Have They All Gone Mad?
As the bottom of the first inning of the All-Star Game arrived, the NL All-Star team's starting pitcher was taking his warm-up throws.
Kelly Holton, ace of the LA Dodgers and the pitcher posting overwhelming numbers across the National League. Ten wins against two losses, an ERA sitting in the high ones—he was running well ahead of every other pitcher in the conversation.
Of course, compared to me at eleven wins and three losses with an ERA in the low ones… ahem…
A tall 197-centimeter frame that drove the ball down with real weight, plus a curve that dropped from that same high release point—those were his specialties. I knew he also threw a solid slider and sinker when he felt like it.
On any ordinary day I would have thought, Damn, this guy’s the real deal, and started worrying. But today was the All-Star Game, an exhibition. No real pressure.
And yet… this lineup. This lineup made no sense.
1. Kang Hajin (BOS)
2. Hitoshi (NYY)
3. Silvers (BOS)
4. Lee Gijun (LAA)
5. Bowden (DET)
6. Greg (BOS)
7. Perry (BOS)
8. Price (NYY)
9. Rodriguez (TEX)
Somehow even I, a pitcher, had been jammed into the batting order, which meant four of our own Red Sox hitters were already in there. The rest were sprinkled in from the Yankees, Angels, Rangers, and Tigers. Cleveland was having a solid year too—they’d probably show up as substitutes later.
Back to the point: this lineup was so stacked it felt illegal. Every single one of them had the kind of power that could clear the fence the moment they got a piece of it. Even Hitoshi Miura, the lightest hitter of the bunch for extra-base power, still managed around fifteen home runs a season. The rest? Twenty was the floor. Bowden was on pace to clear fifty again this year.
Texas had been called a pure power lineup right before they became the sacrificial lambs of my perfect game, but that club was just raw strength. Today’s group could actually hit and make contact.
If someone told me to pitch to this lineup…
“I’d be fucking miserable.”
The pitcher finished his warm-ups. I flipped the bat over my head, stretched long and slow, and walked toward the box. I hadn’t realized it until recently, but people seemed to treat that little routine like it was my signature preparation. All I was doing was shaking off the stiffness from sitting on the bench. Of all the uncool warm-up habits in the world, this had to rank near the top. This was not the image I had been going for.
I gave the home-plate umpire a quick bow, took a couple of lazy practice swings—
Ah, damn it. I had done the whole thing on autopilot again. That was exactly the sequence everyone now considered “my stance.”
“Didn’t have the guts to come compete on our team, huh?”
The voice came out of nowhere behind me. I turned.
What the hell is this idiot talking about?
More importantly—
“Who…?”
“What?”
No, seriously, who was this guy again? I had to check the scoreboard before the name clicked.
“I mean, fair enough. Our pitching staff doesn’t exactly have an open slot.”
This moron was the starting catcher for the LA Dodgers—one of the names that had been getting real traction lately. Among National League catchers he was probably the most highly regarded right now. Still young, yet he had locked down the starting job on a juggernaut like the Dodgers.
Honestly, he wasn’t completely wrong. I had put the Dodgers lower on my list precisely because their rotation already looked finished. That didn’t mean I was about to agree with him out loud.
“What are you on about? If you were even half the catcher Gordon Perry is, maybe I would’ve considered your team.”
“What?”
“Word travels. Your game-calling is garbage.”
Garbage might have been strong, but it wasn’t far off. The reason this guy got so much respect was his bat, not his defense. Catchers these days didn’t need to frame every pitch like the old days; as long as they could receive cleanly, teams preferred the ones who could hit. He was one of those. Top-tier offense for a catcher, average-at-best leadership behind the plate.
So why were the Dodgers still rolling? Because their pitchers were that good. Elite stuff turned even mediocre calling into genius. Looking at it that way, our Eric was the opposite of what most clubs wanted these days… well, at least he was hitting better lately.
The catcher bristled at the jab and started growling; I kept needling him right back. Eventually the umpire had enough of the sideshow.
“You’re not planning on getting ejected before the All-Star Game even starts, are you?”
As if. This guy wasn’t going to toss anyone unless he’d completely lost his mind. He just wanted the noise to stop so we could play ball.
From behind me came the grinding of teeth and a sharp pop as the catcher punched his mitt. Keep grinding like that and you’ll wear your molars down to nubs.
High on the mound, the tall pitcher stretched that long arm and let the ball go.
Huh? Four-seamer?
The read hit me instantly. I hadn’t even been looking for it this time—it just arrived. I still had no idea what the conditions were for these instincts, but when the feeling came, I trusted it. I planted my front foot hard and started the swing, timing it for a four-seamer.
The ball came down from that high left-handed release like a hammer, boring in on my hands. I had expected inside. I threw the same pitch myself often enough—call it establishing the inner half. The catcher’s own aggressive tendencies toward the inner half only reinforced the guess. From the pointless trash talk to the way he flared up the second I mentioned Gordon Perry, the kid was easy to read. Maybe it wasn’t even real provocation—just a little curiosity, a first meeting with a guy whose team they hadn’t faced yet. He’d poked me once, gotten scratched by the Gordon Perry comment, and now here we were.
Whatever the reason, he was young enough that everything showed. Or maybe he was deliberately selling the look to fool me. But in an exhibition game? Why bother?
So from the first pitch I locked onto the inner half and committed.
CRACK!!
The timing felt clean, yet the sensation left in my hands was heavy—nothing like the crisp feedback you get when you square one up the way you planned. Unexpected weight. Even so, the ball climbed high and deep toward left-center.
“What… are you doing?”
“Gotta see if it goes.”
“……What?”
It was a left-center fly, so foul territory wasn’t the worry. Exactly like I’d said—I was watching to see whether it cleared the wall. That was on me. The heavy feel in my hands had kept me from launching into a full bat flip. When you really crush one you know it’s gone; this one had felt so dense I honestly wasn’t sure it would carry that far. But once it was in the air, yeah—this one was leaving.
So do I flip it now? Too late for that. And doing it late just looks cheap. Which is why I was standing there watching the flight, waiting for the ball to actually become a home run before I did anything.
It’s an exhibition. A little showmanship is allowed, right?
Thud.
Over the wall.
Now.
I gave the bat a light flick with my left hand. The wrist snap sent it spinning a couple of times before it clattered to the dirt. A big theatrical toss felt wrong for the moment, so I kept it small—just enough to make the point.
Jogging slowly toward first, I snuck a glance. Kelly Holton was smirking. Guess he liked the bat flip.
“How was it?”
Hitoshi Miura, due up next, asked in slightly clumsy English. Before the game he had come over, saying Yua had told him about me, and we’d shaken hands and traded a few words. I hadn’t expected him to ask something like this, so I froze for a second. But he was waiting for an answer.
“Heavy.”
“Yeah?”
“……Just sit on the inside four-seamer and swing hard.”
His eyes widened a little at the sudden scouting report. Sure, Holton had just gotten burned on the first pitch, but given a pitcher’s pride and a young catcher’s complacency, it wasn’t completely crazy that they might come right back with the same pitch. Or maybe not. Either way, I was just guessing.
I had talked a big game about pitcher tendencies and catcher habits, but honestly I had just picked a spot and swung.
CRACK!!
“Huh?”
The ball flew on almost the exact same path as mine. I hadn’t actually expected him to hit it. And yet there was Hitoshi Miura standing in the box, watching the flight the same way I had.
Then—
Thud.
A light wrist flick. Nearly the identical bat flip I had just done, and he trotted toward first.
Japanese players really do have better bat-flip technique than the Americans, don’t they?
No—wait. Was that on purpose? He had copied me move for move. Looking at the crowd’s reaction, it had landed perfectly. They were eating it up more than I expected. Cheering a bat flip? Only at the All-Star Game.
After touching home, Hitoshi said something to Eun-hyung—Silvers—who was waiting on deck, then jogged into the dugout.
“How’d you know?”
“Huh?”
“The inside four-seamer.”
Couldn’t exactly say I’d just guessed.
“Looking at their personalities, I didn’t think they’d stop throwing it just because they got hit once. Figured they might come right back with it, actually…”
“Whoa—amazing. As expected!”
“Y-yeah? Th-thanks.”
The over-the-top admiration was a little embarrassing, but we weren’t going to see each other that often, so whatever.
“What did you say to Silvers, though?”
“Huh? That was—”
Crack!
While we were talking, Silvers made contact. Not a big one. A soft fly that the left fielder was already camped under.
“……What the hell is that guy doing?”
He was clearly going to be out, yet he still stood in the box for a second watching the ball, then gave the bat an awkward little flip—like he was trying to copy the two of us—before jogging halfway to first, watching the catch, and heading back to the dugout.
“What even is this…”
Crack!
A clean wrist snap. At least Lee Gijun’s flip looked decent. Korean pride—no, wait.
What the hell was he doing?! That was a ground ball. Run!
Crack!
Anthony Bowden followed right behind him.
Wrist flick.
“……Have they all gone mad?”
These idiots had clearly learned something terrible.
I glanced sideways. Hitoshi Miura was watching the field with a distinctly proud expression on his face.