I Believe in Jack
Top of the fifth.
Lead-off hitter number five, Dan Crispers, swung at the second pitch. The ball caught the end of the bat and rolled along the foul line. The third baseman charged hard, but the grounder was painfully slow; his barehand attempt failed, and just like that we had given up our second hit of the night.
Didn't this feel familiar? It was almost identical to the first hit—slow roller, third baseman charging in, the ball teasing the foul line without quite crossing it. Same batter, too.
"What the fuck… what's with this?"
Same as the first hit—he'd barely managed to get the bat on the ball. If it had been a hard-hit ball I wouldn't have said a word. Could anyone's luck really be this good?
Am I the unlucky one here?
Whatever. The next batter. My third-pitch cutter got a piece of the bat and rolled toward third. It had a little more mustard on it, but it was right at the third baseman—easy double-play ball.
"Huh?"
Our third baseman—Alan Thomas, one of the chatterboxes and our top prospect—fumbled the ball coming straight at him. He scrambled, grabbed it again, and fired to first just in time for the out. At least we got one. Thank God for small mercies.
Errors happen; I could live with that. Missing the double play stung, but we could always get the next guy. What really bothered me was Dan Crispers standing on second base with that smug little grin. What kind of day was this that his luck kept exploding like that? You have to watch out for guys like him. Once someone's luck catches fire, you simply cannot beat them.
While I was still fretting over the runner, the man who had publicly vowed to destroy me today stepped into the box. Shoda Hiroki held the bat long and glared at me. Last at-bat he'd choked up a little and still couldn't catch up to the velocity. What the hell was he thinking?
Paaang!
I painted the first pitch right on the inner edge, practically daring him.
"Strike."
"Huh?"
I could have sworn the bat never moved, but the umpire called a swing. Shoda leaped and protested; the umpire didn't even glance his way. Once a call is made, a little whining never reverses it. After a few more half-hearted complaints, Shoda gave up and stepped back in.
"Bastard. At least he's quick on the uptake."
A little more and he might have gotten tossed. Shame…
Before the game Eric and I had talked about how to handle Shoda. Eric hadn't seemed worried in the slightest. When I asked how we should attack him, he'd been almost bored. Looking at the signs he was putting down now, it felt like he was saying, Just throw this and it'll be fine. It wasn't that Eric had suddenly started phoning it in. He was simply treating Shoda like he didn't exist.
That was strange. Eric had never dismissed any hitter like this before—only Shoda. And the sign itself? Just throw the fastball as hard as you can. Both hands waving frantically: put it in the zone yourself. Had I ever seen a more half-assed sign?
Paaang.
"Strike."
So I threw it. Exactly as Eric wanted—a fastball right down the middle. The board lit up 106 mph, just a hair inside. Eric nodded, plucked the ball from his mitt, and tossed it back. I half-expected Shoda to choke up after that. He didn't. What was going through that guy's head?
And then—
"What are you…"
Eric set his mitt dead center. Throw it there. Hard and fast.
"Hmph."
You listen to the catcher who just guided you through a perfect game… I snuck a look at second. Dan Crispers was glued to the bag, almost no lead at all. A slow runner who wasn't even thinking about stealing…
Not even considering a run? Go ahead and try it.
I knew it was crazy, but I wanted to throw one for real. If he took off? Too bad. I went into the windup. No reaction from Eric—runner wasn't moving. So far everything was going according to plan. Now?
Time to really let it go.
Paaaaang!!!
"Batter~~ out!!"
I liked this umpire's strikeout call today.
"Whoaaaaaaaa!!!!"
The stands erupted. Nobody jumps out of their seats like that for a single strikeout. I turned toward the scoreboard. A number that had never appeared there before was glowing.
108.
The Major League velocity record was gone.
They were staring at me like I was some kind of monster. Just cheer like the crowd, would you? Why all the shock…
"Hey. What the hell is this arm made of? Huh?"
At least Rondo wandered over and started spouting nonsense; the atmosphere loosened a little. Him kneading my shoulder and arm was a bit much, though…
"That Japanese guy looked completely checked out."
Alan Thomas tossed the line over his shoulder while grabbing his helmet to lead off the bottom half. Damn bastard. After the error he'd just made, what was he so proud of… Still, he wasn't wrong. Shoda's face had been priceless—he'd jerked backward in pure terror even though the pitch was dead center. Then that look of pure injustice, like why do you keep throwing this shit only at me?
Well, who told him to give that interview? And the crap he'd said about Yua, too. Sure, I'd been dialing it back a little against the other hitters. So what? How I throw is my business.
Shoda wasn't the only one wearing a sour face. The whole opposing dugout looked unhappy—except one guy. Dan Crispers stood on first, chatting and laughing with the first-base umpire. Only him. Two hits today, huh. Lucky bastard. Tch.
Crack!
Alan Thomas dropped a ball into a spot nobody could reach and led off with a single. Eun-hyung followed with a hit of his own, then Greg ripped a double. The score jumped to 4–0 and we had runners on second and third with nobody out. Bring those two home and the game was over. Even if we didn't…
"Hi~"
I greeted the umpire who'd been giving me favorable calls and clean strikeout rings all night, then stepped into the box. Same little nod as before. Did the guy actually like me? No idea why, but it felt that way.
I finished my arm swings and was about to settle in when the umpire casually waved me toward first. Just take the base, he explained kindly. Damn it, I knew this was coming.
I arrived at first.
"Hi~"
I greeted the king of luck himself, Dan Crispers. He grinned. I hadn't said hello for nothing.
"Because of you my perfect game is gone."
"Puhat. Sorry about that. Hehehe."
"Damn it, two in a row…"
"More than that—insane, right? A hundred and eight? Whoa~"
"Just whatever."
"Thanks to that, somebody's properly pissed. Hehehe. First time I've ever seen him that mad."
"Oh~ really?"
"Honestly I figured you'd plant one in his earhole the second you started. But what you did wasn't bad either."
Plant one in his head and the guy dies. How much of a pain in the ass had he been that even his own teammate talked like this?
"That bad, huh?"
"Fuck! I'm not a racist, but because of that guy I'm starting to hate Japan."
"…That's something."
That really was something. A Japanese player—and the only Asian on the whole roster—had managed to make himself so hated that his own teammate said that. Impressive, in a horrible way.
"But are you really just gonna keep doing it like this?"
"What do you mean?"
"Looking at what you're doing, it seems like you want to wreck him… but isn't it getting a little boring…"
"……You want me to put a 108-mph heater in his skull?"
"Ow~ I never said that."
Crazy bastard. Shouldn't have opened my mouth. Saying no while clearly egging me on. I stopped answering and he finally shut up.
In the meantime Charles Bedard went down on strikes. Eric stepped in.
Crack!
A deep shot toward third. Bases loaded, so I broke on contact. Barely made it to second. I launched into a headfirst slide without hesitation. Shoda Hiroki, the shortstop, took the throw from third in front of the bag and slapped the tag. My foot got there first.
Thud!
"Ugh!"
It could have been a clean play. If this crazy bastard hadn't smashed my ankle with the glove that still held the ball. Honestly it didn't even hurt. But anyone could see the tag wasn't accidental—he'd gone after the ankle hard enough to injure, and for a split second the corner of his mouth had twitched upward.
"You fucking bastard…"
I was on my feet instantly, closing the short distance to where he stood off the bag. He immediately tagged me with the glove again and appealed to the second-base umpire that I was out. Unbelievable…
"Hey."
Only then did he turn to face me. What-do-you-want expression.
"Fuck… your neck better not snap or anything."
A sudden worry hit me—what if this ridiculous strength of mine did something irreversible? I slowly unclenched the fist I'd been holding. Hit him with that and he might actually die…
Slap!
"Gaaah!"
An open-hand slap shouldn't kill anyone. Shoda's body spun halfway around and crumpled to the dirt. The instant it happened, Greg came flying in from third and Eric from first. Eun-hyung, who'd just scored, arrived a second later. The opposing fielders were slower to process what was happening; they took a few extra beats.
In that window I flipped the face-down Shoda over, grabbed him by the collar, and hauled him up. His body rose like it weighed nothing. Today the boost was completely insane. If I'd used a fist he might really have died…
Then a thick arm started flailing beside us. It looked like it was trying to break us up, yet it never actually touched me or Shoda—pure theater for the cameras. I glanced sideways. Dan Crispers.
"……Real crazy bastard."
No intention of stopping me, huh?
Slap!
Huh? Something white just flew out… I tried to look, but a huge foot casually stepped on it. What now? I looked up. Gordon Perry was pretending he had no idea, grinding his heel down. When the hell had he come out… and he was deliberately crushing whatever had come out of Shoda's mouth, burying it.
The rest of the scene finally came into focus. Greg, Eun-hyung, Gordon Perry, and Eric had formed a wall around me. The only opposing player anywhere near us was Dan Crispers, and that guy… The rest of their team wasn't really looking for a fight either—just light scuffling. Meaning the only person actually brawling on the field was me.
"How the hell have you even survived this long…"
Ah, whatever. They'd set the stage; might as well finish the job.
Slap!
Slap!
Slap!
Three more in rapid succession before someone grabbed my arm. Gordon Perry. That was enough, I supposed. I let go of the collar and Shoda collapsed like a rag doll.
"…Passed out? Hey… is he breathing? Huh?"
Good. He was breathing.
"You crazy bastard… why take it this far."
Ho-min's voice arrived late from somewhere behind the crowd.
"……Call Jack."
Jack would handle it. Our Jack handles everything.