What Did I Even Do?
Around the third inning, I started to get the hang of it.
Strangely enough, without even consciously thinking about it, I found myself adjusting my contact points to match this ballpark.
When I came into the dugout after the bottom of the third, I realized I'd forgotten one of the things Rondo had taught me yesterday.
The oxygen tank.
That thing Rondo had been pressing to his face after every inning yesterday — I'd completely blanked on it until now.
...I feel fine, though?
Not completely fine. How do I put it... when you're hiking, there's that moment when breathing gets just a little uncomfortable? It was exactly that level.
So of course the oxygen tank never crossed my mind.
For reasons I couldn't explain, one of the things that made other players struggle at this ballpark wasn't a problem for me at all.
My pitch count was a little higher than usual today. Fifty-two pitches through three innings. Unlike my usual aggressive approach to the zone, I was throwing more balls today.
I hadn't been trying to throw balls... I'd thrown strikes that got called balls...
But I was still satisfied. I'd given up one home run, but at this point... I'd more or less adapted to the stadium, and my confidence was higher than when I'd started.
Top of the fourth. Greg ripped his second double of the day, and we scratched out another run.
Then with two outs, the chance came around to me.
On my way to the plate, boos drifted down from the stands. Boooooo~ sounds. I'd heard every kind of curse shouted right behind me before — this barely registered.
I hadn't been thinking much of it, but the moment it was my turn at the plate, greed kicked in. Watching how the balls carried, a what-if thought crossed my mind. Even if it was a little short, in this park, who knows — that kind of hope.
I might have been getting ahead of myself, but it really did feel good.
I was going to approach this differently from my previous at-bat, though. That brainless uppercut swing once was enough. If I'd been leading off, I might have tried it again... but there was a runner in scoring position.
So this time, I'd go with my normal swing.
"Ball."
"Foul."
Two pitches in a row came in tight on my hands. The first one was so far inside I had to lean back a little. That bastard... it felt like he'd thrown it on purpose. For a second I regretted not just taking it and charging the mound. If I had, only he would have gotten chewed out — for hitting a batter with a pitch.
The second one looked like it might nick the edge of the zone, so I swung. Caught the top of the bat and went foul behind me.
I'd thought a changeup inside might send him running for cover, but he seemed to be coming at me even more aggressively.
But come on, wasn't it about time for one outside?
The third pitch I'd been waiting for. I couldn't tell whether he'd been aiming inside and it ended up here, or aiming outside and it ended up here. Whatever he'd been going for, the ball drifted right down the middle.
A perfect mistake pitch.
CRACK!
The ball rocketed toward right field. I knew. The distance would be enough. The feel in my hands was too clean.
A little early?
But it was iffy whether it'd stay fair or foul. I watched, waiting to see where the ball would finally land. The bat was in my left hand, pointing at the sky. Anyone looking would think I was getting ready to flip it.
I wasn't trying to provoke anyone. I just found myself doing it without thinking. I realized late what I was doing, but what could I do? I'd already done it.
So I kept going.
And finally —
Thunk.
It barely stayed inside the line.
Whoosh.
The fat round bottom of the bat — the knob — I flicked it lightly with my fingertips. The bat spun a couple of times in the air and dropped to the ground.
"Shit! @#%!@#%$^#%$%#"
He was pissed. The catcher had finally lost it.
I hadn't been trying to start a fight... so I didn't respond and just quietly ran toward first. Honestly I wanted to say, Then you do it too... but that would start a fight for sure, so I held back.
Receiving the fielders' loving gazes, I silently rounded the bases and came back home. When the catcher started yelling at me again, Greg, who'd already come in and was waiting behind home plate, stepped in front of me.
Holy shit. Fucking solid.
Greg didn't say a single word, and just like that the situation was over.
On the way back to the dugout with Greg —
SMACK!
"Aaaagh!"
An enormous impact found my ass. I turned around to see Greg grinning, white teeth flashing. But somehow that look seemed to be saying, stop causing trouble already.
Shi... is my ass split open?
I should probably seal the bat flips for the rest of today.
Bottom of the sixth.
Before I took the mound, the coach told me this would be my last inning. Roughly finishing this inning would put me around a hundred pitches, so I just nodded and headed out.
Current score: 6–1.
After getting one out, I faced Will Wise. In his second at-bat I'd gotten him on an infield fly. I absolutely did not let my guard down. I carefully exchanged signs with Eric and focused on every pitch.
CRACK!
It didn't even feel like he'd hit it that well. The ball floated up and just kept carrying, never dropping, and went right over.
Ha... shit... this is ridiculous.
Will Wise looked like he wanted to flip his bat with just a little wrist flick the way I had. But did he think that's all it took?
Pfft!
The bat left his hand and flew flat like a water rocket. I shouldn't laugh... Since I'd done the same thing, Eric just let it slide this time.
So Will Wise went in.
CRACK!
...... Haa.
When was the last time I gave up back-to-back home runs? It was my mistake pitch. The four-seamer drifted a little and went in right in the sweet spot. But whatever the reason, getting hit consecutively made irritation surge up.
The previous pitch too — it's drifting a bit?
Meaning the pitch Will Wise hit also hadn't been located properly. My body felt fine, though.
I'll refocus.
I sent Eric, who'd come up to the mound, back.
The heart of the order kept coming. Will Wise might have the best bat feel on this team, but the rest were no easy outs either. Especially in this ballpark.
Tick.
"Foul."
A slider peeling away outside, and the bat came out without hesitation. It went foul, but it was a pretty big fly ball. If the pitch had been just a little more inside...
Confidence showed on the batter's face. The determination to hit one out himself was written all over it.
This is pissing me off...
BANG!
"Strike."
A 104-mph four-seamer dug into the batter's hands. It was a little low, but the bat cut through empty air late, so it worked as intended.
I sent a sign to Eric first — the first time I'd initiated a sign all game. Eric put the mitt right there without a word.
BANG!
"Batter out!!"
Another 104-mph four-seamer in almost the same spot. This time it caught the zone, and the batter watched it go by as I sent him packing.
They say a pitcher should always keep their composure? What do I care. I'm pissed right now.
BANG!
BANG!
BANG!
"Batter out!"
Bet he didn't expect me to just keep throwing hundred-plus-mph four-seamers, huh? Leaving behind a batter with a what is this crazy bastard? look on his face, I came off the mound.
Ahhh~ that feels better.
Six innings, three runs. Three home runs allowed. Still, somehow I'd finished well enough.
After winning yesterday, our team carried that momentum into Game 3 as well. With the bats exploding, we took a five-run lead from the first inning, and Joe Greinsky took the mound.
How the hell did you do that?
Three up, three down from the first. Three up, three down. Three up, three down. Three up, three down. Three up, three down again.
Facing fifteen batters over five innings and striking out nine of them — Joe Greinsky was having the game of his life. He was pitching so insanely well you had to wonder if this guy was a Coors Field specialist.
9–0. The score already blown wide open. A starting pitcher gone berserk. You could see the opposing batters getting impatient.
And Joe Greinsky retired the side in order again in the bottom of the sixth.
Silence fell over our dugout.
He was already insanely high-strung before starts... and with the game going like this, his tension seemed to keep climbing higher. Thanks to that, I was dying of discomfort.
If I'd known it would be like this, I should've stayed in the bullpen.
For the first time, I regretted hanging out in the dugout corner because it was comfortable.
Bottom of the seventh.
CRACK!
Ah... that bastard again...
Uncomfortable was uncomfortable, but disappointing was disappointing. Joe Greinsky, who'd been pitching so well, gave up his first hit of the day. Will Wise again today. A single over the first baseman's head.
But surprisingly, Joe Greinsky was beaming after giving up the hit. Probably he'd been insanely tense too. Failing made him feel freer, I guess.
.
.
.
"Out!"
A one-hit shutout. Except for the hit in the seventh, Joe Greinsky allowed no one else to reach base and finished the game alone.
And then —
"I got a hint from watching Kang's pitching. Thanks to that, I think I was able to bring home a good result today."
He said something completely out of left field in the interview.
...What did I even do?
What? What did I miss?
Shit, someone tell me too. What the hell did I do.