I Didn't Mean to Hurt You
"You're washed up. Heh."
"... Can you just shut up for a second?"
"The ball's pretty fast, sure, but is the stuff really that tough? Or is it just that your timing's gone to hell?"
"You little shit... Have you ever even stood in a batter's box? What the hell do you know..."
I was about to fire back at Ho-min, who kept needling me from the side, when it hit me—our team only had three hits total. And that was just two guys. Eun-hyung already had two of them. Meaning the other seven of us still hadn't reached base once.
"Greg~"
"What?"
"This bastard's saying I can't even hit a pitch like that, that I must be washed up."
"What??"
I said it to Greg, but every pair of eyes in the dugout locked onto Ho-min at the same time. The looks they gave him could have killed a man.
"You little son of a—"
Ho-min bolted in an instant, with Greg and a few other players tearing after him. I brushed the whole thing off and turned my focus back to the field.
"Haah... How the hell am I supposed to hit that..."
I still had no idea. The two hits Eun-hyung had managed were pure artistry—his own brand of hitting. Even when his timing was off, he kept working the wrists all the way through and just softly pushed the ball the other way. I couldn't do that. Not that kind of thing.
While I sat there stewing, the remaining two outs ticked up. Through five innings, still scoreless. From Kim Han-sung's perspective, five shutout innings in his first major-league start was about as good as it got.
In the bottom of the sixth, Eun-hyung ripped another hit—this time a double. The guy really was that good. But the next batter, Greg, flied out, and once again we failed to cash in the chance.
"How the hell does he even hit that..."
Everyone else was dying up there, and Eun-hyung alone was having the time of his life. When I asked him how he was doing it, he just said he could see the ball coming. One look and he knew exactly how it would break. I figured it was the same kind of thing hitters talk about on good days—when the ball looks as big as a watermelon.
Crack!
"... We're screwed."
Top of the seventh. After Rondo cleanly got the first two outs, one hanging pitch sailed over the wall. The second it left the bat, Rondo knew it was gone; he just let out a long, empty sigh. But he reset his face right away, finished the inning, and got the last out. Still, the dugout mood was foul. We'd come home after a losing streak and a sweep, hoping to flip the script against a weaker team, and instead everything was sliding toward disaster.
At least it was only a one-run game—we could still turn it around anytime—but that only seemed to make everyone more anxious.
Tick.
Charles Bedard led off the bottom of the seventh and punched the first pitch straight back to the pitcher. Then it was Eric's turn. With Gordon Perry resting, Eric had started behind the plate; now he was heading to the box with every muscle locked tight.
"Relax. Why are you so wound up?"
"Huh? Oh..."
Honestly, I'd half-expected him to get pinch-hit for. Gordon Perry and Ernie Witt were both waiting on the bench as designated hitters. But our grandpa of a manager seemed willing to trust Eric a little longer.
Tick.
Foul on the first pitch. The early swing made me jump, but the ball drifted just outside the line. He worked two balls after that, fouled another, and brought the count to 2-2.
Fifth pitch. A three-quarter delivery floated up and in toward Eric's body. Anyone could see the ball had slipped out of the pitcher's hand. He'd probably been trying to throw a curve; luckily it was slow enough that a simple lean of the upper body should have been enough to dodge it.
But—
Thud.
"... Holy shit. That almost took his head off."
The slipped pitch came in nearly shoulder-high. Instead of ducking, Eric turned into it and took it right below the neck. Slow or not, that location was dangerous as hell. Eric just ate it with his body. He quietly stripped off his gear and jogged to first, then was immediately replaced by a pinch-runner. Part of it was caution over a bad spot to get hit; part of it looked like they wanted aggressive baserunning.
"If it'd been nobody out, I might've even thought about a bunt."
That pitcher was throwing me nothing but trouble. Still, no matter what he threw, a bunt felt doable—even if I wasn't great at them.
"... Should I actually try it?"
The defense was playing back a step. Outfield and infield both. Because my swing was almost always full, every team we faced lately set up the same way. What if I just dropped one down the third-base line? I was pretty quick on my feet, after all.
"Just the first pitch. Only the first pitch."
I set the plan in secret and stepped into the box. Whatever he threw, I was going to bunt it toward third and run like hell. I did hope for a forkball, though. A slower pitch would be easier to handle.
Kim Han-sung checked the runner at first, then went into his delivery. Arm coming from three-quarters. The ball left his hand and came in fast—outside.
"Ah, fuck..."
I'd wanted something soft and inside; instead it was hard and away. Bend that toward third? Didn't seem possible... so I changed my mind on the spot. Just push it straight through.
Tick.
Push bunt. From the bunt stance I simply shoved the bat forward along the path of the pitch. The ball caught the upper half of the bat and sent a sharp vibration through my hands. I took off for first without even looking where the ball went. No time to hesitate watching it. Just run.
I sprinted until the white first-base bag filled my vision, then leaped the last step and planted my foot. I spun to look at the first-base umpire. He casually spread both arms.
"Safe."
"Huh?"
A quieter call than I'd expected.
"Where the hell did the ball even go..."
Only then did the shortstop pick it up—behind the pitcher, near second base.
"Why is it over there?"
I had to ask the base coach before I understood. I'd wanted a bunt that slipped between the first baseman and the pitcher, and I'd run all the way to first assuming that was where it went. Instead, the ball had rolled hard right past the pitcher's side. The pitcher was leaning the wrong way and never reacted. The first baseman left the bag to chase it but was too far. The second baseman was already sprinting to cover the empty first base and couldn't get to the ball either. Meanwhile I just kept running for my life.
"Dumb luck..."
Apparently it even took a little deflection as it crossed the mound. Yeah—pure luck. Either way, I'd reached base the way I wanted. Now it was one out, runners on first and second.
Of course a pinch-hitter was coming, and sure enough one did. Not the Gordon Perry I'd expected, though—Ernie Witt.
"Please just hit it well... You've trained so damn hard."
Ernie Witt was one of the hardest workers on the team. He'd lost the spot he'd held through last year, yet he still showed up every day and put in the work without a word of complaint. That was why I kept rooting for him. I wanted him to succeed. Part of it was also that I'd taken his DH job...
The catcher who'd come out to the mound went back behind the plate. First pitch to pinch-hitter Ernie Witt. And Kim Han-sung showed him the sidearm delivery he'd never used against anyone but me.
The arm whipped out from the hip. The ball shot toward home plate. From a sidearm slot it was either a four-seamer or a sinker. Ernie Witt swung at the first pitch.
Crack!
He seemed to know the ball would break at the last second; he stayed with it and drove it. The ball climbed high and deep, the right fielder chasing it all the way. From where I stood it looked razor-close—like it might still settle into the glove of a right fielder already at the wall.
"Go! Go! Just get over!"
The low fence in right. The outfielder planted and jumped for what he thought would be a home-run robbery.
Thung.
The ball barely cleared the top of his glove and buried itself in the seats.
"Wooooooaaaaah!!!!"
Every fan who'd been stewing for two hours leaped to their feet. Kim Han-sung, who'd looked unhittable in his major-league debut until that final hurdle, walked off the mound with a bitter expression. A new pitcher came in and finished his warm-ups while the crowd was still roaring. Before they could even sit back down, another pinch-hitter stepped in—Gordon Perry.
Crack!!
"Yeeeeesss!"
Back-to-back pinch-hit home runs. The game flipped completely.
Four runs in the seventh. The pitchers who came in after that had nothing left to stop our lineup. The hitters who'd been bottled up by Kim Han-sung all night took it out on every pitch they saw, and somewhere in the middle of that I managed a hit of my own. Final score: 10–1. A pretty big margin for a game that had felt like pure misery the whole way through.
After the game I finally got to meet Kim Han-sung.
"Hello, sunbae."
"Uh... y-yeah. Hi."
His reaction was... off. Was he just shy?
"Your stuff was ridiculous today."
"R-really? That's good. I was p-pretty nervous."
"Didn't look like it at all. And wow... how did you throw me that differently from everyone else?"
"Ah... sorry..."
No—I hadn't been trying to call him out. If he started apologizing here, what did that make me...
We talked a little longer. The good part was that the more we talked, the more comfortable he seemed to get. By the end we even made a meaningless promise to grab a meal sometime with Lee Gijun included. We'd eat eventually, I figured.
I said goodbye and was turning to leave when something I'd forgotten suddenly came back to me.
"Do you happen to know a girl who wears hoodies every single day? Petite, cute-looking. Korean."
"No. I don't know any girls."
Huh? He didn't know any women at all?
"R-really? Not even one?"
"Uh..."
"Ah... o-okay then. Yeah. Go on in."
His face didn't look like he was lying... but the expression that flickered at the end still bothered me. I hadn't meant to hurt him. Now I just felt bad for nothing.