball recognition wasn't fully there yet. Our Prospect Number One never once squared one up cleanly.
And then the next hitter stepped in. Martin J. Silvers. Our Eun-hyung.
"Whew… the intimidation factor is unreal."
He filled the batter's box. When was the last time I'd felt something like this? Probably the first time I faced Lee Gijun. Back then that presence had crushed me. Now I could enjoy the pressure.
"If he hits it, he hits it."
That was how far I'd come. Eric and Eun-hyung exchanged a few words. Eun-hyung smirked, settled into his stance, and Eric's fingers flickered fast between his thighs. First pitch: slider — the vertically dropping Deathball of the two sliders I threw. The ball left my hand and dropped hard in front of the plate. The bat came with it.
Crack.
Off the end of the bat, the ball rolled foul outside third.
"He tracked that…"
The pitch had been good. That monster of a hitter had just handled it. Completely different from Prospect Number One. The earlier kid had barely grazed the ball; this one had put a real swing on it.
Crack.
He cut another fastball on the outer half. He laid off the changeup and the splitter, and the count ran to two-and-two. Eric put down the knuckleball sign. I shook it off immediately. Sure, I could get him with the knuckleball. But I wanted a real fight against a top-of-the-line Major League hitter. That was the only way to know how much of my stuff actually played.
Eric finished his brief deliberation and put down a new sign. Low and inside four-seamer. I liked that. Power against power. Let's go.
I dug my fingers into the seams and took a big windup. My body uncoiled and the arm whipped through.
Crack!
It was easily the hardest pitch I'd thrown all day. The location was good, too. And he squared it up. But—
"Holy—! That defense is insane…"
The same second baseman who'd been oohing behind me earlier tracked Eun-hyung's ball, went into a slide, and scooped it clean. Still on the ground, he twisted his upper body alone and fired to first.
"And a guy who can do that is still stuck in the minors…"
The pitch I'd put everything into had been hit hard. The ball I'd been certain was a single was an out. This was the place I was going to play.
"What did that last one clock?"
"A hundred and two, sir."
"Heh heh… a hundred and two already."
"Yes. Martin managed to handle it, but the other hitters are going to have a rough time."
"He's better than I expected. I still don't understand how a pitcher like that stayed buried this long."
"Neither do I."
That was Manager Kirk Scurby and the bench coach, after watching the top of the first.