The All-Star Game
A Perfect Game could definitely leave a massive impact.
In a league with over a hundred years of history, the feat had only been accomplished twenty-five times, so the fallout felt even bigger. It had also been a while since the last one.
Korea went completely insane over it.
A pitcher who used to throw in Korea making it to the majors and then throwing a Perfect Game—yeah, that was bound to cause a stir. But the scale of it was way beyond what I’d expected. I tried skimming a few articles, took one look at the headlines, felt a full-body chill, and slammed the browser shut.
Tone it down a little, would you?
“You’re never going back to Korea now.”
Overreacting…
It would all blow over eventually. For the moment, though… going home would just be exhausting. Not that I had any plans to head over anytime soon.
Boston, of course, was even worse. A Perfect Game after more than a century had the Red Sox fans practically foaming at the mouth. I even heard the mayor of Boston himself brought it up in an interview.
“Why is the mayor…?”
I got that he was a baseball fan and a Red Sox supporter, but was this really the kind of thing a mayor needed to address in an interview? The whole situation didn’t make much sense to me. They’d said he spoke well of it, so… whatever. Fine.
After the game that day I did a short interview, then sat down with a few reporters separately. One of them finally asked something that wasn’t about the Perfect Game—the All-Star Game coming up in a few days.
“You’ve decided to play both ways in the All-Star Game. Any concerns about the physical load?”
Of course there are.
“I’m fine. As a pitcher I only need one inning, and I hear as a hitter I’ll only get about two at-bats.”
I really didn’t want to do even that.
When I first heard I’d been named the All-Star starting pitcher, I figured one easy inning and I was done. Then the All-Star manager decided to make my life complicated.
This year’s American League All-Star manager was the Yankees’ Tim Conine. For reasons known only to him, he announced he wanted me in the designated hitter slot as well. I turned him down on the spot.
I wasn’t the type who got misty-eyed and proud just from being selected for the All-Star Game. So why would I, after barely resting from a start, go out there, throw one inning, and then hit on top of it? Why would I?
Apparently everyone else saw it differently. Even our general manager came looking for me and asked me to play—for the team, he said.
What the hell did me DHing in the All-Star Game have to do with the team? Then the GM started spinning some tangled story about All-Star ratings and the commissioner’s office, and I gave up right there. I did extract a firm promise that I would only take two at-bats, max.
I found out later that All-Star hitters almost always only get two plate appearances anyway. I’d been thinking of the KBO All-Star Game, where guys sometimes play the whole way. No wonder the GM agreed without a second word.
What must that guy have been thinking while he listened to me?
He was probably staring at me like, “Why are you making a big deal out of something this obvious?”
Damn it.
All-Star Game day.
I’d thought the Home Run Derby the night before was pretty spectacular, but today was another level. They even had fighter jets screaming overhead.
After the whole grand festival wrapped up…
“Why the hell…?”
The Yankees manager clearly had a serious grudge against me.
Ah… is this because of the Perfect Game?
1. Kang Hajin (DH)
What the hell is this?
Why am I batting first?
The reason the leadoff spot bugged me so much was simple: it was a hard place to half-ass. If I’d been slotted fifth or sixth the way I usually was with the team, I could’ve just swung casually, blended in with the guys around me, and called it a day. But as the first batter of the entire game, every eye would be locked on me.
My carefully laid plan of “take two easy at-bats and get out of here” had just developed a serious problem.
And that wasn’t even the end of it.
I was also the starting pitcher for today’s game. We were the home team, so we batted second. Meaning I would throw the top of the first, then scramble to get ready and step into the box myself.
“Damn it.”
No matter how I looked at it, this had to be the Yankees manager’s revenge for the Perfect Game.
Top of the first.
Seeing Gordon Perry crouched behind the plate in a mask settled my nerves. It wasn’t the everyday look, but I’d seen it a few times lately.
I glanced toward first. Greg was grinning at me. Behind him, Eun-hyung stood around looking blank. Three of us from the same team out of all the American League clubs—yeah, we must have been having a pretty good year.
The leadoff hitter stepped in.
I knew this guy. Met him when we went up to that mountain town. The same bastard who’d taken me deep—twice.
Will Wise.
Back when we faced each other he’d been batting second. These days I heard he was hitting either first or third for his club. So that was why he was leading off today?
Anyway, the guy stood in the box looking pretty damn confident. Even had a little smile on his face.
You hit well that day, is that it?
But fuck… that was the mountain town. This is Detroit. Not that dump where my command was pure garbage.
Pop!
“Strike.”
“Ooooooh!”
A 103-mph four-seamer caught a little inside of center. Command wasn’t perfect, but Will Wise flinched, so I was satisfied.
Pop!
Pop!
Pop!
“Batter out!”
The smile vanished from Will Wise’s face.
Dumbass. Three straight hundred-plus heaters in on the hands and you don’t start guessing? You should’ve known the next one was coming inside hard too. Stand there gawking and of course you’re going to strike out.
Gordon Perry fired the ball around the horn; it came back to me from third with some real mustard on it. Our third baseman today was none other than Lee Gijun.
What’s with him? We said hello just fine earlier.
The throw felt like it had some emotion behind it. I’d wanted to talk a little longer, but some weird guy had been hanging around him, so I’d just kept the greeting short. Was that why?
Crack.
“Out!”
The next hitter got another four-seamer in on the hands and managed to get a piece of it. The ball came off sharp, but Lee Gijun hopped straight up and snagged it.
“That ball was flying and he still got it…”
Defense was solid too, of course. Our Allen could do that much… nah, never mind.
Two outs already in the top of the first. A massive frame settled into the box.
Andre Mays, the heart of the LA Dodgers’ lineup.
If the American League had Anthony Borden, the National League had Andre Mays. Eun-hyung hit well and Greg had ridiculous power, but those two were… something else. Borderline cheats.
If Anthony Borden was the technical type like Eun-hyung, Andre Mays was pure Greg—raw strength. Some people claimed Mays wasn’t as accurate as Borden. The guy hit nearly .300 with fifty homers and they were talking about “accuracy”?
Andre Mays and Gordon Perry exchanged a few words. The vibe looked fine; they even laughed a couple times. They clearly knew each other. Given Perry’s age, it would have been weirder if they didn’t.
After the short chat, Gordon Perry put down the sign.
…We’re just coasting through this game today.
Same sign as before, not even a hint of variation. We’d talked about this approach before the game, but I hadn’t expected him to stick to the exact same call every single pitch.
CRACK!
……What the fuck was that.
Was that even the sound of bat meeting ball? Something felt wrong.
“Foul.”
The ball rocketed up and drifted foul early. The swing had been insanely early… how fast was that bat speed to pull a 103-mph four-seamer like that?
Gordon Perry clearly didn’t want to think about anything else today; he kept putting down the same sign.
Crack!
Thud!
“Ugh!”
Oof… that had to hurt. The pitch rode a little higher than the last one, clipped the top of the bat, and sailed back into the umpire. It hit the protective gear, sure, but gear or no gear, that wasn’t something you just shrugged off.
The ump, pure professional, took a short breather and restarted the game.
Then Gordon Perry’s sign.
Whoosh.
“Batter out!”
A limp, empty swing. Immediately a deep voice exploded.
“Hey!!”
Andre Mays, completely bamboozled by a slow curve that dropped nearly thirty miles an hour, was bellowing in pure rage.
Whatever.
Gordon Perry and I didn’t even look back—we bolted for the dugout.
This isn’t on me.
Gordon Perry made me do it.
I wasn’t the type to run from anybody… but those forearms? Absolutely not. Get hit by those and you die. There had to be limits.