I Did It
The Texas Rangers had somehow clawed their way back from the dead after their World Series win, as if a curse had settled over the franchise and then been violently exorcised.
Any other club would have tanked and rebuilt. This oil-money empire simply bought its way out of the hole.
Year after year they poured absurd sums into free agency until they finally assembled a lineup that was pure insanity—one through nine, every single bat packed enough raw power that you could never ignore it. Even if a guy hit .200, he still looked ready to mash thirty home runs. They just swung like maniacs.
That kind of offense produced some truly bizarre games. They would crush the opposing ace for a couple of homers in the first inning and chase him, then turn around and go hitless against some mop-up arm just trying to eat innings. It happened often enough that no one could ever get a read on them.
With a lineup that unpredictable, no pitcher ever took the Rangers lightly. One mistake and the whole game could flip. So I climbed the mound with a healthy dose of caution.
Only after I got up there and took Eric’s signs did Gordon Perry’s and Eric’s earlier advice finally click—use the strike zone and your command, and never, ever attack them straight up.
What they meant was: lead like a lunatic.
Baseball pitch sequences aren’t written in stone, but certain patterns feel like gospel. Fastball then changeup, that sort of thing. Eric’s game plan tonight lived on a completely different planet.
The very first pitch of the game was a 75-mile-an-hour slow curve, high and away. The batter just stood there, mouth open, watching it plop into the mitt like he’d been personally insulted.
The next guy got five straight pitches on the outer half. Everyone in the league knows I love working inside. Today I stayed away the entire at-bat, nipping the edge and missing just enough to draw a half-hearted, off-balance swing.
Against Gerrit Magnum, their cleanup hitter and home-run leader, I threw four straight chase pitches. Not one of them entered the zone. He still swung through the fourth for a strikeout. These guys were ridiculous—if they saw it, they swung at it.
There were close calls. The eighth hitter, after I’d let my guard slip for half a second, golfed a pitch that was two full balls below the zone and nearly put it over the wall. Left fielder Marlon Gates had to sprint full tilt and leap at the last second to snag it. If he hadn’t…
Through their first time around the order I lived on soft stuff and chase pitches, racking up empty swings. Once the lineup turned over for the second time, I suddenly flipped the script—more inside heat, more two-seamers and cutters boring in on their hands. They couldn’t catch up. Weak contact, quick outs, innings over in a hurry.
Before I knew it, the sixth was done. The scoreboard next to the Rangers’ name showed nothing but zeros.
The dugout went quiet again. So did the stands. On any normal night our home crowd would already be roaring. Tonight they sat in near silence, and it was only the top of the sixth.
I hated that dead air. Part of me wanted to break it with something stupid like, “Didn’t I give up a hit in the seventh last time and blow the perfect game?” But I kept my mouth shut. I’d already heard the history.
This franchise hadn’t thrown a perfect game in over a hundred years. Their first and only one came in 1904—the very first perfect game in Major League history. Only twenty-five perfect games have ever been thrown in the big leagues, so the drought wasn’t shocking… but looking at the parade of arms that had worn a Red Sox uniform over the decades, it still felt cursed.
After hearing that, joking in this kind of silence suddenly felt wrong. So I sat alone in the quiet dugout, watching our hitters with a blank face. Nobody came near me. Loneliest rest of my life.
When the bottom of the sixth ended I headed back out. On the way I gave the frozen crowd a little wave. Instantly they all stood and clapped in perfect unison, like they’d rehearsed it. I wanted cheers. Apparently that was still too much to ask.
Top of the seventh. Back to the top of the order. Earlier in the dugout I’d watched Eric and Gordon Perry huddled together with deadly serious faces. Missing the last perfect-game chance still clearly stung. Gordon’s advice looked just as intense. I was curious what they had cooked up.
First time through I’d gotten them to chase. Second time I’d induced weak contact. What about the third?
Pop!
“Strike.”
A four-seamer painted low and inside.
Oh… maybe?
The next sign made me nod without thinking. Eric and Gordon had decided to finish the last three innings with the pitch I throw best.
Pop!
“Strike.”
Two four-seamers in almost the exact same spot. The batter had taken the first one; watching the second arrive in the same tunnel left him looking devastated.
Then the next sign. I flinched. I never expected them to call for the splitter—the same pitch that had ruined the last perfect game. Apparently the two-seam, slider, curve, changeup mix was finished for the night.
The ball left my hand and bored in toward the same inside location. The batter swung. The splitter dropped straight off the table.
“Batter out.”
Eric fired the ball to first with real heat after the bat sliced nothing but air. Eight outs left.
Crack!
The second hitter jumped on the first pitch. Another changeup that died inside; he rolled over it to short. Easy out.
Then, for the first time all night, Eric put down the knuckleball sign. The moment I nodded, he crouched even lower, practically curling into a ball. You’re the one who called it and now you’re the one looking nervous—what am I supposed to do with that?
I almost never throw the knuckleball these days. Too many variables. Neither of us loves it. Yet here he was, asking for it right now. Eric was rolling the dice.
The ball left my fingers and fluttered, dancing side to side. The batter flinched and actually stepped back. He’d already given up on the pitch.
“Strike.”
At the last second it broke just enough to nick the zone. Lucky? Maybe.
Eric called knuckleball again. What would the guy do if he saw another one? Take it and risk falling behind 0-2 if it found the zone? Or swing and pray when a perfect game was hanging over his head?
Your move.
I focused only on driving the ball forward, not on pinpoint location. Try to aim too hard and it becomes a batting-practice meatball. The pitch came out clean and started dancing again. This time the batter offered.
Tick.
“Foul.”
Unlike the first one, this knuckler twisted downward and just kissed the bottom of the barrel. Close. A little more solid contact and it might have been a grounder.
The batter stepped out and took a vicious practice cut. He was probably telling himself there wouldn’t be a third knuckleball. But our catcher had already decided honesty was overrated tonight. If I can throw it, I will.
“Batter out!”
Six outs left.
“Hyung, do you think he can do it?”
“Shut up and just watch.”
“You’ve been there once, right? What was it like?”
“What was it like? I thought I was going to lose my mind. He looked a little tense that day too. But… maybe because he’s been through it already, he looks almost relaxed now.”
“Look at that. Absolute madman. A hundred two—what’s that in kilometers?”
“Around 164?”
“Insane… the guy went over there and his stuff actually got better.”
Crack.
Tick.
All I could hear from Ko Mandeok and Jeong Jong-seong glued to the TV was the sound of them swallowing hard, over and over.
“Is that guy crazy… catching something like that?”
The foul pop shouldn’t have been catchable. It wasn’t that soft, and it carried farther than it looked. Eric still sprinted like a man possessed, launched himself at the last second, and stretched the mitt out until the ball somehow found leather. The impact when his body hit the dirt was loud enough to reach the mound. He still held the glove up, waiting for the out call. The second the umpire rang it up he was back behind the plate, crouching, ready for the next hitter like nothing had happened.
A pinch-hitter stepped in. Thirty-six years old, one of the few veterans who had survived every roster purge. He was not about to be the final out of a perfect game. The way he choked up on the bat told me everything—he was going to try to put the barrel on whatever I threw, four-seamer included.
Tick.
“Foul.”
High fastball away, just off the end of the bat, early foul. He tilted his head, reset.
Tick.
“Foul.”
Same result—another tip off the end. This time he nodded like he’d finally figured something out and stepped back in.
Eric saw it and put the sign down without hesitation. I’d been thinking the exact same thing. Perfect.
The ball left my hand and was at the plate in a blink. The batter’s swing went right back to the same high-and-away spot he’d been hunting.
Pop!
But I’d pulled it even higher. The pitch sailed over the barrel and slammed into the mitt Eric was already holding out.
“Batter~~ out!!!”
I did it.
“Wooooooooaaaaahhhhh!!!!”
“Kang! Kang! Kang! Kang! Kang! Kang!”
After nearly an hour of silence the stands finally exploded. The roar hit like a physical wave.
And then—
“Don’t you fucking dare—! Hey! Aaaah!”
Eric ripped off his mask and charged the mound first. The entire team followed, piling on top of me the second I hit the dirt.
“Did we just win the World Series or something?! I can’t breathe! Hey, fuck!!”
Get off me…
Eric, stop crying on top of me…
Damn it… somebody move…