First Start
The game felt strangely… easy.
"Strike out!"
"Strike out!"
"Strike out!"
It took only eleven pitches to rack up three strikeouts in the first inning. Nine of those eleven were four-seam fastballs. The other two were diving sliders.
I had been openly pumping four-seamers the entire inning, and the hitters kept swinging right through them. I even caught a few of them shaking their heads in disbelief.
My stuff wasn't bad today, but the inning ended so easily it almost felt ridiculous.
Then it was our turn to hit.
Greg Mathis, batting cleanup, smashed a line drive that caromed off the wall and stopped at first. He knew how slow he was; he never even thought about stretching it into a double. Impressive, in its own way—especially on a ball that hit the fence.
Two straight fly outs followed, and then it was my turn at the plate.
What am I looking for here…
The opposing pitcher threw a two-seamer, changeup, and curve. He had a slider too, but he barely used it. I stepped in looking for the two-seamer.
The instant the ball left his hand—
Changeup?
How do I even explain it? I just… knew. I know how absurd that sounds, but the second the ball came out of his hand I knew exactly what it was.
This wasn't the first time. Every once in a while it just happened. I still had no idea why. Maybe another side effect of the meds, I figured.
I knew the pitch. I didn't think he'd waste the first one, and I was right. I tracked it as long as I could, confirmed it was inside, and swung.
Crack!
The contact was so clean I felt nothing in my hands. Before I even realized what I was doing, I had flung the bat skyward.
These days even Major League Baseball didn't make a huge fuss over bat flips… but until now I'd always set mine down politely. This time, just like back in Korea, I launched it without thinking.
I watched the bat spin through the air and started a slow trot toward first. Cheers and boos mixed together. The boos were obviously from the Yankees fans—they weren't booing the home run itself, so it had to be the flip that pissed them off.
As I neared home plate I could hear the Yankees catcher yapping about something. His eyes were locked on me, so the words were definitely meant for me. The crowd noise swallowed most of it, though.
Then Greg Mathis, who had scored ahead of me and was waiting at the plate, stepped right in front of the catcher. He gave me a light fist bump the moment I touched home, then fell in behind me like a bodyguard all the way back to the dugout.
…Okay, that actually got to me a little.
Honestly, after the sniping that started on day one with this team, I'd lowered my expectations. Some guys had been friendly, sure, but it always felt like they had an angle. Greg Mathis and I had barely exchanged more than a nod when we passed each other—yet the way he just stepped up reminded me of the old days with the Sabers.
"You crying?"
"What?"
"Your eyes are all shiny."
"The hell are you talking about, you psycho."
I was moved. Just not that moved.
"How much did that kid cost us?"
Yankees owner John Edvain asked. The secretary at his side answered immediately.
"Two years, fifty-three million."
"Why didn't we get him?"
"GM Chris McHale wanted a longer deal."
"And the player didn't?"
"No. After two rounds of talks went nowhere, the agent walked away from the table."
Edvain, who until now had barely glanced at the man, finally turned to look at him. His eyes were narrowed to slits.
"Insane…"
"Sir?"
"McHale. Because the player wouldn't give on the years, he just decided not to pursue him at all?"
"That appears to be the case."
"…What do you make of that kid out there?"
"He looks good, but the season hasn't even—"
"Is that so? Hmm…"
Without another word the owner turned back to the field.
Then the top of the fourth arrived.
Crack!
The second home run left the yard. Edvain crushed out his cigar with a snarl.
"This is ridiculous. Perfect through three with two home runs already?"
"…Yes."
"And a pitcher like that went for only two years and fifty-three million…"
"That's with the options included."
"Hah… McHale… McHale… that man just made a massive mistake."
By the time the fifth inning ended, the pitcher had thrown fifty-eight pitches and was being pulled. Edvain stood up in irritation. The secretary trailing after him still couldn't understand it—why get this worked up over a guy who had only thrown five innings of one spring-training game before the real season even started?
But one thing was crystal clear: McHale was about to have a very long week.
"Are you out of your mind?"
Ho-min tossed the question at me out of nowhere while I was icing my arm after five innings.
"What's your problem?"
"Dude… one hit, zero runs, and two home runs?"
"Why the sudden shock? It's not like I've never thrown a shutout before."
"That was Korea! Today you were facing the Yankees!"
"Not my fault they can't hit."
"…You're the worst."
"Heh heh heh."
I gave him a playful answer, but honestly the game had surprised me too. Especially that second home run.
The same thing that let me sit on the changeup for the first one had carried over to my second at-bat. It only ever showed up once in a blue moon for reasons I still didn't understand…
Second at-bat. After fouling off a pitch that ran away outside, I knew the second pitch was a four-seamer the moment it left the new pitcher's hand.
Most pitchers throw fastballs more than anything else, so hitters usually time themselves for heat. But guessing and knowing are two completely different things.
Up to that point it was the same as the first at-bat.
I knew it was up in the zone…
That had never happened before. The location felt as clear as if I could see it painted in the air. When you know both the pitch and the spot, missing is almost impossible. If the guy had been throwing absolute gas it might have been different, but the new pitcher wasn't that kind of arm. So I hit it even farther than the first one.
Was this the meds again? The more I thought about it, the less it fit. If it were the drugs, shouldn't it work every single at-bat? This was something that only flickered to life once in a great while—something I myself had barely experienced a handful of times.
The effects just randomly show up when I've almost forgotten about them? That made no sense either. I still had no idea what was going on. I just used it when it showed up.
Would've been nice if this had been Opening Day…
If it had happened after the regular season started, the impact would have been insane. Was it shameless to feel a little disappointed? Heh.
"Korea's going completely nuts. Even louder than over here."
Ho-min had been clicking around on his laptop for a while. I took a quick look at the forums myself. Yeah, the Korean side was definitely louder. Just one spring training start and the articles were already flooding in…
"But leaving Korea really did cut down the hate comments a bit."
"…Still looks like a lot to me."
"This is nothing. Back then—"
"Okay, enough. Enough."
The second the conversation turned to people trash-talking me, this guy lost all self-control. Better to cut him off early.
"So this was your last start?"
"Yeah. That's what they told me."
"They're really wrapping you in bubble wrap. Are they actually planning to use you as the ace?"
"Why? You said that was impossible."
"Of course I thought so. Anyone would have. But looking at how things are going… I don't know anymore."
Ace from day one of my debut season…
The thought that it might actually happen sent expectation blooming inside me.
A few days later, though—
"There's word that Rondo Garcia is joining us."
"…The guy who won the Cy Young a few years back?"
"Yes. They say he's fully recovered from the injury."
"…Why would the Mets give up a guy like that?"
"The injury was pretty serious. They probably figure he won't get back to his old level. Age is a factor too…"
"Still…"
I heard the news from Jack while picking up my meds…
And the very next day.
An ace-caliber arm had just joined the team.
Just like that.