I Told You I Trust Jack
As for the game itself, I was of course ejected on the spot.
What was there to see? I'd knocked the guy out cold with five open-handed slaps to the face. And the poor bastard who'd taken them looked like absolute hell. Of course I was tossed.
That home-plate umpire… he'd seemed to like me well enough. But the look on his face when he ran me was pure irritation. Too bad. What could I do? The thing was already done.
I left the field without a word of protest. Scattered cheers rose from the stands as I went. Whatever the reason, their side had just won a fight, and that was good enough for them.
I headed into the dugout, intending to cut straight through and out the other side. The coaching staff came over and clapped me on the shoulder. That told me everything I needed to know about the clubhouse mood. From the players to the coaches, nobody seemed particularly upset.
We won the game.
Buxton and Yua, both of them close friends of mine, had apparently been pissed enough to pitch like absolute animals. Jumping around every time they recorded an out, or so I heard. Buxton I could picture. Yua doing that? Harder to imagine.
After the game, word came down about Shoda Hiroki. Three teeth gone, a hairline fracture somewhere in the facial bones. He'd be out for a while. Serves him right for running his mouth and getting his face rearranged.
Jack moved fast. Surprisingly, he stepped up and did the interviews himself. His line was simple: my only crime was having a sturdy body. In other words, I hadn't gotten hurt only because I was tough enough to take it—one wrong angle and I could have been injured for real. So beating the hell out of a guy who had deliberately tried to hurt me was only natural.
Watching Jack work the media, I got a clear picture of how I needed to handle my own interview when the time came. Back in Korea I probably would have started with an apology for causing a scene. Here, that wasn't the play.
The Giants' GM and manager tore into me. Shoda Hiroki had never intended to injure anyone, they said. I'd simply overreacted. But anyone who watched the footage could see that the tag Shoda put on me was no ordinary play. He'd swung that glove like a table-tennis player whipping a backhand smash—with the ball still inside it. The part of the glove holding the ball had caught me square on the ankle bone. My foot had come within an inch of being destroyed.
Our side hit back hard. The GM and the old man of a manager both turned red-faced in interviews, insisting people needed to look at why the whole mess had started in the first place. Then the players piled on—especially the veterans with real clout: Gordon Perry, Eun-hyung, Greg, Rondo. Together they painted Shoda Hiroki as the villain of the century.
"If it were me, I would've waited for his next at-bat and put a 108-mile four-seamer right in his earhole. Kang's just too nice—that's why it ended like this."
That was Buxton. A 108-mile heater to the head would kill a man, you know…
Now, here's the strange part. Something felt missing, didn't it?
Shockingly, interviews from the Giants players themselves were almost nowhere to be found. They'd done them, apparently. But nearly every single one had mumbled some version of, "I don't really know why this happened." That explained why Dan Crispr had flailed around next to me making a show of breaking it up, and why the rest of them had only pretended to join the scuffle. Once again I was reminded how impressive it was. How much of an asshole do you have to be for your own teammates to turn their backs on you like that?
Later, once Shoda Hiroki had regained consciousness in the hospital and finished treatment, his own interview started making the rounds. The lunatic claimed he'd never intended to injure anyone—he'd just tagged a little hard in a heated moment. Then he whined about how sudden the whole thing had been, how he hadn't even had a chance to defend himself, how unfair it all was. Always the same after they get their faces smashed in: "It came out of nowhere."
Now it was just me left.
Jack didn't rush me into an interview. He sat on it for a full day. I had no idea why, but I did exactly what he told me. What did I know? Better to follow orders.
The next morning, a visitor showed up.
A middle-aged man of modest height with a seriously impressive gut.
"Nick!"
Nick Benson—the most influential sports writer in the business—had come to see me. I'd done plenty of interviews with him before, and they'd always gone well. We got along fine. I greeted him warmly, found a decent spot to sit, and we got started.
"What's with the face? Yesterday's mess?"
I did look a little rough this morning. Probably the aftereffects of the Booster. They'd said it would last a couple of days, and sure enough, I'd woken up with no strength in my body. My face looked like hell too. Han Song-yi had even teared up a little when she saw me. She must have thought I was still torn up over yesterday. Sorry, honey… that wasn't it.
"Just…"
I kept it vague. A flicker of sympathy crossed Nick's face and vanished. Good start.
"You really demolished him, huh?"
"Huh? Ah… it just sort of happened."
"You know the commissioner's office is in chaos, right? Japan's raising absolute hell."
"Hmm… figures."
What was I supposed to do about that? Not like I could fix it for them. Want me to show them the power of Korean fans? That would probably bury the whole thing.
"They're demanding an apology and serious disciplinary action. Some of them are even calling for you to be banned outright."
"He's their guy. Of course they are."
Honestly, I couldn't have cared less. If they'd come at me directly it might have been different, but they hadn't. Just in case, Jack had already surrounded Song-yi and me with a small army of security. Nothing had happened yet. All the noise was online or over the phone.
"All right. Let's talk about it. Why did you react the way you did?"
"I don't know if you realize this, but I didn't even know a player named Shoda Hiroki existed."
"What?"
"I really didn't. Apparently he was pretty good in Japan, but once he got over here? Nothing special. I had zero interest. Maybe I'd heard the name once or twice, but that was it."
"And then?"
"Then out of nowhere this guy I don't even know starts declaring in interviews that he's going to do something about me. The first time I saw one of those, I just laughed. Figured he wanted to ride my name a little to get some attention of his own."
"Haha. Can I print that as-is?"
"Whatever. Doesn't matter."
I kept going, a little long-winded. At first I hadn't cared at all, but the interviews kept coming, and eventually it stopped being funny. And then—
"My wife's pregnant, you know. And she saw all that baseless trash-talking and it really got to her."
"Hmm…"
Truth was she'd been furious, but close enough.
"Honestly, part of me wanted to put a heater in his ear the second I saw him. But I couldn't do that, so I decided to just destroy him with pure skill instead."
"Yeah. That was something. A hundred and eight miles… damn."
"I threw until my arm nearly came off. Heh."
"Go on."
"After that, well, you saw. I shut him down completely in both at-bats. And then that tag came flying at my ankle, and I just couldn't take it anymore. I stood up and started swinging."
The interview ran long.
"Here's the weird part, though. At first I clearly saw you make a fist. Then you opened your hand. Any reason?"
Uh… that was because I was afraid I'd kill him. Could I say that out loud? Better to soften it.
"If I'd hit him with a closed fist, what condition do you think he'd be in right now?"
"Huh? Ah…"
"Does it make sense if I say I held back a little?"
"Perfectly. They're saying he'll be out about a month. If it had been a fist… oof. Terrifying."
"I never answered any of the crap he said in interviews. I faced him head-on on the field. And what I got for it was a play that could have ended my season. If I'd just swallowed that too, what then? You think I could've just quietly played baseball after that?"
"I get it. Let's leave it there for today."
"Thanks for coming out."
We stood, shook hands, and I walked him out. Just as he was about to step outside, Nick turned back.
"Oh—and this isn't confirmed, but…"
"Yeah?"
"The suspension… it might end up lighter than people expect."
"Huh? R-really?"
"That Jack of yours. Impressive guy."
"Uh-huh?"
Yeah. Our Jack is impressive. He gets everything done the second you ask. But what exactly did he do? You can't just drop that and walk away! Jack's too modest to ever tell me himself…
The suspension still hadn't been announced, but on the manager's orders I stayed home and rested instead of going to the park. I was sprawled out on the couch when Ho-min came over with a tablet and held it out.
Nick's article was up.
"Whoa… he wrote it well."
"Yeah."
"I talked like a complete mess and he cleaned it all up."
"Mess? I just talked normally."
"Anyway. Doesn't this kind of take your side?"
It did. Especially the part about pregnant Han Song-yi being so heartbroken she'd cried her eyes out—he'd stretched that into a whole long section. I hadn't said anything close to that. He'd exaggerated my words by a factor of ten. Anyone who didn't know better would think the baby itself had been at risk.
"Honey. Should I go live and cry a little too? Might make it even more effective."
Song-yi had appeared out of nowhere, ready to pour gasoline on the fire. Ever since the perfect game her subscriber count had blown past a million. If she actually did it, the effect would be massive.
After Nick's piece dropped, the entire mood shifted. It hadn't been running against me before, but once that article hit, Shoda Hiroki became the guy who'd harassed a quiet family man just to get his name out there. Nick's writing was lethal. And then the concern for Song-yi piled on top—people fretting over a pregnant woman, the comments never stopped. Good thing I hadn't just said I'd been pissed off.
In short, Shoda Hiroki was rapidly turning into an attention-seeking pest who'd shaken a peaceful household for no reason.
A few hours after Nick's article went live, the headlines started rolling in.
"Huh? Really? That's it?"
"Seven games…"
Way lighter than I'd expected. I'd figured on at least double digits.
"What the hell did Jack do to get it down to that? The guy got completely wrecked."
Our Ho-min still didn't have enough faith.
I told you I trust Jack.
Our Jack handles everything.