You Would Have Thrown at His Head
Tampa Bay's starting pitcher Craig Gibson was quick to get fired up, but he also knew how to settle himself just as fast.
Fitting for a pitcher leading a team chasing a wild card this season, I suppose?
Even though he'd given up a run to me, he quickly retired the next batters and closed out the bottom of the second.
"How is it?"
Eric asked out of nowhere.
I knew exactly what he meant.
"Not yet."
I rolled my shoulder, but nothing felt particularly better. So I went with a similar pitch mix this inning as the second—working around the sweet spot of the batters' swings, mixing in four-seamers here and there. And once again this inning, Eric didn't hold back on the knuckleballs.
The result:
"Out."
"Out."
"Out."
Two grounders and a fly to left. Through the end of the third, we'd still kept them hitless.
"The ball's like this and you're saying your shoulder's bothering you?"
"It's not that it's bothering me—just that it's a little off from usual."
"······"
Eric still didn't seem to get it. Fair enough. I didn't really get it either. Why was the ball going in so well when my body felt off…
In the bottom of the third, Craig Gibson took the mound and started throwing even more intimidating stuff than before. It looked less like a starting pitcher and more like…
"How long does he think he can last throwing like that?"
Like a bullpen arm. You could see him putting everything into every single pitch. Even with the considerable distance between the mound and the dugout where I sat, and the noise from the stands, you could hear the grunts of effort leaking out as he gritted his teeth and threw.
Tampa Bay really must have considered today's game that important. Well… currently fourth in the wild card race. Just a little behind the first, second, and third spots that were jockeying back and forth. Of course, it was a gap they could still close. But if they got swept by us… and if the competing teams took winning series in the meantime… that already slightly open gap would only get harder to close.
In fact, in yesterday's games, all the competing teams had won. Of the four wild card contenders, only Tampa Bay had lost. So they'd come out sharpened for today's game, only to already give up a run. As a pitcher, he couldn't allow any more. That's why even in just the third inning, he was pouring out every ounce of strength.
But there were quite a few people on our team who wouldn't just sit still watching that. First, this guy.
"He went for the early kill, huh? You all know what we do in a situation like this?"
Gordon Perry spoke in a low voice that still drilled right into your ears.
"Bleed him dry."
That was Eun-hyung.
"Play the long game. Just poke it."
Greg followed up.
"Maximize his pitch count, right?"
Even the somewhat simple Alan got it.
Just then, Carl Janton made an out. As Arthur Burgart, waiting in the on-deck circle, prepared to head to the plate, Alan quickly approached and relayed something. Arthur Burgart quietly nodded, then returned to the dugout to switch bats. He must have passed on the conversation that had started with Gordon Perry. Hearing that, Arthur Burgart switched to a lighter bat.
And so Arthur Burgart stepped into the box. Even from our view in the dugout, he was gripping the bat short and planting himself at the very back of the batter's box.
"That blatant…"
If I'd been on the mound looking at a batter like Arthur Burgart, what would I have thought? Facing a guy who was so obviously going to foul off pitches and run up the count.
"That bastard's gonna lose it again."
From what I'd seen in the previous innings, the guy on the mound right now had one hell of a temper. And if a batter came out like that so openly…
Crack.
"Ball."
Figured as much. From the first pitch, a ball came in deep on the inside. Arthur Burgart casually avoided it. He didn't even bother glaring at the pitcher. As if he'd known it was coming, he just gave a slight nod and resumed the same stance as before.
Craig Gibson shook his head repeatedly. Apparently not liking the catcher's signs, he even put up signs of his own. After shaking his head several times, he finally nodded and was about to set when Arthur Burgart called time and stepped out of the box.
Contrary to my expectation that he'd simply run up the pitch count, Arthur Burgart seemed determined to rattle the pitcher. It took longer than expected for the second pitch after the first to reach the catcher's mitt. And the pitch he finally threw after all that:
"Ball."
Arthur Burgart didn't react at all, earning another ball call.
"Strike."
Even on the next pitch that came in a bit more honestly, Arthur Burgart didn't react. That look…
"Looks like he has zero intention of swinging until he gets to two strikes?"
He was a batter who'd openly shown he was going to run up the pitch count. By not reacting to the pitches at all, he made it even more certain. But the pitcher couldn't just throw easy pitches either. If he tried to force it for a quick out, something irreversible could happen.
Crack.
"Strike."
A well-placed pitch on the outside. Even if he'd swung, it would have been hard to get a good hit on that location. Of course, Arthur Burgart hadn't intended to swing at all. The count was 2-2. From here on, Arthur Burgart would have to show some reaction.
"Ball."
"Whoa… great eye."
But on the fifth pitch, the batter still didn't move an inch. He casually let a pretty well-executed slider that dropped sharply go by.
"Look at that expression. Cool as can be."
Just as the words said, he looked completely at ease in the box. Like someone who'd been given the chance to do what he did best.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
Three consecutive fouls with a full count. Arthur Burgart effortlessly poked away the pitches the pitcher was trying to nibble at the zone with. With that short grip, watching the ball until the very last moment, then tick, tick. It was the kind of swing you could make when you had no intention of getting a hit.
If it were me, I'd have jammed my hardest pitch in there with everything I had… Unfortunately, the guy on the mound right now didn't have that kind of stuff. He was a good pitcher, but he didn't have a pitch that could overpower a batter at any time.
Tick.
Another foul.
Tick.
This one looked like a mistake. There seemed to be a slight problem with the two-seam control, and it came in low—but Arthur Burgart poked that away too. Already the tenth pitch.
"Ugh… if I were the pitcher, I'd really want to kill him."
To think I'd feel sorry for that foul-tempered bastard.
Then the eleventh pitch.
Crack!
"Whoa! Ah… ahhh…"
Suddenly Arthur Burgart took a full swing. Even with the short grip, the ball was solidly hit, then curved slightly at the end into foul territory. Arthur Burgart, who'd been running to first, leaped in frustration, while Craig Gibson on the mound let out a deep sigh. The pitcher must have had his heart drop. He'd nearly gotten crushed by a pitch he'd forced in wanting a quick out.
As the stadium that had briefly heated up settled down again—
"Ball."
"Wooooah!!!!"
On the twelfth pitch, Arthur Burgart didn't react, and it was a ball. The stands heated up again as if someone had hit a home run.
Alan stepped into the box. But Alan, like the previous batter, was also gripping the bat short. Alan, who always took full swings.
"Is that guy gripping it like that because he can actually do it?"
Why did it look so out of place for a guy who only ever full-swung to be trying to cut?
The pitcher's throw, after checking first with his eyes, headed inside on Alan. Alan, with his short grip, was late reacting and swung and missed. A really big swing at that.
Swoosh.
And from behind the pitcher came the sound of the ground being scraped. That was the sound of Arthur Burgart, the runner on first, successfully stealing second on the first pitch. The catcher didn't even get a chance to throw to second. Alan's deliberately late big swing-and-miss had worked perfectly.
Had that steal rattled Craig Gibson? Suddenly his control started to waver.
"Ball."
Four consecutive balls, and Alan walked to first.
"It's over."
Gordon Perry's words, full of certainty. Sure, we were winning 1-0 with one out and runners on first and second, and Eun-hyung at the plate, so the situation was good… But wasn't it too early to already be sure of the win? It was only the third inning.
As I looked at him puzzled, Gordon Perry just smiled. Pointing at the field with his chin as if to say, just watch.
"What the…"
And then I saw Eun-hyung gripping the bat short.
"Huh…"
I hadn't expected even Eun-hyung to come out like that.
"His ability to put the bat on the ball is the best in the league."
Eun-hyung was rated as having the world's best wrist control. It meant his ability to somehow get the bat on the ball even in situations that seemed impossible was that outstanding. And that kind of batter was gripping short, standing at the very back of the box, ready to cut.
Now I understood why Gordon Perry had been so sure.
With a team like this, why have their results been so…
Of course, I knew the pitching side had issues, but the lineup had always been rated as top-tier. But watching today's game, it was beyond what I'd imagined. When they set out to kill a pitcher, it was something else…
"Just up to him. The rest can't do it like this. That pitcher just got unlucky and ran into the wrong guys."
Yeah. Or rather, it had to be that way. If every batter in the lineup did this, what pitcher could hold up?
"······ If I'd gone to another team, I might have been on the receiving end."
"Hahahaha. You definitely would have."
"You would have thrown at his head."
I couldn't even argue with that.
Tick.
"Foul."
Eun-hyung fouled off another one. The stadium was quiet. Everyone seemed focused on seeing how long he planned to keep fouling. The number of pitches Eun-hyung had forced him to throw was thirteen. Of those thirteen, Eun-hyung had fouled off nine.
"That has to be pissing him off like crazy."
He already looked it. That pitcher… his face was bright red and he didn't know what to do with himself.
"Over thirty pitches this inning already?"
"Yeah. Way past that."
Over thirty pitches of all-out throwing without rest… And still only one out. Even as a teammate, watching them push the de facto ace of a wild card contending team this far was exhausting.
Crack!
The fourteenth pitch, thrown with gritted teeth and a flushed face. The catcher held the ball that had gone outside on Eun-hyung exactly as he'd caught it, waiting for the umpire's call. Eun-hyung, who hadn't budged and let the ball go by, was the same.
"Ball."
The umpire's walk call rang out through the quiet stadium. And then the fans' cheers that had been held back until now erupted. The moment the ball was called, the pitcher sank down on the mound, and someone from the dugout approached.
"Should we change him?"
"Hmm… probably not?"
"Right? He's the ace."
"The stuff itself wasn't bad."
"Yeah…"
As we'd thought, the mound stayed the same. Craig Gibson, after the pitching coach came down, took several deep breaths on the mound. His face that had been burning as if it would catch fire seemed a bit better, as if he'd calmed down some.
The stadium quieted again. But every fan stood to welcome Greg as he entered the box.
"Don't tell me Greg's going to grip it short too?"
"That would be a bit…"
What kind of at-bat would Greg show?
CRAAACK!!!
"Yeeeaaah~~~!!!"
Greg, cut? What cut. The ball that caught his full-power swing from the first pitch was already dropping over the fence in the time it took to blink once.
5-0.
A home run that pushed Tampa Bay's wild card ticket further away.