Safe?
In the top of the second, leadoff hitter Greg Mathis flied out to center and trotted back to the dugout.
The opposing pitcher was John Taylor.
His velocity wasn't anything special, but he was the kind of crafty pitcher who beat hitters with a whole arsenal of pitches. Top speed around 97 mph, sitting 93–94 on average.
A 97-mph crafty pitcher…
Just looking at the average, that was 150 km/h back in Korea. Over there they'd call him a lefty with a blazing fastball. Here? Yeah, that counted as crafty.
You only had to glance around to see guys casually pumping 100 mph, so…
They said he threw a bunch of different pitches—though nothing like my eleven. Usually five mixed in, seven if you counted the ones he barely used.
Four-seam, changeup, curve, cutter, sinker as the main ones, with the occasional slider and two-seamer sprinkled in very, very rarely.
Today he was having fun with the cutter against the first four hitters. Not fast, but he kept putting it in those awkward spots that made you look stupid. Our guys were probably thinking they'd rather face a pure 100-mph guy.
Me, though? I was different.
Korea was full of pitchers like this. Especially one named Kwon Jong-jin—you might know him.
This guy… his style was pretty damn close to Kwon Jong-jin's. Velocity, pitch mix, pinpoint command, even the arm slot.
Not that I'd been crushing Kwon Jong-jin's stuff back home. But I'd seen plenty of the same type, so I had a better shot than the guys who'd already gone down.
I stepped in and took a couple of easy practice swings. That was my whole routine.
Lately I'd been thinking about it. Maybe I should invent some cool little ritual when I dig in. Everyone here had their weird little thing. Compared to them I looked boring as hell…
Ask Ho-min and he'd just spout nonsense, so I'd have to talk it over with Eric later.
Anyway.
I settled in and waited for the first pitch.
John Taylor finished the signs in a flash, rocked back, and went straight into a slide-step—no high leg kick, just a clean, compact delivery.
Pop.
"Ball."
The cutter ran in a little too deep on the hands. Not close enough to hit, maybe a ball's width off the zone. Kind of a shame. I knew it was coming. If it had just nicked the edge I would've swung.
Second pitch.
"Ball."
Curveball diving low. Same as the first one—I saw it. Especially this one. From the moment it left his hand it floated up so obviously I couldn't have been fooled if I tried.
"Not that hard, actually."
My earlier comparison had been a little off. Similar to Kwon Jong-jin? He was a long way off.
"Strike."
Third pitch—a sinker that just caught the outer edge. I thought it was a hair outside, but that wasn't the point.
This pitcher… I read that one too. Sinker or changeup—I just knew.
This wasn't the random, supernatural pitch-reading that hit me once in a while. This was pure me, reading the ball with my own eyes.
"Why can I see it so clearly?"
If I could figure out why his pitches looked so readable, I could teach the other guys. There had to be a reason I was picking up the general pitch type on almost every throw…
"Ah, forget it."
No time to force something that wasn't working.
"Ugh!"
He grunted like he'd just taken a shot to the gut and delivered the next one—coming in on the outer half…
"Four-seam!"
Crack!
I went with it, lining it into the right-center gap. I slid hard into second just as shortstop Matt Ganucci's glove snapped shut on the throw.
No question—safe.
I was already raising both hands for time when—
Thump.
What the hell was that?
His glove slapped me square in the back. Both my feet were planted on the bag, my back turned, and he tagged me for no reason at all.
"…"
I was so stunned I didn't even bother fixing my gear. I just spun around.
Matt Ganucci was staring right at me. No—glaring.
"What the fuck is your problem, you little shit? Keep staring and I'll pop those eyes out."
I flashed him a bright, friendly smile with the words. He smiled right back.
Bastard actually liked it.
I still had no idea why he was staring me down, but a smile and a little chat had settled it. Fine by me.
The real problem was—
Pop.
"Out!"
Pop.
"Out!"
The next two hitters flied out in about thirty seconds and the inning was over.
"Fucking hell… why does this shit always happen when I'm on the mound… makes me nervous."
I headed back to the dugout, grabbed my glove, and glanced sideways. Eric was already scrambling into his catcher's gear after making the last out himself.
That guy needed his bat to wake up soon. The comparisons to Gordon Perry were getting brutal. Early in the season it wasn't a big deal yet, but if this kept up all year people were definitely going to start talking.
"Sigh… I don't even know anymore."
Worry about it later.
I retired the side in order again in the second.
Then the third. A broken-bat blooper dropped in the one spot nobody could reach for a cheap hit, but nothing came of it and I shut the door.
Last batter of the third was Matt Ganucci again. He went down looking on three pitches—two of them sliders. Out of the six pitches I'd thrown him all day, five had been sliders.
After the strikeout he stood in the box and glared daggers at me the whole walk back to the dugout.
"Why are you taking it out on me? Eric's the one calling the pitches."
Top of the fourth.
Our lineup started with the two-hole. After two outs Greg worked a walk, never once flinching at the chase pitches that kept missing. He didn't even twitch. Made me wonder if Greg was seeing something the way I was.
Once he reached first he looked over and tapped his left shoulder a couple of times.
"…What the hell does that mean?"
Looked like he was trying to tell me something, but I had zero idea.
"Not a sign, so…"
Not a play call. Good enough. I'd just ask him later.
I gave my head a little shake to chase off the random thoughts starting to leak in again, stepped in, and took a couple of lazy swings.
John Taylor used almost the same delivery as before, only a touch quicker with the leg. The arm came through and the ball…
He'd clearly wanted it in on the hands, but he missed and left it dead middle of the plate, honest as daylight.
John Taylor must have been half-expecting something even as he winced. The reverse spin would make it drop a little—maybe he'd get a soft contact out of it.
But if you already knew exactly how the ball was going to move, that changed everything. Especially when it was right down the middle.
CRACK!!
"It's gone~"
A gorgeous, soaring drive that kept climbing forever. And an even more gorgeous bat spinning through the air after it.
I didn't even need to look. John Taylor knew it too—he never checked the flight. Just started kicking the dirt like it had personally offended him.
I started jogging toward first. The crowd's reaction was weirdly muted. Because I flung the bat?
I kept telling myself I should stop, but the second I connected my hands just… threw it. Habits of a lifetime aren't that easy to break…
I was rounding second when Matt Ganucci started freestyling some kind of rap. Sounded like he was cussing me out, but with that much noise how the hell was I supposed to catch a single word…
I just ignored him and kept trotting.
"Batter out!"
Bottom of the sixth. Matt Ganucci took his third strikeout of the night. This time it took four pitches—one foul ball forced the extra work.
Look at you growing up, kid. Making me throw four.
Of course the last one was another slider. Eric was clearly on a mission.
Then the top of the seventh. My turn to lead off.
In the sixth Eun-hyung had ripped his third hit of the day—a double—but Greg couldn't bring him home and the inning died. Our grandpa of a manager didn't even glance my way. I'd half-expected a pinch-hitter, but apparently he had no such plans.
Shame. The cheap Kwon Jong-jin who'd been giving me such a fun new experience was gone. I'd been enjoying reading every pitch…
The new guy was a righty. Two-seam and slider, they said. Two-pitch? More like he'd just pound the two-seamer all night—a 98-mph sinker-looking two-seamer.
Pop!
"Strike."
"…"
A two-seamer that started middle and ran just a hair inside blew past me. Fast, and the late break was nasty too. Guy throws that and he's in the middle-relief crew?
The next pitches explained why.
"Ball."
"Ball."
Two straight ones that nearly drilled the dirt. This dude… felt like he had zero control over his own stuff.
"Ball."
One sailed high.
"Strike."
Then out of nowhere he painted the outer edge perfectly. I hadn't even taken the bat off my shoulder and suddenly it was a full count.
Five two-seamers in a row. I was still wondering whether he'd dare throw another when—yep—another two-seamer, right down the middle.
Hate walking guys all you want, but when you serve it up that fat…
Crack.
Line drive screaming into the left-center gap. Not going out—the stinging vibration still in my hands told me that much. Just like I thought, the ball rocketed off the wall and caromed to the center fielder.
The first-base coach waved me toward second. It was going to be close…
The center fielder fielded the carom clean and fired a laser straight to second. The shortstop was already waiting, glove ready.
If I went in clean and honest I was 100 percent out. Same if I led with the legs.
The dugout would bitch later, but I had no choice—I had to go in hands-first. Cut the corner inside and I might just make it.
I dropped low, eyes locked on Matt Ganucci waiting for the throw, and prepared to launch myself inside.
Plan was simple: stretch the arm out and slap the bag.
But right as I was about to leave my feet I saw it—his knee sliding just a little inward. Right into the exact path my body was about to take.
I knew exactly what that meant.
Every now and then you ran into guys like this. Guys who didn't care if you got hurt as long as they got the out. I'd heard there were plenty of them even in the majors.
But this blatant? Dropping the knee right into the lane…
If I hadn't seen it and gone in head-up looking for the bag…
That knee would have caught me square in the face and snapped my neck back. Injury for sure—big or small, guaranteed.
"You son of a bitch…"
Lucky I saw it before I left my feet.
CRACK!
Lucky I could throw my helmeted head straight into that bastard's knee instead.
"GAAAAAH!"
A sickening crunch like something shattering, followed instantly by Matt Ganucci's scream.
I whipped my head around and found the second-base umpire.
"Safe?"
"…"
Safe, he said. Good.