The Hero
It was our first extra-inning game.
Ah! Not our team's first extra-inning game of the year.
Just the first one among the games I'd actually played in.
The lineup that started with seventh batter Charles Bedard in the top of the tenth produced nothing and was wiped out in an instant. From the tenth onward, the Yankees' setup man Luis Moham took the mound, and we were helpless against his two-seam and cutter combination.
Our bottom of the tenth was still Yua's responsibility. Even though it was only nine pitches for one inning, Yua had clearly been on the mound yesterday too… I was a little worried whether he'd be all right pitching on consecutive days and coming out of the bullpen for a long three-inning stint, but once the game started my worries proved completely unfounded.
Three up, three down. Only seven pitches to retire three batters. When I'd faced him as a starter it definitely hadn't been this good… The way that forkball dropped was no joke. Even from the dugout the trajectory looked vicious—how must the batters actually facing it feel…
"You eating something good these days?"
I shot Ho-min a glare for casually spouting something that would be big trouble if anyone else overheard. It wasn't because I felt guilty. Just… whatever.
Then the eleventh rolled around. Leadoff hitter Arthur Burgart made the pitcher throw nine pitches and finally drew a walk to reach base. Alan stepped in next. A sign came from the dugout and Alan squared into a bunt stance. Naturally the Yankees' first and third basemen charged in. The instant the ball left the pitcher's hand, Alan's bat came back up.
Crack.
"…Damn it."
Fake bunt and slash. Called a disguised bunt or a buster back in Korea—anyway, that. Alan switching from bunt stance to swing was fine. Because it was a play call, failing to square it up solidly was fine too. But the location… it went straight at the shortstop playing in close to second, and the shortstop stepped on the bag with plenty of time and threw to first. Worst possible result.
And then, as always happens in these moments…
Crack!
Eun-hyung's double. Baseball is always like this. Try a play and fail, and a long hit is guaranteed to follow. If there'd been no play call and he'd simply made an out on his own, with the speedy Arthur Burgart still standing on first? He would have scored on Eun-hyung's double. Pure hindsight, but being human I couldn't help feeling the sting.
Crack!
"Out."
Greg's ball flew pretty far but never cleared the fence and was caught by the left fielder. The disappointing chance died, and we moved to the bottom of the eleventh. After Yua, who had handled three full innings, closer Kyle Biggio took the mound.
"What the hell…"
Sinker, sinker, sinker, sinker, sinker, sinker, sinker. As if that were the only pitch he knew, he just kept firing sinkers, and Yankees bats sliced nothing but air. Kyle Biggio's stuff looked especially sharp today. Since he hadn't pitched yesterday, he could easily cover at least two innings.
"Ah… I want to pitch too. No chance, right?"
"You crazy? This isn't the World Series."
Weird. I'm really not the type to get greedy like this, but ever since I came over to this league I keep wanting to take the ball in these situations.
"If you'd thrown a light workload I wouldn't say a word. You threw a complete-game shutout and you're spouting this nonsense?"
"Just saying."
Nothing I could do about it. Even if I begged to go out, Grandpa Manager wouldn't send me anyway.
"Before that, you ever think about just winning the game?"
"Huh? Ah…"
Right. Just score and win.
"This bastard really is getting dumber by the day…"
Fuck. Couldn't even argue.
Watching Kyle Biggio shut down the bottom of the eleventh cleanly and jog in, I pulled my helmet on. Top of the twelfth. The Yankees answered by bringing in their closer, Ariel Cepeda. A Cuban throwing an insane four-seam and sinker. Nothing surprising anymore. Bullpen arm equals sinker. Four-seam topping out at 105 mph, sinker at 100—he even reminded me of the old Yankees closer. Same nationality, too.
Once his warm-up pitches finished I headed to the plate. As always I swung the bat behind my back, stretched thoroughly, stepped in, and gave it a couple of lazy waves to finish my prep. The moment I set, the pitch came.
Wham!
"……"
Fuck. How was I supposed to hit that? The ball was moving faster than other pitchers' four-seams. I'd faced our own closer Kyle Biggio's sinker before. Honestly the velocity difference wasn't that big… yet this guy's sinker somehow felt faster. What? Was I scared? The thought hit me and irritation surged right behind it. Scared my ass.
I set again. This time—
Wham!
"Ball."
Not easy. The board showed 102 mph on a four-seam that leaked just outside. I never moved and took the ball. Did it look to everyone else like I'd selected it? I hoped so. In reality I simply hadn't reacted in time…
The batters who face me must feel exactly like this.
Thinking that actually made me feel a little better.
Wham!
"Ball."
"Strike."
Another four-seam leaked for a ball. The sinker that followed clipped the zone for a strike. Four pitches and I still hadn't offered at a single one.
"I should put a bat on one soon…"
Today's only hit had been that one slow infield grounder that barely got me to first. The opposing starter had been dealing, but still—a disappointing line. I waited for the next pitch, expecting the sinker. The four-seam command looked a little loose; both of them had missed for balls. Judging by the way he hopped around in frustration, he hadn't meant to throw them there. Just missed.
So, sinker.
Crack!
"Damn it…"
Looking sinker, I finally swung—and completely missed it. Outside four-seam. Timing late, contact poor. The ball caught the upper half of the bat and floated lazily toward the first baseman. I took off full speed for first the instant I saw it. Ninety-nine percent out, but you never know, right?
The ball dropped in front of the first baseman. He must have planned to field the bounce and step on the bag. Even though he could have charged and taken it on the fly, he chose to wait for the hop in front of the base.
"Huh?"
The ball that hit the dirt didn't bounce up. Whatever it struck, a ball that should have kicked up to chest height stayed low—and kicked left. The startled defender launched himself, showed insane reaction time in that split second, and somehow gloved the irregular hop. But—
"Safe."
If I hadn't sprinted full out I really would have been screwed. If I'd jogged it like I was out for a stroll… a late burst would have gotten me killed and a mountain of abuse. Because I'd run like a madman from the first step, I was safe at first with room to spare.
"Phew… fuck… almost fucked that up."
Behind the dejected, smiling pitcher I could see the third-base coach waving his arms like crazy. Our manager was calling a lot of plays today. Usually he left most of it to the hitters…
Anyway… would this even work?
"Can he even bunt that…?"
Especially when the batter was Gordon Perry. That man had probably bunted a handful of times in his entire life. And the pitcher was breathing 100 mph. I worried he might get hurt for nothing. But worry was just worry. Gordon Perry had taken the sign, so I had to be ready too. Unlike the earlier play this was a straight sacrifice bunt, so this time I needed to make it to second.
Gordon Perry laid the bat down. As if daring him to try, Ariel Cepeda fired a four-seam.
Tick.
"Ah…"
Knew it. The ball popped straight up off the bat. He hadn't gotten it down. And the first baseman was already charging. I'd broken hard but had to freeze. He knew I'd started; there was no way he'd intentionally let it drop here. So I turned to go back to first—
"Huh?"
The same first baseman who had just made a spectacular play on the irregular bounce completely missed this ordinary little pop. The ball hit his glove and caromed toward the mound. The pitcher was already committed toward first, so the mound sat empty.
"Safe."
The startled third baseman bare-handed it late and threw to first, but Gordon Perry had already stepped on the bag.
"What the hell is going on…"
It felt like every scrap of luck was flooding our way. Two consecutive balls that should have been outs both ended up safe. Ariel Cepeda, who had only managed a hollow smile after my hit, now had his face completely twisted. That mistake had been that absurd.
"Did he rush because he was trying to get me too at first?"
I couldn't think of any other reason he'd miss a ball like that.
Tick.
Another bunt. This time he got it down decently toward third. Both Gordon Perry and I advanced a base. One out, runners on second and third. And here our manager went to a pinch hitter.
Ernie Witt. The guy who owned the DH spot on days I didn't play. He'd had a two-hit game yesterday and was swinging the bat well. The Yankees chose to fill first base. Next batter was the nine-hole; no reason to take unnecessary risk. Our grandpa manager answered with another pinch hitter.
None other than… Eric Danson.
My personal catcher Eric stepped in with one out and the bases loaded.
"Please just hit one… if not, a deep fly… even a slow grounder is fine…"
Worst case was a double play on a ball hit right at a defender. Next worst was a strikeout or a short fly. Anything else was good. Praying like that, I watched the first pitch.
Crack!
"Oh! Yes!"
It was up. And it was carrying. Plenty deep enough for a tag. Gordon Perry on second and I both stayed on the bags, watching, coiled to take the next base the moment the center fielder caught it. But the ball wouldn't come down.
"Huh?"
The center fielder kept backing up, waiting. Still not coming down.
"Huh? Huh-huh?"
Further back. Further back. Further back. The center fielder's back hit the fence… and the ball kept going where he couldn't follow.
Eric had taken the pitch Ariel Cepeda threw as the Yankees' closer and sent it right back into the Yankees' bullpen.
"Wooooaaaaah!!!!"
I touched home first. Gordon Perry and Ernie Witt came in right behind me. The three of us stood there grinning, waiting for Eric, who was still circling the bases with a completely blank expression. He clearly couldn't believe what he'd just done. The way he just kept jogging around with no reaction at all said everything.
He finally crossed the plate, got mobbed and happily pounded on in the dugout, and sat down. That dazed look still wouldn't leave his face. He was allowed to look a little happier.
Our half of the inning ended. The rest of the guys headed out for what would be the final defensive frame. I glanced around without much thought and noticed Eric's head hanging, his hands trembling finely.
Bastard… trembling like that. The hero of today's game.
I figured I ought to say something.
"……That was cool. I knew you could do it."
I meant it.