As Wide as the Ocean
Since I've only been throwing outside, people might get the wrong idea, so let me clear something up real quick.
That umpire isn't just generous on the outer edge. He's wide everywhere—up, down, the whole damn zone. There's a reason they call it an ocean of a zone.
The inside corner gets a somewhat normal call, sure… but if a pitcher or catcher has half a brain, there's zero reason to crowd the hitter inside. Baseball without any inside game…
"This game's gonna be real clean," I muttered.
The biggest reason a game turns into a mess—bench-clearing brawls and all that chaos—is hit-by-pitches. Around here they call it a hit by pitch. But with this home-plate ump, nobody's throwing inside, so nobody's getting plunked. And if someone does get hit, nine times out of ten it's a pure beanball.
"If the zone were only reasonably wide, you could still work the inner half…"
Just look at the opposing pitcher. That guy's been living exclusively on the outer edge too. With the top and bottom of the zone also inflated, he's just working high-low on the outside corner.
Greg, at least, was handling it like a veteran. He kept flicking those long arms at pitches that looked a hair too far away and fouling them off. The last guy who tried the same thing completely wrecked his swing. Maybe it was the arm length, but Greg looked rock-solid.
From the way things were going, the game looked like it would drag on forever, but that wasn't necessarily true. Pitchers can't put the ball exactly where they want every single time.
Which made me think the guy currently on the mound—Julio Rodriguez—had the wrong idea. Throwing nearly 100 mph on the outer edge was fine, but…
"Ball."
"Ball."
Even this umpire wasn't going to gift a pitch that was so far outside the bat couldn't reach it. Wouldn't it have been smarter to dial the velocity back a little and focus on command?
I'd already seen how absurd the zone was in the first inning and dropped my four-seam velocity to around 95 mph just so I could paint the edges more precisely. When you can put the ball on and off that outer black with this ump, hitters go crazy.
Anyway, after two pitches sailed farther than he expected and got called balls, Rodriguez decided to come in a little. And the moment a pitch actually entered the real strike zone—something any other umpire would have rung up—
Crack!
Greg's double.
Then Ernie Witt stepped in from the five-hole. He was one of the guys taking the biggest hit because of me. Last season the DH spot had been his. The moment I joined the team this year, that cushy job vanished. On top of that, the first-base job—another relatively easy defensive post—got snapped up by Greg Mathis. So today he was out in left field… and left field wasn't exactly his strong suit, which made even that spot a struggle.
All in all, Ernie Witt was in a pretty frustrating position. Yet watching him day to day, he looked completely at ease. Most guys would start complaining the second their standing on the roster shrank like that, but not him—at least not that I'd ever seen. He loved the Red Sox too much to ask for a trade. If his bat stayed hot and he finally stabilized that left-field defense he was grinding on every day, he'd probably lock the position down for good.
Anyway, Ernie stepped into the box.
"Ball."
Way outside again.
"Ball."
Better location this time, but way too low. Even this ump wouldn't give you that.
"Strike."
One finally clipped the outer edge.
"Ball."
"Ball."
Ridiculous pitches kept coming—the kind where the pitcher was basically saying "swing if you want, I don't care."
"…"
Were they just trying to put him on so they could fill first base?
The irritation flared up again.
"So these bastards are loading first just to get me out, huh?"
Sure, I hadn't looked great in the first game against Tampa Bay. And with first open, of course they could put a guy on and fish for the double play.
"I get it, I get it…"
Still pissed me off.
Before I stepped in, the third-base coach was frantically flashing signs at me.
"Ah…"
Bunt sign.
I wasn't exactly a bunting wizard, but the pitch location was so predictable it shouldn't be hard. Still… kind of a shame. I'd wanted to crush one.
Once the call was made, though, you just execute. I stayed in my normal stance until the pitcher took the sign and started his motion. No point tipping the bunt early and getting a different pitch that would leave me looking stupid.
Exactly as expected, a fastball came screaming toward the outer half. As my front foot came down I slid the bat out horizontally toward the ball and, the instant of contact, gave it the tiniest little give—like I was pulling the bat back a hair.
Tick.
"Out."
Honestly, it wasn't a great bunt. I'd wanted to kill the ball's energy more, but it didn't work out that cleanly. Still, the runners had gotten good jumps, so they reached their bases easily. Only I was out at first.
At least the opportunity was set.
Next up: Eric.
Would they walk him too and load the bases? Eric had been a little cold this season, but he'd gone deep yesterday and his swing was starting to wake up. The other side, though, had no interest in free passes.
"Strike."
A 100-mph four-seamer painted the outer black.
Rodriguez's arsenal today was four-seam, cutter, and curve. He threw the cutter almost as often as the heater. And in this situation a curve was basically suicide—location was already obvious, and the slowest pitch in his bag would tip itself the second it left his hand.
So what was Eric looking for—four-seam or cutter? If it were me, I'd be leaning hard toward the cutter.
The ball left the pitcher's hand, rocketed toward the plate, then at the last instant twisted just a little. Eric's right hand came off the bat.
Left alone, even this umpire would have called it a ball—it was that far outside. But Eric deliberately released one hand and chased it anyway.
Crack.
The ball glanced off the upper half of the bat, just cleared the first baseman's glove, and dropped fair right in front of the foul line.
"Whoa, holy shit!!"
He'd just done the impossible. The ball didn't travel far—barely over the first baseman—but the second the bat made contact Ernie Witt had broken for home, and that tiny little flare was more than enough for him to score standing up.
2-0.
"Yes!"
Finally, in one of my starts, the guys had scratched across the first run for me.
A man staring at his phone was joined by someone who drifted over and tried to peek at the screen. He quickly realized the language was one he couldn't read. After watching the game on the laptop in front of them for a moment, he finally couldn't hold it in.
"Hey, Lee. That pitcher is ridiculous, huh?"
The man who had been glued to his phone finally looked up at the laptop, then smirked and answered.
"Yeah. He is. Kid's grown a lot."
"You said you hit a home run off him, right?"
"I did. Quite a few, actually. But that was a long time ago. Ancient history."
"Aww… still, you're both players. Kind of a shame."
"What's a shame?"
"He probably won't pitch the next time we face them, right? You'd go deep on him for sure."
The man stared at the finger pointed at his own chest, then let out another quiet laugh and turned his eyes back to the laptop.
"Why would that be a shame? I think I'm lucky. He's a completely different pitcher from the one I knew. And as a hitter? He's no joke either."
"Pfft. Better than you?"
"…"
The silence said everything—no, not better than him.
"What about compared to me?"
"You? Hmm… well…"
"Huh? For real? You actually think that?"
"Think what? I didn't say anything."
For the first time the playful expression vanished from the other man's face.
The game moved on into the bottom of the seventh. The pitcher who had been perfect finally gave up his first hit.
"Ahh, so close. He was sitting dead on the splitter."
"Location was a little too much over the plate too."
"Still, if he hadn't been looking for it he never would have hit it."
"True."
"Any weaknesses on that guy? I'll probably face him when I start."
"Weaknesses… hmm… maybe just that he hasn't been a full-time hitter for very long?"
"Short on experience, huh? Perfect."
As if there was nothing more worth watching, the man stood up first. The one who rose was wearing an Angels uniform—Rafael Anderson, the Angels' ace and number-one starter.
And the "Lee" he had been talking to had Ki-Jun stitched across the back of his own jersey.