Could It Be You Too?
"Whoa..."
The first time I saw him, that sudden yell of his was so out of nowhere I barely registered it. But the longer I watched, the more interesting a pitcher he became. How to put it... he threw the ball with zero consistency? Not that it was a bad thing.
Pitchers always try to keep the same delivery. Release the ball from the same spot, plant the foot in the same place—all that. From one to ten, everything stays identical; only the grip and the wrist change. But this guy, Kim Han-sung, had none of that.
I'd only watched the first inning so far, and already his arm was going overhand one pitch, then dropping all the way to three-quarters the next. The funny part? Forkballs came out of every single one of those different slots.
"Genius, right?"
Even his delivery shifted a little. Probably came naturally from focusing so hard on the arm angle. And he still had decent command while doing it. That was pure talent. A pitcher who used the form itself to mess with hitters...
Maybe it was something he'd settled on after scraping by for years in the minors. Back in Korea, throwing 156 km/h would have people screaming "fireballer!" and losing their minds. But this was a neighborhood crawling with guys who touched a hundred miles an hour. Surviving on velocity alone the way you could in Korea just wasn't going to cut it. Even having a forkball only covered so much. So he'd tried this, tried that, and everything that worked had turned into the version of him standing out there now.
"There was a guy who used to dance his shoulders on the mound. This is nothing."
"Yeah... fair enough."
There really were all kinds of pitchers. It wasn't like no one had ever changed arm angles on the fly, and some of those guys had done just fine in the majors.
"Looks like he's in good shape. First major-league start and he doesn't even seem nervous."
"Right? Boring into the corners that solidly isn't easy."
Greg watched Kim Han-sung finish the first with a fly ball and head back to the dugout. Then Rondo took the mound and retired the top of the second in a blink—three up, three down. Kim Han-sung barely had time to sit before he had to climb back up again.
"No need to worry about Rondo, huh?"
The opposing hitters all looked like they were hunting one big swing. The kind of ridiculous cuts that said, I don't care what you throw—just let one of them catch some wood. Rondo wasn't the type to get burned by that. Even if he did, it would only be one run.
Charles Bedard, batting fifth today, stepped in. Next was Eric. Then me. A lineup with a little consideration from the old man manager—go out there and swing free after the rest. I'd only sat seven games...
Crack.
Charles Bedard grounded out to short. Completely robbed of his timing by a slow curve from the three-quarter slot. I watched from the on-deck circle as Eric took his turn. I'd been watching from the dugout the whole time, but seeing it from right behind the plate was a different animal. Eric worked the count all the way to seven pitches, so I got a good long look.
And the conclusion:
"I got nothing..."
Wasn't this a little too free-form? Seven pitches to Eric and not a single one the same. Not just different pitch types—overhand four-seam, then three-quarter forkball, overhand forkball again, three-quarter slider, three-quarter four-seam. Like that. Impossible to get a read.
Eric went down on strikes.
Clap-clap-clap-clap-clap.
I stretched out long and slow as I walked to the box, and the stands answered with applause. The welcome-back cheer from the fans on the day I returned. Happy to see me, and also please hit something, anything.
I gave the umpire the usual little bow. This one gave me nothing back. Boring guy. Then I tipped the bill of my helmet toward the pitcher and dipped my head. Senior was still senior—had to show a little respect. He looked startled, then hurriedly raised his glove to return the greeting.
Formalities done, I stood in and waved the bat around. That was when the pitcher started doing something weird. Out of nowhere he was flicking his wrist.
...Is he telling me he's throwing a curve?
The only pitch that used the wrist like that was a curve. What was this? Because we were both Korean he was going to gift me one? I'd said hello, so now he'd serve one up? No way that was it...
I tilted my head, completely lost, and glanced up at the stands. A few fans were doing the same motion right at me. They were flicking—no, snapping—their wrists. Those fans were mimicking my bat flip...
...What? Is that guy copying it too?
What the hell was going on. It was my first at-bat back and I was trying to lock in... and this pitcher was making it completely impossible to focus.
Damn it.
"Strike."
"Yes!!"
First pitch in the middle of all that chaos. From a three-quarter slot the ball came in on my hands and parked itself in the zone. I'd known it was three-quarters and half-expected a fork, but the ball came in honest. And the cheers exploded like he'd just done something special. All he'd done was grab one strike.
Even the four-seam was filthy. Ninety-five on the board, commanded, and still nasty...
I locked back in for the second pitch.
"Strike."
"How!"
Another four-seam on the hands.
"Huh... what is this."
This one had come from overhand. Completely different movement from the last one. The kind people called a stick fastball—a clean, pure four-seam that bored into the inner half. If I'd been sitting on it I would have put it over the wall with confidence... The mistake was wondering whether the overhand slot might mean a fork.
"How can one guy's four-seams look this different..."
I still couldn't understand why a pitcher like this had been rotting in the minors. At this level he was better than anyone in our rotation...
"Ball."
Another one from overhand, dropping a little early. Whether it was a miss or intentional I couldn't tell, but for a fork the break started way too soon.
"Ball."
Another fork. This one looked like it was saying the last one had been a mistake—plenty threatening. I almost swung, but managed to freeze the bat halfway. Two-and-two. A count no pitcher wanted to run from. Nobody liked going full. If he was going to challenge me I needed to guess the pitch... but he didn't even give me the time. The delivery started right away.
And somehow the arm angle looked off. Even when he'd gone low before it had still been three-quarters... so why was that arm coming from the side?
Whoosh.
"Batter out."
"Aja!!"
"...... Sinker? Ninety-five?"
What the hell was this.
"How'd that guy handle military service?"
"Not yet, I think?"
"Really?"
"Far as I know he spent the whole time grinding in the minors. Not a hundred percent sure."
"Hmm..."
Shame. It would have been nice to have him on the Asian Games roster. Even if this was only his first major-league start, half of what he was showing today would have been more than enough. Honestly the pitching staff for the Games—outside of me and Kwon Jong-jin—looked a little thin. Drop Kim Han-sung into that group and the whole thing suddenly carried real weight.
Bottom of the fifth. Our half starting with the seven-hole. Meaning I was leading off. Score still 0-0. Rondo had given up two hits and a walk; Kim Han-sung three hits. I'd expected this much from Rondo. The problem was the opposing starter.
Four-seams, forks, and the occasional curve—he was shutting our lineup down with those.
"Fuck... why only me..."
That sidearm sinker he'd thrown me? He hadn't shown it to a single other hitter since. That ninety-five-mile-an-hour sinker... Why?
It wasn't like he'd learned it just for me...
"Probably not finished yet."
I thought the same thing... so then why throw it at me?
Damn it.
Bang.
"Strike."
"#$@$!!!"
First pitch again—came in hard, then showed reverse spin and dropped. Arm from the side, of course.
"Ah, fuck, why only me like this..."
By now I didn't even know what that yelling was supposed to mean. Maybe he'd already used every useful sound and was just blurting whatever came out. But the more I heard it, the more it started to get under my skin... Was this how pitchers felt every time I did a bat flip? That urge to just hurl the damn bat...
According to Ho-min he'd always been a three-quarter guy. Started mixing in overhand last year. The sidearm? Even Ho-min was seeing it for the first time... Meaning he was breaking it out on me first.
Crack.
"Foul."
This time the arm slot was a little higher—four-seam. Bat got there fine but I got under it, foul straight back.
"Hoo..."
It felt like three different pitchers taking turns throwing one pitch each. What kind of nonsense was this. Free-styling was one thing, but there had to be limits...
"Did that guy meet the Hooded Woman too?"
The thought hit me out of nowhere. After I met the Hooded Woman and took those pills, everything came fast. Maybe he was the same. No way... but then again, you never knew.
Kim Han-sung's windup. Then that arm coming from the side again.
"This time I'm hitting it..."
I started the bat early, reading the sinker path on the fastball coming in.
Bang.
"Batter out!"
"Waaaaah!!"
"...... Fuck."
Four-seam from the side was just dirty. And... stop celebrating so hard, you bastard.