My Body Feels Too Good
It was the morning of my second start wearing a Red Sox uniform.
The second I opened my eyes in bed, a thought hit me out of nowhere.
Damn… my body feels too good?
You know those days, right? The ones where you sleep like a rock and wake up with your eyes already wide open, every sense razor-sharp. No warm-up period needed to get the body online—just pure, ready-to-go from the moment you stir.
Today was exactly that kind of morning for me.
"Does this hotel just click with me or what?"
This was my first road trip since joining the Red Sox. We'd played a game just yesterday, and the second it ended we were straight to the airport and on a plane here. What a miserable schedule…
I'd known for a long time that American road trips were brutal, but living it was something else. Hopping on a plane for hours without rest and then playing the very next day—was that even legal? The only silver lining was that Detroit was close enough that the flight hadn't been too long.
I'd grumbled the whole way, but once we got to the hotel I washed up half-heartedly and crashed. And now here I was, bouncing out of bed like my body weighed nothing.
I grabbed a light meal and headed over to Comerica Park for the game. What was it people said about this place? Best ballpark in the league for watching a game?
"Pretty, I'll give it that."
Coming from Fenway Park, it looked a little more polished, more modern. Made sense—this place opened in 2000, while ours was the oldest of the old…
I'd sat through a whole lecture once about how the outfield used to be this or that, how the renovations changed something or other. Whatever. Not my problem.
"Kang~ how’s the body?"
Eric walked up with a big smile. This guy… he'd been a little tense on Opening Day, but now that it was the second start he had some real ease about him.
"Peak. So good I'm almost worried something's about to go wrong."
"Ohhh~ those poor bastards are in trouble. Heh heh heh."
We loosened up together, finished the pre-start routine, and headed into the locker room.
"Hey. How's the condition?"
Eun-hyung was already inside. He threw a hand up in greeting the second he saw me.
"Great. Nothing catching or tight."
"Okay. Looking forward to another good one today. Haha."
"Yeah. Me too."
He gave me a couple of solid pats on the shoulder like he understood and went back to his spot.
Whether he actually understood or not was another story. Last time I'd basically told him not to shit the bed again.
Eric came in a little later and dropped into the seat next to me.
"Your curve was filthy today."
Even I had to admit the curve had been biting especially well in the bullpen.
"Yeah? Everything else look off?"
"No. No way. I'm thinking eleven pitches again today."
"…"
He wanted to run that circus again?
The sly grin on his face said maybe not, but you never knew with this guy. Last time he'd talked a big game and then just started flashing signs. Wouldn't put it past him to make me throw all eleven the second we got going.
He ran through a few more points, finished the final game plan check, and left the locker room first.
"You coming?"
"Yeah, I'm coming."
I grabbed Ho-min and headed out toward the field.
I climbed the mound and waited for Detroit's leadoff hitter.
Matt Ganucci.
A leadoff guy who still mashed home runs for fun, and who especially loved first-pitch swinging. A leadoff hitter who loved first pitches… back in Korea that would've earned him a full bag of curses. But the fact that he'd been holding down the one-hole for Detroit for years now told me this league just didn't care.
Ganucci rattled through what looked like his usual routine and stepped into the box.
"Why's he waving that thing around like a maniac?"
He was right on top of the plate, bat head waggling and twitching, and the whole look of it just… rubbed me the wrong way.
Eric put down the sign for a slider that would break away from the right-handed hitter.
"Strike."
A ninety-mile-an-hour slider clipped the outside edge of the zone. Ganucci cocked his head after watching it land in the mitt. He'd clearly been waiting for something else.
Like I'm gonna throw a four-seamer on the first pitch every single time.
He reset, and I threw the second pitch.
Whoosh.
The ball bolted away from the aggressively swinging bat, missing the zone by a couple of balls' width outside. Another slider.
Then the third pitch.
"Ha!"
I couldn't help laughing when I saw Eric's sign. Between making me throw all eleven pitches early last game and this sequence right now… it was starting to feel like the guy was playing a video game with me. The kind of pitch mixes you only ever saw in games, and he just kept calling them without blinking.
I adjusted the grip inside the glove and went into the windup.
Whoosh.
"Batter out!"
Third pitch was another slider—only this one wasn't the horizontal breaker. It dropped straight down, ducking under the bat and burying itself in the mitt.
Said the curve was filthy today…
And the second the game started he made me throw three straight sliders.
"Tch. He's got a plan, I guess."
The second hitter stepped in and Eric immediately called for the curve.
Whoosh.
Whoosh.
Two curves. Two whiffs.
No way it's another curve, right?
That would be way too obvious. And if it looked like I was just trying to punch guys out with three of the same pitch, the other side might take it as pure disrespect.
Apparently Eric wasn't going that far either. On the third pitch different fingers went to work.
Whoosh.
"Batter out!"
A hundred-mile-an-hour four-seamer that bored in high and tight. The bat cut nothing but air again.
Another strikeout. Another three-pitch strikeout.
Six pitches total against two hitters.
The guy shook his head as he left the box and said something to the next batter waiting on deck. That next guy listened carefully, nodding with a serious face.
Anthony Borden.
Looking at the frame alone he wasn't some mountain of muscle, and the face was pretty handsome—more model than ballplayer, honestly. But last season he'd crushed over fifty home runs and walked off with a title. One of the most dangerous hitters in the league.
And right now that hitter was taking very careful notes on my stuff.
Honestly, if you could just get past Anthony Borden, Detroit wasn't that scary. Last year he'd basically grabbed the entire lineup by the collar and dragged it along by himself. This year they hadn't made any big upgrades either…
Finally Borden stepped into the box. Hands up by his ear, bat standing straight up in the air—his trademark stance. The second I started the windup he'd rock that bat back a little. And then—bang.
To keep that bang from happening, Eric was being careful with the signs.
So what am I throwing first?
Eric's fingers flew, and the call came down: four-seamer. Inside.
"Puhah! Straight challenge, huh?"
Fine by me. If he hit it, he hit it. I wasn't looking to run away. And with my body feeling this good… days like this, you don't back down.
I gripped the ball tight between three fingers. For some reason it felt like it was sticking to my hand better than usual. The feel was perfect. Whenever I got this sensation, good pitches always followed.
"Hup!"
A shout tore out of me without permission as the ball left my hand. Four-seam fastball boring into the low inside corner—the kind that looks like it's rising to the hitter.
Pop!
"Strike!"
Right where I wanted it. One-oh-two.
"Wow!!"
Borden's voice carried. Then he looked at me and grinned.
Showing off, huh?
I grinned right back. You come at me, I come at you—that's just good manners.
Borden wiped the smile off and reset. I took Eric's next sign, stood tall, and adjusted the grip. The ball left my hand with the exact same mechanics as the pitch before. It floated toward the outer edge of the zone and Borden's bat came around.
"Strike."
The bat was out early; the ball was late and soft, dying down and away. All he got was air.
"Fuck! Changeup!"
Was this guy trying to have a conversation with me? Why was he yelling loud enough for the pitcher to hear every word?
The battle was fun. The tension of knowing one mistake and it was gone, the rush of making him swing through it. Eight pitches so far. Two outs, two strikes.
Because of that, I had to shake off Eric's next call. I wanted three straight three-pitch strikeouts. Wasting a pitch as a chase ball here just felt wrong.
I looked at Eric and he got it. He was basically asking, Okay, then what do you want to throw?
I brought my right hand to my left shoulder and tapped with a finger.
I'm throwing the four-seamer.
Eric's shoulders gave a little shrug that said he'd figured as much. Then he should've just put the sign down in the first place. Jong-seong would've, you know?
"Nngh!"
The ball rocketed high and tight to Borden's hands. The second it left my fingers I knew.
He can't hit this.
The feel left in my hand told me I'd just thrown an absolute laser.
Pop!
"Batter out!"
Borden's bat twitched but never came out of the zone. One-oh-three.
About time that velocity showed up.
Borden watched it, let out a short laugh, nodded once, and headed back to the dugout.
In the VIP seats, a middle-aged man who had been watching the field with careful intensity turned his head. After seeing three straight three-pitch strikeouts, he looked at the younger man beside him with an incredulous expression.
"How much did you say it was again?"
"Fifty-three million over two years, including options."
"A steal."
"…"
"We could've gotten him too, right?"
"We made an attempt."
"How much?"
"W-well…"
"Forget it. You probably overthought every little thing and never even put a real number together."
"…"
The middle-aged man tapped his index finger against the table, thinking hard.
"What if he'd come to us?"
"Ace of the staff."
"As a hitter?"
"Would've been a huge help."
"What a waste. Really is a waste… People say Detroit's lineup is garbage, but Borden isn't. And he just completely dominated him like that…"
"…"
"Any way we can still bring him over?"
"It's a two-year deal."
"Right… you said that. We wanted six years, didn't we?"
"Yes."
"Two years… two years… Not this year, I suppose?"
"That would be a little…"
The middle-aged man clicked his tongue and turned his eyes back to the field, face full of pure regret.