What's the Big Deal About Flipping a Bat?
"It's like… a conditioned reflex, I guess."
"What the hell does that mean?"
"You know how when they tap your knee it kicks up by itself? Same thing. If it feels like a good hit, the bat just flies out of my hands before I know it."
Buxton listened and shook his head slowly from side to side, the look on his face saying plain as day that I was spouting complete nonsense. The way he reacted made something in me flare up a little.
"You do it sometimes too, don't you?"
"I did it exactly once."
"Yeah, well, that's because you don't hit many home runs."
"Hey!"
Jealous? Go hit more than me. Heh.
That was when it happened.
"…… Hey!!!"
Right in the middle of my conversation with Buxton, a pitch came screaming in tight against Gordon Perry's body. It didn't look like they were actually trying to hit him, and Gordon slipped out of the way without much trouble. Still, it felt like a warning—like they were using the ball to say, You guys are pissing us off.
Most of the guys in our dugout, me included, shot to our feet and crowded toward the entrance, ready to charge the second Gordon so much as twitched. The other dugout got restless too, and tension crackled across the whole field. Then Gordon raised a hand and stopped us cold before anyone could take another step.
With the heart of the team shutting it down, the situation didn't spread any further. The other side had only been reacting to us anyway, so the game got back underway.
"This is your fault."
"What did I do?"
"Stop flipping the damn bat already!"
"…… I genuinely don't get it. What's the big deal about tossing a bat a little? Is it a crime to be happy for a second?"
I grumbled back at Ho-min, but the thought did cross my mind that maybe I ought to be a bit more careful. Honestly I didn't want to care at all—but if my teammates started catching heat because of me, that would be a real problem. Gordon had almost gotten plunked just now. The guy wasn't young anymore; if he got hurt doing this…
That was when it happened.
CRAAACK!!
A clean, satisfying crack of the bat. And then, even more satisfying, the bat itself soaring through the air.
"Whoa…"
It wasn't some fancy midair twirl like mine. But the way he just whipped that bat high into the sky grabbed every eye in the park. Daniel Cruz, who'd just given up back-to-back homers, was standing on the mound cursing up a storm. Whether it was from getting tagged twice in a row or from watching two bats fly into the sky one after another, I couldn't say—but one thing was crystal clear: he was furious.
Gordon Perry, for his part, strolled around the bases like he had all the time in the world, so leisurely you had to wonder if he was even moving faster than a walk. Anyone could see he was deliberately needling the Yankees. The stands went absolutely nuts.
That alone would have been enough.
"Waaaaaah!!"
When Gordon stepped on home plate and let out that roar, even our own dugout was left speechless right alongside the other team.
"What's gotten into him?"
"……"
"Did the catcher say something to him?"
"No way. Probably payback for almost getting hit earlier."
"Man… tonight's game is gonna be a show."
Ho-min was right. This one looked ready to turn into a real spectacle.
"What about that guy, though…"
Gordon had stomped on the plate, screamed, and immediately ducked back into the dugout, leaving the other side with no chance to respond. They never even got a word in—just stood there blank before taking a sudden shot to the face.
So what happens next?
They'd go after the next batter for revenge, right?
Marlon Gates stepped out of the on-deck circle and into the box. He sat lower in the order, but every so often he still dropped a big one and quietly did his job. Compared to Ernie Witt, who was gunning for the left-field spot, Marlon still held the edge defensively and had kept his place in the lineup.
Marlon had to know something might happen this at-bat. He stepped in without a single change of expression.
And sure enough.
THWACK!
"Ah, fuck!"
Daniel Cruz's pitch drilled straight into Marlon Gates's thigh. Marlon just stood there and took it. That had to hurt like hell…
The second he got hit, Marlon turned his eyes toward our dugout and raised a hand the same way Gordon had earlier, telling us to stay put. Then, without a word, he peeled off his gear and jogged down to first.
Clap clap clap clap clap.
The crowd was applauding Marlon Gates. The same fans who, moments earlier, had been raining boos and curses on him.
"What the hell is this…"
It made zero sense by my rules. A guy they'd been cursing out gets drilled, walks quietly to first, and suddenly they're clapping for him?
"He didn't make a big scene and just ended it clean. That's cool. That's why even the other team's fans are clapping."
"……"
I heard Ho-min, but I still wasn't sure I bought it.
Is that how it works?
Gordon over there was still fuming.
Was just taking the hit once and letting it go really the right call?
A bat flip is supposed to be provocation against the pitcher? If something that small is enough to ruin your mood, isn't that more of a you problem? By that logic, should we also get yelled at for celebrating in the dugout after we score? The pitcher's feelings might get hurt, after all.
And what the hell is so sacred about flipping a bat that you have to stand there and take a pitch to the body for it? Everyone knows it wasn't an accident—they meant to hit him.
"You guys are dead."
"…… Don't you dare, you crazy bastard! Seriously, don't. Okay? Okay?"
My blood was already boiling, and having someone try to talk me down only made it worse.
"Out!"
Not long after, the ninth hitter Carl Janton bounced one to second and the inning was over. I grabbed my glove and headed out of the dugout just as Gordon Perry emerged with his mask tucked under his arm. His face was set hard too.
I wasn't sure what I was supposed to do. Every instinct said pay them back right now… so I decided to ask the guy who had more experience and more weight than I did.
"I'll do whatever you say."
"……??"
"Hold back?"
"…… Do what you want."
"Really?"
"Of course."
That so?
Gordon Perry put down a sign. I gave a small shake of the head and waited for the next one. When the new sign came I shook that off too and sent one of my own. Gordon pulled his hand out from between his thighs and settled in to receive.
I fired the ball at that mitt with everything I had.
WHAP!
"…… Ball."
"Booooooo~"
A 103-mph four-seamer buried deep inside. It ran a little too far in and got called a ball. The hitter who'd jerked himself backward glared at me like he wanted blood.
"Didn't even hit you."
There were people out there who actually got hit.
I wasn't going to plunk anyone. Do it now and I'd be ejected for sure, and our team hadn't even warmed up a replacement pitcher—that would be a real mess. And since things had already gone this far, I was going to win this game no matter what. That would make those bastards feel even worse, wouldn't it?
Not that I planned to let them off without a little payback.
WHAP!
"S-Strike."
WHAP!
"Ball."
WHAP!
"Strike."
Four straight four-seamers over 100 mph, every one of them riding the inner half. Two caught the zone; two ran a hair deeper. The hitter never once took the bat off his shoulder. He was too busy scrambling out of the way.
Then the fifth pitch.
Gordon put down a sign I liked a whole lot.
Whooooosh.
Pop.
"… Batter out."
Still inside. Only this time a pretty little 61-mph slow curve settled right into the mitt. The look on the hitter's face was deeply satisfying—all crumpled up. Making the cleanup hitter for a giant franchise like the Yankees wear that expression felt pretty damn good.
Next batter.
Yankees five-hole? I didn't care. Whoever stepped in was getting exactly what I wanted to throw. Gordon seemed to read my mind and put the signs down without being asked.
WHAP!
"Ball."
WHAP!
"Strike."
Tick.
"Foul."
WHAP!
"Batter out!"
More four-seamers jammed inside. I didn't care if they got a hit or not—I just kept living on the inner half as hard and fast as I could. The guy lucked into fouling off a pitch that was leaving the zone and made it easier than expected to put him away.
Tick.
The tenth consecutive inside pitch finally got hit. It wasn't solid contact—just a good enough location to turn into a single. I figured Gordon might rein me in after giving up the hit.
WHAP!
"Strike."
This guy. Today he was exactly my kind of manager. He kept calling for the inside four-seamer like he was telling me not to worry about a little single.
WHAP!
"Ball."
WHAP!
"Strike."
Gordon was leaning his whole body toward the inner half now, practically daring them: We're throwing it here—try and hit it. The hitter answered by pulling his front foot a little farther back and waiting.
I could have ended it easy by burying one away…
But that wasn't our style.
Waiting for it out in the open?
Then make sure he still can't hit it even when he's waiting.
I wrung every last drop out of my body, twisting harder than usual, gathering every ounce of power I had and pouring it all into the ball.
"Hup!"
BAAAAANG!
"… Batter out!"
106 mph.
That was the number that lit up on the board for the final pitch of the inning.