Rivals
As the end of May drew near, I had come to this unfamiliar place called Major League Baseball and was putting up some pretty solid numbers.
Seven wins, one loss.
That was the record I had carved out across ten starts as a starter, and it put me alone at the top of the American League in wins. My ERA was the best in the league as well. Only in strikeouts was I still chasing the leaders.
I could probably snatch that category too if I got greedy enough…
Back in Korea, I heard people were talking quite a bit about my numbers. I wondered why, given how well I was doing—until I realized it was that one loss, and the two no-decisions.
What my Korean fans were saying went something like this:
I could have won all ten games, but I hadn’t.
If the hitters had just swung the way they usually did, it would have been more than possible.
And that every time I took the mound, the bats somehow turned to mush.
“They’re so dead-on I can’t even argue.”
My fans saw it with perfect clarity. I genuinely had no idea why the bats started dancing through empty air the moment I stepped on the rubber. Of course it wasn’t every single time—sometimes they came through just fine. But just like the fans said, in the three games where I failed to pick up a win, I had allowed three runs at most. That three-run outing was the one that stuck me with the loss. Another three-run game ended as a no-decision… and the last one was only two runs.
Maybe the lineup got weaker because I was batting? No, that wasn’t it either. Honestly, my numbers as a hitter were far better than those of the designated hitters who filled in on the days I wasn’t in the order.
“Side effect of the juice, maybe?”
Looking back at how poorly the lineup had supported me even back in Korea, the thought was hard to shake. I could have checked whether I’d gotten decent run support before I started taking the stuff… but as everyone knew, the team I played for back then was the legendary Dragons. That club couldn’t score for anyone, no matter who was on the mound.
“If Gordon Perry had been the starting catcher, the lineup might have…”
Ah… better not go there. Eric was doing just fine!
Anyway. Even though the team’s bats were completely untrustworthy every time I pitched, I still had to hope they would come through this time. I wasn’t the type to obsess over wins and losses… but even I had games I absolutely could not afford to lose, and this was one of them.
If you asked anyone which team was the most famous and popular in Major League Baseball, the answer would be the New York Yankees, no contest. There simply wasn’t room for debate on that point. If you had to name another, maybe the LA Dodgers… or the Chicago Cubs… and if you were sticking to the American League, it would be us—the Boston Red Sox.
I’d mentioned it before, but our division was genuinely ridiculous. The fact that our team and the Yankees shared the same division was practically a crime against nature.
Anyway, the Red Sox and the Yankees were called the greatest rivalry in American professional sports… Honestly, from where I stood, Red Sox fans seemed to carry a bit of an inferiority—okay, let’s stop right there. If I kept running my mouth and eternal Red Sox man Gordon Perry overheard me, my spine would end up folded in half. We’d only just started getting along better thanks to that whole “want to make up?” thing…
Back to the point. The greatest rivals of all—the Yankees. Our series against them was finally about to begin. And it was a road series. On top of that, I was the one drawing the opening start.
A game I absolutely could not lose.
I was putting up good numbers and seemed to be earning a fair amount of love… but if I threw a complete mess against the Yankees, every bit of that goodwill could flip into pure criticism overnight. And if I pitched well? I’d be a straight-up hero.
I’d heard that last season’s head-to-head record against the Yankees had been an absolute disaster. Basically, if we played them, we lost. Winning percentage under thirty percent, or something like that. That was why this game mattered even more. Fans would be watching with their eyes on fire, waiting to see whether we’d take the same beating as last year—or finally get some revenge.
I heard something interesting, too. Apparently the Yankees starter lined up against me was grinding his teeth so hard they were about to crack.
Even though it had only been a spring training game, my American baseball debut had been against the Yankees. The starter that day had been named Daniel Cruz. And the opposing starter for my outing this time? Also Daniel Cruz. In other words, it was a rematch between me and Daniel Cruz.
That feeling of somehow knowing what pitch a pitcher was about to throw—I had experienced it for the first time facing this guy. In a way, I was grateful to him. He’d been the one who made me realize I had a new ability. He’d also generously donated two home runs. I hoped he’d hand over another two this game.
“Booooooo!”
Who the hell said Yankees fans were refined?
Refined my ass. The boos started before I even reached the mound…
I’d heard that Yankees fans, unlike other teams’ fans, simply enjoyed the game of baseball itself… but I couldn’t see a single difference. Not that it bothered me or got in the way of the game. I’d pitched in front of Korean fans—this level of booing I could just smile and take.
In the top of the first, Eun-hyung singled, but Greg’s massive drive was snagged right in front of the wall, and we came up empty. By now I just took that kind of thing in stride…
When the inning ended, I climbed the mound to a passionate welcome from the Yankees faithful. Gordon Perry was wearing the catcher’s mask today. The old man of a manager had asked me almost apologetically, and I’d agreed without hesitation. Like I said—this was a game we could not lose. Of course it wasn’t as if we’d automatically lose if Eric caught… but Gordon Perry was just that good on both sides of the ball. I wasn’t comparing them… but you had to bet on the higher win probability, right? Ahem.
The Yankees’ leadoff hitter, Hitoshi Miura—called the second Ichiro—stepped into the box. He currently led the league in hits. Unlike most Japanese players, who tended to approach the game a little more quietly, this guy put on every kind of show imaginable once he reached the plate. He’d spin the bat a few times, suddenly start stretching, spin it a few more times, stare into empty space, then dig at the dirt with his foot a couple of times.
“What a damn circus.”
At least he only pulled that nonsense the first time he stepped in. If he’d done it on every pitch, I might have just told him to hit the ball and get the hell out of there.
Gordon Perry’s sign for the first pitch.
“Pfft!”
Before today’s game I’d rewatched the footage from that spring training matchup against the Yankees, hoping something useful might jump out. The first pitch I’d thrown that day had been a four-seamer right down the middle. And now Gordon Perry was calling for the exact same pitch. I couldn’t help laughing. Would that man just casually put down a sign like that? No way. He definitely remembered what I’d thrown back then and was calling it on purpose.
Whap!
“Strike.”
A 101-mile four-seamer buried itself dead center. Hitoshi Miura flinched slightly at the pitch but otherwise just watched it go by—exactly the same reaction as in spring training.
Normally Gordon Perry would have tossed the ball back and immediately put down the next sign. But this time… I could see him trying to strike up a conversation with Hitoshi Miura. Judging by the way Miura’s face crumpled, whatever Gordon said had clearly gotten under his skin and landed perfectly. Looking irritated, Miura started swinging the bat through the air for no reason. Gordon Perry ignored him completely and flashed me the next sign.
Crack.
“Foul.”
A high fastball that just missed the zone pulled the bat after it. The ball glanced off the top of the barrel and sailed back foul. Last time I’d faced this guy, I’d thrown three straight four-seamers in the first inning… This time I was starting with two. Miura’s head had to be spinning. Surely I wasn’t going to throw three four-seamers again… right? But he also couldn’t afford to ignore the possibility. These weren’t ordinary four-seamers—they were over a hundred miles an hour. You couldn’t sit on something else and still react in time.
“All right… what’s it gonna be?”
I hoped he was waiting on the four-seamer. Somehow I felt like he would be… and he needed to, if the pitch I was about to throw was going to land properly.
The ball left my hand and flew toward the outside corner on Miura. Same exact arm action as the four-seamer. But the pitch that had been traveling far slower than a four-seamer suddenly changed destination right in front of the batter.
Whoosh.
“Batter out!”
A changeup that ran away from him on the outer half made the bat spin beautifully through empty air. I’d turned around Hitoshi Miura, supposedly the toughest out on the Yankees.
And then the four-seamer show began.
Crack.
“Out.”
Whap!
“Batter out.”
Last time I’d thrown eleven pitches in the first inning, nine of them four-seamers. This time I also threw eleven pitches. And this time ten of them were four-seamers. This team… they just couldn’t hit a four-seamer, period.
I was genuinely glad the old man of a manager had slotted me sixth in the order today. Otherwise I would have had to grab a bat and charge out of the dugout the second I came off the mound.
Crack.
“Damn it…”
The leadoff hitter was out on the first pitch. The moment I stepped into the on-deck circle I had to head straight to the plate. Glad, my ass.
I gave the home-plate umpire a quick bow as I walked in and settled into the box. I took a couple of lazy practice swings, rested the bat on my shoulder, and waited for the pitcher to set. Daniel Cruz took the sign and rose into his set position. From that moment I locked my eyes on him and stared hard, hoping I might pick up the pitch type. And in the instant the ball left his hand—
Two-seamer?
There it was.
Crack!
“Ah, shit!!!”
I’d known… I’d known it was a two-seamer and still hadn’t squared it up properly. The two-seamer coming in on the outer half caught just enough of the end of the bat and sailed foul into the first-base seats.
Ah, that was so damn close… Just tell me one more time…
I prayed desperately inside my head as I stepped back in. Please let the feeling come again. I stared at the pitcher so hard my eyes nearly popped out. And sure enough, the moment the ball left his hand—
There!
I felt it again. I knew exactly what pitch the opposing pitcher was about to throw. For some reason it came through even clearer against this guy. Maybe because he’d been the starting point?
A pitch knifing in toward my body. His velocity was pretty high, so if I’d thought it was a four-seamer I would have had to start the swing immediately. But I delayed a beat. I already knew what the pitch was.
I swung with everything I had at the ball that was quietly dropping.
CRAAACK!!
No need to watch. It was the kind of contact where you could fling the bat away without a second thought. From the moment I hit the ball to the moment I tossed the bat, there wasn’t a single hesitation. Then I started my slow trot toward first.
As I rounded third and headed for home, a tiny flicker of annoyance crossed my mind—worry that the catcher might start bitching about the bat flip. Not that I could have held back the flip. When a hitter goes deep, you’re supposed to throw the bat. But the moment I saw who was waiting for me beside the catcher, even that tiny worry vanished completely.
Gordon Perry, standing solidly right next to the catcher.
I was really glad we’d made up.