My Ass Is Gonna Burst
I took a seat in the corner of the dugout.
Truth was, this had been my spot ever since the Sabers days—the farthest corner from the manager. Come to think of it, I'd sat here back with the Dragons too. Probably just wanted a little distance from the skipper, even then. So when I got to the Sabers I plopped down here without thinking, and here I was doing the same thing all over again.
Anyway. I set my glove down in the corner seat, laid my cap neatly on top of it, pulled a helmet over my head, and leaned forward just a little. Then I locked my eyes on the opposing pitcher and stared like I meant to burn a hole through him.
From the windup all the way until the ball smacked into the catcher's mitt, I didn't blink once. Just stared.
"…You pick a fight with that guy or something? He's gonna eat you alive at this rate."
Ho-min was spouting nonsense beside me, but I ignored him and kept staring. Again. And again.
"Seriously, what the hell are you doing?"
"I'm working on something. It's hard, so shut up."
"…Fine. No idea what it is, but work hard, I guess."
The real reason I was doing this was simple: maybe—just maybe—I could figure out the pitcher's stuff ahead of time. Until now the ability only kicked in randomly once I was actually in the box… but who knew? Maybe it wasn't random. Maybe I was triggering it somehow without realizing. And since the only thing I could do from the dugout was watch, I was determined not to miss a single movement.
Not that it was working at all so far.
Batting cleanup, Greg Mathis was grinding the opposing pitcher into dust. The starter had thrown only four pitches in the first inning; now he was already at eight just to Mathis. The other battery clearly knew Mathis crushed anything with downward movement, so they weren't throwing a single forkball. When a pitcher whose best pitch is the forkball seals it away and tries to fight without it, the at-bat just drags on forever.
CRACK!
"Foul."
The ball exploded off the bat with a sound like it was splitting in half, but the trajectory was foul from the jump. Still—an absolute monster of a shot. If that thing had gone straight, it wouldn't have just cleared the wall; it would've sailed clean over the stands.
"Baseball bats are weird as hell, aren't they?"
"What is?"
"I mean, sometimes a 130-kph cutter shatters one, right?"
"And?"
"But just now it made that sound and the bat's still fine. Kinda amazing."
I almost told him there were plenty of amazing things in this world, then stopped. He wasn't exactly wrong.
More importantly—I had a feeling. Not the at-bat kind. Just pure gut, the kind that comes from experience.
"He's throwing the forkball this time."
Even if Mathis was strong against dropping pitches, he didn't turn every one of them into a hit. And right now that pitcher had nothing left. Anything outside the zone Mathis would spit on; anything inside made that splitting sound. So what else was he going to throw?
"Yeah, about time he tossed one."
"……You're no fun."
I'd been about to propose a bet.
"Ball."
Sure enough, Endo Tsuyoshi threw the forkball. And Greg Mathis didn't so much as twitch—he just watched it go by like he'd known it was a ball the whole time. No intention of swinging whatsoever.
Result: walk.
"Got on base faster than I expected. After that first inning I figured he'd struggle a bit."
"Right? Lucky break."
The words were barely out of our mouths before we had to take them back.
Crack.
"Out."
Ernie Witt, batting fifth right after Mathis, jumped on the first pitch and bounced it to third. The only silver lining was that only the runner at first got forced at second; the batter barely beat the throw for a safe call.
Then up came the sixth hitter, second baseman Charles Bedard. I was next, so I planned to get a real good look at Endo Tsuyoshi's stuff from the on-deck circle.
Crack.
The ball soared high into the sky. The left fielder watched it drift down and casually squeezed it.
"Out."
I never thought this bastard would swing at the first pitch and die too…
"Is there a ghost of someone who died for not swinging at the first pitch attached to us or what? Why the hell does everyone just hack the second they see a ball?"
No time to watch anything. Straight into the box.
"Hi~"
I'd always heard that no matter what country you play in, you stay on the umpire's good side. So I stepped in and gave the home-plate ump a polite greeting—only for the answer to come from the catcher instead. I tried to listen, but the guy clearly wasn't a native English speaker either; half of it was gibberish. Roughly translated it seemed like "just swing already and get out of here," which wasn't exactly useful information.
Still, as a polite Korean I figured I should at least answer.
"Could you say that in English? I can't understand a word…"
"Pfft!"
I'd stammered it out, and somehow the umpire burst out laughing. If the ump was laughing, that meant even he thought this catcher's accent was unintelligible, right?
The catcher must have understood me, because he glared daggers—but that was all. No comeback. Only then did I turn my eyes to the pitcher.
They'd finished exchanging signs; the pitcher nodded and set himself.
I already had a plan. Stare a hole through him. If I got a read on the pitch, swing. If nothing came, even a meatball down the middle I was taking. Three straight first-pitch swings in a row was just not happening…
The pitcher checked the runner, then spun his arm quick. The instant the ball left his fingertips—
"Strike."
Four-seamer nicked the outside edge of the zone.
Hmm… nothing. No idea.
There had to be some kind of switch, but I couldn't find it for the life of me. At least I'd survived the first pitch. Now the real fight started.
The reason this guy's signature forkball still worked in the majors was the velocity—up to ninety miles an hour. A forkball with more drop than a splitter, thrown that hard, was nearly impossible to hit unless you were sitting on it. Even then, half the time your bat just carved empty air as it dove into the dirt. Sit on something else and the forkball in the zone would eat you alive. In short, a headache of a pitcher. Ninety-five on the four-seamer and a grab bag of average secondary stuff was still enough to lock down the number-two spot in a major-league rotation for a reason.
"Live or die, I've got to sit on the forkball."
Time it for the fork. Anything else that came into the zone, just foul it off. I had no idea if it would work, but I decided to keep my weight back as far as I could. His four-seam wasn't that blazing, so maybe I had a shot.
Pop.
"Strike."
A shot, my ass.
Another outside four-seamer and my bat was late again. I thought about choking up, then decided against it. Felt too much like admitting defeat to this guy.
"He's gotta throw one eventually."
I waited for the forkball and took the third pitch.
Tick.
"Foul."
"Ugh… shit."
Almost went down looking at three straight. Three consecutive outside four-seamers. He mixed forkballs and everything else against the other hitters—why only me…?
I stepped in for the fourth pitch feeling thoroughly wronged.
"Ball."
A high fastball that missed by a hair. My bat almost went around; I barely stopped it. The catcher immediately appealed to the first-base ump, but the call was no swing.
"Just throw one already…"
By now the other battery had to know I was sitting forkball. Even so, the possibility that I might be wrong kept me from changing the plan.
Then the fifth pitch.
"Huh?"
The second the ball left Endo Tsuyoshi's hand, the feeling hit me.
This pitch… it was definitely going to drop. But the release height wasn't high. Meaning he was burying it in the dirt on purpose—a ball either way, and a swing-and-miss would be even better.
My body, though, was doing something weird. My brain was screaming take it, but my body was moving the exact opposite way. The ball started diving toward the ground—so low it would either bounce or land in the mitt right before the bounce. And my bat was already swinging at it.
CRAAAACK!
"…Huh?"
It wasn't my usual swing. No—it was the swing from back when I first built my form with the Sabers. A full, stupid, body-twisting hack with everything I had. Somehow that old swing had come out on its own.
The ball, hovering just off the dirt, caught the part of the bat near the head. Not the sweet spot. Yet the ball flew and flew until it was a tiny speck, and then—
Thunk!
—it dropped beyond the wall.
"Yeeeeeeah!!!"
I carefully set the bat on the ground and started around the bases. Right up until contact I'd been thinking I'm screwed… but once I actually hit it and watched it clear the fence, my heart started hammering. A stupid grin kept trying to crawl onto my face, so I kept my head down and hustled around until I reached home plate.
Yeah. Even here, if I pitch and I hit, that's enough… What else am I supposed to do? It's just my lot in life.
"Good job!"
"Yeah. Thanks."
I headed into the dugout with Ernie Witt, the first-base runner who'd scored ahead of me.
Even after a home run, nobody said a word. Everyone was busy looking anywhere else. For a second I was confused—then I remembered. In the majors they do this for a rookie's first homer. It was so obvious that even Ho-min was in on it… The same Ho-min who would normally be the first one screaming and jumping around was suddenly staring at the empty sky, so there was no way I could pretend not to notice.
So I said nothing, took off my helmet, grabbed my glove and cap, and walked right back out of the dugout.
"Hey!"
They clearly hadn't expected me to just leave; a sudden murmur rose behind me. Someone called my name. But I really did have to go—I needed to start warming up for my own outing. What else was I supposed to do?
Apparently that wasn't the plan.
Someone grabbed the back of my jersey and yanked. My body lurched backward and I was forcibly dragged into the dugout. Then the hands started flying.
Whether Korea or America, the second you hit a home run they try to beat you to death the exact same way… This neighborhood just preferred the ass over the back of the head.
A whole swarm of hands came flying at my butt. These bastards…
"I have to go out there, damn it!!"
Could they stop welcoming me already?
My ass is gonna burst, for fuck's sake…