Perfection
"Is that even possible right now?"
"······"
Yankees general manager Chris McHale stared down through his office window as he spoke. Scout team leader Rob Coleman stood beside him, gazing at the same field, and could not manage a single reply.
"Hey, Rob… looks like we might've screwed up, doesn't it?"
"…I'm sorry. I got too greedy."
"No, no. You brought it up first, but I agreed to it. Hah… honestly, did you ever think he'd be this good?"
"······"
Rob Coleman had nothing left to say. That pitcher on the mound, still hammering nothing but inside pitches through the second and now the third inning. And the Yankees hitters who somehow could not touch a ball whose location they already knew by heart. Neither side of it felt real.
"Our owner has every right to be furious. If I were the owner, I'd want to kill the GM myself. Heh."
"But…"
"It was a complete steal, wasn't it? We could've used that kid cheap for two years… sure, we'd have had to pay him a fortune after that, but he still could've been ours. Ahh… this is driving me crazy."
"······"
"Oh! Another strikeout. Heh heh heh. Nothing but inside fastballs, and he fouls one off then goes down swinging. Is this even baseball anymore?"
"He's throwing some seriously nasty stuff, isn't he? They'll start squaring him up soon."
The general manager, who had not so much as glanced his way until now, turned at those words.
"Really? You actually think that?"
"Yes."
"Alright… maybe they will hit him. But what happens when he starts using the rest of the plate?"
"That…"
"Inside, outside, fast, slow, breaking balls that dive and drop—think they can hit those when all they've seen so far is four-seamers?"
"······"
"I've lived a long time and never had to watch a game this frustrating."
"It's only the third inning. There's still a lot of baseball left…"
"I get it. Leave it there. More importantly—that kid… how much would we have to pay to bring him over in two years?"
The general manager's eyes never left the player who had just finished the inning and was walking off the mound.
"We could still get him, right?"
There was not a shred of confidence in his voice.
When I stepped into the dugout, the looks the guys were giving me felt… off.
"What? What's with the faces?"
"You seriously don't know? How long are you planning to keep throwing like that?"
"Why?"
"Why? Dude. Even video games don't work like that. Just firing inside pitches at Yankees hitters all day—does that make any sense?"
"Why wouldn't it? I've only given up one hit so far."
"And when they finally get you?"
"Then they get me."
"You're insane…"
"Hey. You think I'm out there freelancing? I'm just following our captain's lead."
"······ Since when is he our captain?"
"Uh… fr-from the start?"
"Bullshit."
What else am I supposed to call our captain if not our captain? That one actually hurt. We'd had a few disagreements, sure, but I'd known Gordon Perry was this team's captain from day one. Hell, more than half the reason I came here was Gordon Perry himself.
Crack.
"Ooooh—he got it!"
While Ho-min and I were sniping at each other, leadoff man Arthur Burgart ripped a single and reached base. Next up: Alan Thomas.
Thud.
"Ugh!"
On a 2-2 count, an inside pitch caught him square on the hip and he took first. Nobody thought it was intentional, so the dugout stayed quiet this time. We just snickered at Alan Thomas furiously rubbing his ass.
"In this neighborhood you're not even allowed to act like it hurts when you get drilled?"
"······"
"That guy looks like he's about to die from the pain."
Different strokes for different folks, but that one was a little… much.
With runners on first and second and nobody out, Eun-hyung stepped in. Everyone was locked in, but he bounced one to the shortstop. At least the ball was soft enough that both runners advanced a base. Then came Greg. He never even got to dig in—automatic intentional walk, straight to first.
"Be right back~"
I stretched out with the bat still in my hands and headed for the on-deck circle. One out, bases loaded. Perfect chance to blow the game open. A two-run lead that could turn into a real cushion. And the pitcher was Daniel Cruz, the same guy whose entire arsenal had been on full display last time up.
So I hoped. I prayed. Please let the at-bat get to me. Even if they die, please let them die alone.
Crack.
"······"
Should I be happy or should I curse? The chance did reach me… but did he really have to swing at the first pitch like that? And it wasn't even a strike. Charles Bedard, that guy. Last time up he'd swung at the first pitch and died, and now again…
Watching him hang his head after the catcher's pop-up, I couldn't bring myself to say anything. Just a quiet pat on the shoulder. At least the bastard could still pick it at second…
As I walked to the plate the boos erupted right on schedule. Somehow I was hearing them every single inning now; it would almost feel empty if they stopped.
"You throw that bat again and I'll kill you."
I was still waggling the bat in the box when the catcher spoke up. Scary stuff…
Wait a second.
"So that means you figure I'm gonna hit a home run?"
Right? I wasn't out here flipping bats every other day. I only did it when the feeling hit just right.
"······"
"Thanks. Appreciate the grand-slam heads-up."
No answer. Quiet type. Why open your mouth if you're gonna clam up over something that small…
The umpire put the ball back in play. Daniel Cruz, who had no idea what we'd just said, nodded and set himself. Would I see it again?
I locked eyes on him and focused.
Four-seamer… wait?
The ball came screaming in—same kind of threatening inside heat I'd been feeding them all night. If it ran in any farther it might actually hit me. But I already knew the pitch. I knew it wouldn't move that way, so I knew it wouldn't hit me either.
So of course—
"Ball."
—I didn't flinch. I just watched it sail past my chest without so much as a twitch. The catcher behind me looked more rattled than I did, like he hadn't expected me to stand there.
"Shame. If it'd hit me I could've paid you back right away. Ever taken a 106-mile four-seamer?"
Still nothing. Quiet bastard. Maybe because the at-bat wasn't going the way the battery planned? The sign for the second pitch dragged on forever. The pitcher shook off three times already. Guy only has a handful of pitches—what's he even trying to throw after three shakes?
After a long conference he finally nodded. Windup. Delivery.
Again?
Look at this guy. The second it left his hand I knew it was another four-seamer. And once more it bored in on my hands. No way he was actually trying to hit me. If he plunked me here he was finished. We'd already let the earlier beanball slide, and now he drills the pitcher? Unthinkable.
So I assumed it wouldn't hit me. I knew the pitch. I knew the location. The only question left was whether it would catch the zone or stay inside…
"Of course it's gonna catch the zone!"
Bases loaded, two outs—another ball and he's down 2-0. No pitcher wants that, especially when he's already losing.
I opened my front foot and prepared for the inside heat. The bat that had been waiting behind me came up from underneath in one clean arc.
CRAAAAACK!!
"Hah—fuck. That was clean as hell."
Hitting a ball like that and then trotting quietly around the bases would be a crime. I flung the bat still in my left hand high into the air, just the way Gordon Perry had done it.
The boos from the stands died completely. The fielders who'd been staring daggers at me last time up now refused to meet my eyes.
"Giving up already?"
I didn't take the leisurely tour Gordon Perry preferred. If anything I ran a little harder than usual after a home run. Because… I wanted to meet this guy.
The one standing at home plate with his mask off and a face like he'd just bitten into pure shit.
"Thanks. I hit it because of your little warning."
His face twisted a fraction, but still no answer. Quiet little shit. Probably shouldn't clap him on the shoulder.
"WAAAAAH!"
I was turning to head back when Gordon Perry, waiting on deck, suddenly roared straight into my face—exactly the way he'd done it himself a few minutes earlier.
"WAAAAAH!"
Had to join in, right?
SMACK!
And the standard-issue ass slap to finish it off. Perfect.
By the time I made it into the dugout, collected the rest of the mandatory ass-slaps, and finally dropped into a chair, the new pitcher was already delivering the first pitch to Gordon Perry.
CRAAACK!
"Holy…"
Another one that cleared the wall by a mile. Back-to-back again. I looked over at Eric before I even realized it.
"You bastard."
Ho-min was right there with the scolding. I hadn't meant to look—it just happened… But come on! The guy hits the absolute shit out of the ball. Sigh…
Crack!