Natural Enemy
After sweeping the Tampa Bay Rays, we went right back to work.
Boston Red Sox 11, Baltimore Orioles 4.
Boston Red Sox 7, Baltimore Orioles 1.
Boston Red Sox 8, Baltimore Orioles 3.
Another sweep — this time of a Baltimore club that was limping toward the finish line in fourth place in the division. That made it seven straight wins. The team was practically unhinged.
Facing an Orioles roster that was handing opportunities to prospects with next season in mind wasn't exactly a tall order. Young, green players — pitchers and hitters alike — were getting their looks, and there was no way they were going to shut down a Boston lineup that was already on fire.
And then came the next series.
Toronto Blue Jays 1, Boston Red Sox 2.
Winning pitcher: Katsuma Yua.
Kang Hajin: seven innings, one run allowed. One-for-three at the plate with an RBI.
"……"
Why was this happening to me?
Wasn't our lineup supposed to be scorching hot?
Sure, nobody hits well every single night — but why now, of all times? Against a Toronto team that had somehow managed to finish even worse than Baltimore this season, our hitters couldn't buy a hit. Even with some no-name starter called up from the minors on the mound.
This was the same lineup that had piled up twenty-six runs in three games against Baltimore. That ghostly, otherworldly hitting streak had vanished into thin air.
Was giving up that one run the problem? Was it my fault for hanging a pitch and watching it get crushed?
"Can't even say that, damn it… I almost took the loss…"
If I hadn't driven in that one run… just thinking about it made my stomach turn. At least we'd won. I told myself to be satisfied with that.
Or I tried to.
Toronto Blue Jays 0, Boston Red Sox 12.
Toronto Blue Jays 4, Boston Red Sox 9.
"You've got to be kidding me…"
My blood was boiling. At this point it wasn't even about hitting cycles or hot streaks anymore, was it? Why did the offense turn into absolute garbage every single time I took the mound?
Six straight wins since the magic number hit ten — ten in a row if you counted everything before that — and somehow only my starts looked like this.
What had I done wrong? What the hell was going on?
The old saying went that if you weren't getting run support, you just couldn't allow any runs. But this was ridiculous. There was nothing.
"If it's like this again next start, I swear…"
What was I supposed to do? Feed them something? Would that even help?
*
Thanks to the Yankees dropping a few games for us, our magic number sat at two. Then Rondo got shelled in three innings and we dropped one. John Grainski came out next and threw a steady gem for a comfortable win, which meant the clincher — the game that would lock up the division on our own power — had landed squarely in my hands.
And wouldn't you know it, the opponent was the Yankees.
Even more perfectly, the Yankees starter lined up against me was none other than Daniel Cruz.
"Is this even legal?"
I still didn't understand why, but he was the exact guy whose pitches had been crystal clear to me since spring training. The first pitcher who'd ever made me realize I had that ability. Every time we'd faced each other since, I could see exactly what he was throwing and exactly where it was going before it left his hand.
The same guy who'd already surrendered two home runs to me — including a grand slam — was coming back out tonight.
What had he said last time? Something in an interview about how I needed to show my opponents a little more respect. And I'd fired back that a guy who threw beanballs had no business running his mouth. Getting taken deep and then firing a purpose pitch — and he still wanted to talk.
Right before the game, I heard something even better. Daniel Cruz wasn't even supposed to start tonight. He'd specifically requested the ball. Said he had to pitch this one. It wasn't like he'd come out completely short-rested, either — there had been an off day in between, so he'd gotten his four days.
"So he wants revenge on me. That it?"
I couldn't have been more grateful.
Of course, from his side, he had no idea how I was reading him so cleanly. So of course he'd come out talking about payback and whatever else.
"It's not going to stop working this time… right?"
If it did, that would change things a bit—
CRACK!
"YEEEAAAHHH!!!"
Not a chance.
Bottom of the second, one out, batting sixth — I took the first pitch I saw and sent it into the cheap seats. When you already know the pitch type and location before it leaves the hand, there's nothing left to see. A perfect full swing. And an even more perfect bat flip to go with it.
By now, everyone just accepted that I was going to launch one and fling the bat. At some point people had stopped commenting on it. Human beings really were creatures of adaptation.
Still, the look on Daniel Cruz's face the instant the ball left the bat was something special. Pure disbelief. He scrunched his face so hard I thought his eyebrows were going to fuse together.
"How the hell do you even hit that? His stuff was filthy tonight."
That was Buxton, shaking his head after I came back in from my second homer of the night leading off the fifth.
"…I just see it."
"What does that even mean?"
"His pitches, I just see them. How many times have I taken him deep since spring training?"
"Have you ever made an out against him?"
"Have I?"
Come to think of it, had I ever actually been retired by that guy? I should check.
Buxton had every right to be amazed. Outside of the two homers I'd hit off him, Daniel Cruz had allowed just two hits over four innings. Everyone else was struggling with him — and for good reason. He was genuinely tough. In that second at-bat I'd fouled off two pitches even though I knew what was coming, just couldn't square them up cleanly. The ball was filthy. I'd gotten it out eventually, though.
Shaken after surrendering the second homer, Daniel Cruz gave up back-to-back hits to Charles Bedard and Eric and coughed up another run. Three earned. He lasted through the sixth before finally coming out.
After I finished the seventh and came off the mound, the old man — our manager — said this to me:
"After tonight, you're done until the Division Series. No more starts."
"What? There are still plenty of games left."
"You need the rest. Once this game ends, we've clinched. There's zero reason to push you any further."
"But I—"
"I know what you're hungry for, and don't worry about the Cy Young. It's not even a conversation. Do you really need better numbers than this?"
I couldn't bring myself to ask about the MVP.
"The MVP's a shame, but it won't happen. A pitcher's always going to have a hard time winning it. If you put up another year like this next season, who knows…"
Was this guy a mind reader?
"……Yes, sir."
"So tonight's the last one. Understood?"
"…Got it."
"Good. At least go say goodbye to the fans."
So I went back out for the eighth. After I recorded one out, the old man himself came walking out to the mound from the dugout, clapping the whole way. Nearly every person in the stands rose to their feet the moment they saw him.
"You worked hard this season. You were outstanding."
"Thank you, sir. You too."
I placed the ball I'd been holding into the hand he held out. The roar and the applause that followed were enormous.
I couldn't remember how people were supposed to react in moments like this. I went blank for a second. And something stung at the bridge of my nose.
I'd won a championship in Korea too. It hadn't felt like this then. So why now?
Was it because this wasn't home — because I was in a foreign country with no one of my own? I didn't know.
I'd already handed the ball over, but I didn't leave the mound. Without thinking, I took off my cap. And I bowed — the proper Korean way. First toward first base, then toward the distant home-run seats, then past third, and finally to the fans behind home plate who were clapping so hard their palms had to be raw.
That was how I closed out the final regular-season start of my first year in the majors.