Division Series Game 1
"I'd like you to take the mound in the first game."
That was what Manager Perry—our grandfather of a skipper—had said to me toward the end of the season.
Even though the season wasn't over yet, hearing him give me a heads-up like that had thrown me for a bit of a loop at first. Of course my numbers were better, but our team's number-one starter was still Rondo, a rock-solid pitcher.
"I asked him first."
When I went to see the manager, Rondo was already there ahead of me. Rondo had spoken to the manager, and the manager had accepted it, which was how the conversation had reached me. That was the situation now.
"Understood. Thank you for entrusting it to me."
For me, there was nothing bad about it. They trusted me enough to hand me the first start in an important series—why would I turn that down? I was confident, too.
The only real downside, if I had to pick one…
…was that the opposing starter for Game 1 wasn't the pitcher I actually liked facing. Of course he would show up in the next game or the one after that, so I would still meet him as a hitter. I just would have preferred a pitcher's duel with Daniel Cruz. That was the only real regret.
Game day for the first contest of the Division Series.
I arrived at the park, loosened up lightly, and the moment I stepped out someone came walking over from the other side. Hitoshi Miura. Whatever the reason, he had taken some heat because of me. Through Yua we had gotten in touch, and after that we exchanged the occasional message.
"Go easy on us today."
"I always go easy when I face you guys."
We traded a little banter about whether that was lucky or unlucky, then parted.
A short rest. Then the usual pregame pageantry rolled past, and at last the first game of the Division Series began.
I had pitched in the Korean Series. I had faced the Yankees plenty of times already. But standing on the mound first today still felt different. A little tension and a little excitement at the same time? Not a bad mix. It would only help me focus harder on the game.
Hitoshi Miura came to the plate with the bat resting on his shoulder. Before he stepped in he gave his helmet a light tap in greeting. I answered the same way, touching the brim of my cap.
The moment Miura finished settling into his stance I went straight into the windup. The first pitch Eric and I had decided on before the game. Lately hitters had started hunting my opening pitch. It had become almost official—I always threw the same thing, so of course they did.
Inside four-seamer. Nearly every first pitch of every start of mine had been an inside four-seamer. But today was a big game. Twisting the script a little in a game like this couldn't hurt. So the pitch Eric and I chose was—
"Strike."
Miura took a clean, empty swing and looked thoroughly wronged. The first-pitch changeup had completely wrecked his timing. Show the slow one, then the fast one feels even faster. Anyone could think of that sequence, and that was exactly why it worked so well.
So the next pitch was the four-seamer. Miura squared to bunt, then frantically pulled the bat back. Tick. He couldn't get it all the way out of the way in time against the heat; the ball nicked the end of the bat and rolled slowly between me and first. I hopped off the mound, scooped it up, and found Miura frozen less than halfway down the line. I walked over and gave him a light glove tap.
"Out."
"Tsk."
He clicked his tongue and headed back. Turning that guy around meant half the first inning was already in the books.
Tick. Second pitch, a slider that ran away—he got a piece of it and flied out to first.
Tick. Same thing, second pitch, a dropping splitter—he tapped it into a grounder to short.
Six pitches were all it took to put the Yankees away in the top of the first.
In the bottom of the first, leadoff man Arthur Burgart made an out, but he forced seven pitches first. Before the game some expert on TV had pointed to Arthur Burgart as the weak spot in our lineup. Something about how he didn't fit the modern leadoff mold? The guy had gone on about how we should bump Alan Thomas up to the one-hole and drop Burgart down in the order.
I knew plenty of teams were putting power hitters in the leadoff spot these days. If that was all you looked at, maybe the expert had a point…
"A leadoff guy who sees a ton of pitches and gets on base is doing his job."
Arthur Burgart had done exactly that in his first at-bat today. And the man who picked it up from there—
Crack!
Alan Thomas jumped on the first pitch and smoked it off the wall. He stood on second. That was all because Burgart had worked those seven pitches!
Eun-hyung drew a walk to put a man on first. Tick. Greg's ball flew deep but settled into the center fielder's glove for the second out. In the meantime Alan Thomas tagged from second and took third.
Now Ernie Witt stepped in—the man who had fully locked down left field. He wasn't putting on highlight-reel defense, but he wasn't making big mistakes either. His arm was solid; late in the season he had shown off a few strong throws. But the real weapon was still the bat. He had been good enough to stick as a designated hitter on a massive club like the Red Sox, and once his defense stabilized the hitting rose right along with it.
Crack!
A clean, compact swing. It looked like he was simply trying to square it up, and the ball found the hole past the second baseman.
"Unbelievable… first blood in the first inning of my start…"
Watching from the on-deck circle I almost teared up.
Two outs, runners on first and second, and I stepped in. I kept waving the bat around, but the sign exchange refused to end. Yasir Hernandez kept shaking his head.
"Damn it."
I could hear the irritation from catcher Brian Miller behind the plate. He must have thought he was muttering to himself, but standing right in front of him there was no way I wouldn't catch it.
"Want me to wait? I can take a stroll to the mound if you need."
"Shut up."
"Fine by me."
I offered a little goodwill and got a curse in return. They were losing, so I could be magnanimous about it.
The endless sign exchange finally finished. Hernandez's head dipped in a nod and he set. Why had those two taken so long? I didn't even need to think about it. One of them had wanted to challenge; the other had wanted to be careful.
So who had wanted the challenge? The pitcher? No. That grim expression said everything. Already down a run in the first with two men on, the pitcher clearly preferred caution. But this catcher—Brian Miller—liked aggressive pitching. You only had to watch how Daniel Cruz always came right after you to know that. Even when he got hit, the reason the ball kept finding the zone couldn't be Cruz's idea alone.
If my read was right, this first pitch would be in the zone. The pitcher nodding reluctantly meant the catcher had won the stare-down. So I decided to sit on the first pitch…
And the second the ball left the pitcher's hand I had to scrap that plan. The pitch left his fingers completely wild and sailed sky-high. How high? The catcher jumped and still couldn't even graze it with the mitt. Before I could even step out and wave the runners, they were already gone. Now second and third.
The pitcher had thrown something so absurd I almost wondered if he had done it on purpose. The catcher who had rejected my earlier kindness finally asked the umpire for time and headed to the mound.
"Off to a good start, huh?"
I had nothing better to do than stand there, so I wandered over to the on-deck circle for some spray. Eric, waiting for his turn, handed it over and said,
"Right? First-inning lead."
"Looks like they're about to fill first. Don't worry—I'll move one over for you."
"Oh-ho…"
If he actually did that, how great would it be? Just as Eric predicted, I walked to first. Bases loaded. And into the box strode Eric, looking somehow full of confidence. That guy almost never looked that sure of himself. For whatever reason he even had a little smile on his face as he waited for the pitch.
Crack!
The first-pitch slider that broke sharply down was a pretty good pitch—low enough to just miss the zone—but Eric attacked it without hesitation and lifted it.
Clang!
It didn't quite clear the towering wall in left, but it smashed into it hard enough.
"Ah, damn it…"
Thanks to that I had to sprint like a madman all the way from first to home. I even threw in a final slide and touched the plate. Score: 4–0.
"It's over!"
From the dugout Gordon Perry was bellowing that it was already over. His face had gone bright red from pure excitement. The man had already won a World Series and he was carrying on like this already…
Then he started smacking the three of us who had just crossed the plate as if he meant to burst our asses.
"If we actually win the World Series, is he really going to split our asses open?"
That man might actually do it. Better be careful.
The bottom of the first ended when Charles Bedard recorded the final out. But a four-run lead was massive fuel for me on the mound.
Pop!
Pop!
Pop!
I attacked the zone without hesitation, figuring one hit wouldn't kill us. Even in counts where I could have wasted a pitch I threw four-seamers right down the middle and took the strike. Yankees bats started spinning nonstop. By the end they were swinging at anything that even looked close.
"Batter out!"
By the time the fifth inning was over, the score was 5–0. We held a five-run lead.