Division Series Game 2
Before Game 2 began, a faint awkwardness hung over our dugout.
We had won Game 1 cleanly the day before, so why the tension? Because a flood of articles had come out tearing into Grandfather Manager.
The pieces criticizing him all said roughly the same thing: Why pull a pitcher who was dealing and still had plenty of pitches left, only to bring in the bullpen and put the team in a hole?
Those same questions had been fired at him in the postgame interview. If he had simply answered, “I made the change with Kang Hajin’s stamina in mind,” everything would have been fine…
Instead he said, “That was my misjudgment.”
The reporters gleefully hammered their keyboards. The self-proclaimed experts who felt obligated to offer a hot take after every game latched onto the quote like it was free candy.
In truth, the manager and coaching staff looked no different from usual. It was the players who were pissed.
There wasn’t a single guy on this roster who didn’t follow Grandfather Manager. The trust ran that deep.
“I’m most worried about that one…”
Rondo, today’s starter, was the real concern. If the rest of us liked, followed, and trusted the old man, Rondo outright revered him. Even as a veteran who had already accomplished plenty and wasn’t exactly young, that was how he felt. He had only been with the team a year—no, looking back, it had been that way from the day he arrived.
So Rondo was properly furious. The guy who always walked around with that easy, good-natured smile hadn’t cracked one once all day.
“If he gets too wound up, it might backfire.”
Of course an experienced arm like Rondo probably wouldn’t make that kind of mistake… but people are people. They say the quiet ones are the scariest when they finally snap.
I wasn’t the only one watching him with concern. Shortly before first pitch I spotted Gordon Perry, Eun-hyung, and Greg talking with Rondo.
“But why is that idiot mixed in with them?”
What was Alan Thomas doing in that huddle? A moment later Rondo clapped Alan on the shoulder and burst out laughing. The same Rondo who hadn’t smiled once all day.
“So he was the court jester?”
I had clearly failed to grasp the deeper wisdom of our veterans.
With his expression finally loosened a little, Rondo took the mound for the top of the first.
Pop!
“Batter out!”
“Whoa… what’s with him today? Peak form’s back?”
“Velocity’s way up from usual too.”
“Looks like he’s planning to throw a real gem.”
“But if he starts like that…”
Rondo’s stuff was different from the jump. All season he had sat 93–94 mph with the four-seamer and around 90 with the sinker—a slight drop from his prime. Paired with Gordon Perry’s uncanny chemistry, though, he had still done the job of an ace.
Today was another story. From the first inning a 97 mph four-seamer buried itself in Gordon’s mitt, riding in deep on the hands like he didn’t care if anyone made contact. Pure peak toughness.
Hitoshi Miura flinched and muttered something, but the man behind the mask was never going to let a hitter get away with that. Miura probably caught an earful. He went down swinging. The rest of the inning the ball kept boring in on hitters. Rondo still worked the count surgically; the cornered Yankees managed only two weak outs. Perfect start.
One of the steady criticisms Grandfather Manager had absorbed all season was the unchanging lineup. Spots one through four had been locked in almost the entire year. Five, six, and seven saw a little more movement—mostly because of me.
All year the old man fretted over my stamina. If I had pitched every game and looked a little overcooked, he would drop me in the order just so I might run a few fewer steps. How much difference that actually made was debatable. And on the days immediately before or after I pitched, he refused to put me in the lineup no matter what.
But this was the Division Series. You couldn’t build a card around those considerations. Pitching the night before didn’t mean I got to sit today.
Knowing all that, I had already guessed roughly where my name would land. He would use me, sure—but not high in the order.
“Still… I didn’t think it would be this low.”
Eighth.
1. Arthur Burgart (CF)
2. Alan Thomas (3B)
3. Martin J. Silvers (RF)
4. Greg Mathis (1B)
5. Ernie Witt (LF)
6. Gordon Perry (C)
7. Carl Janton (SS)
8. Kang Hajin (DH)
9. Charles Bedard (2B)
Along with dropping me to eighth, he had moved Carl Janton—who had held the nine-hole all season—up to seventh. Carl’s on-base percentage was a shade better than Charles Bedard’s, so the manager put him in front of me.
“Bring ’em home if they get on, is that it?”
Fine by me if someone reached ahead of me.
Gude Macstein took the mound for the Yankees. The same ace who had looked sharp in the Wild Card Series was throwing with full intent from the first pitch, just like Rondo. You could hear the grunts—“Ugh!” “Ugh!”—from the dugout on every delivery.
He punched out Eun-hyung for the final out of the first and roared as he left the field.
“Both old men still have juice.”
Alan Thomas, who had just stood there watching four pitches go by, came back muttering.
“Say that after you foul one off at least.”
“…Tch.”
Alan wasn’t entirely wrong. The two veteran aces kept dealing in the second, both retiring the side in order. Another clean three-up, three-down in the top of the third, and then it was our turn again in the bottom half.
From the on-deck circle I watched Carl Janton step in and swing through the first pitch.
“…That ball is filthy.”
I finally understood why Eun-hyung—one of the hardest guys in the league to strike out—had gone down so meekly. A two-seamer that ran like that. At only ninety miles an hour and still getting swings and misses.
“Who does he think he is, Maddux? Damn.”
Carl managed to get wood on the third pitch, but only barely. The ball rolled honestly to the first baseman. One out.
“Hello~”
I bowed politely to the home-plate umpire and stepped into the box. My plan was to time the two-seamer. The velocity wasn’t overwhelming; anything else he threw I should still be able to handle.
Pop!
“Strike.”
“….”
I had prepared for something slower than the two-seamer. Instead he planted a four-seamer—something he almost never threw—on the outer edge. Ninety-four. Not blazing, but the timing was already stolen. I never got the bat off my shoulder.
Second pitch. The ball floated up high, then dropped through a big, lazy arc into the mitt.
Pop.
“Strike.”
Even knowing what it was, I had no desire to swing. I could feel that nothing good would come of it. I hoped it would miss. It caught the bottom of the zone.
“Son of a bitch.”
Give me the two-seamer! The two-seamer!
“Kang Hajin falls behind 0-2. He just watched the slow curve go by.”
“Looks like he got a pitch he wasn’t expecting. He’s tilting his head right now.”
“Yes, he is. Seo Homin, you spent more time around him than anyone—what do you think he’s thinking?”
“Kang Hajin usually picks one pitch the guy on the mound throws and sits on it. The reason he didn’t move on either of those first two is because they weren’t the one he wanted. My guess is he was looking for the two-seamer.”
“The two-seamer?”
“Exactly. Gude Macstein’s two-seamer has been nasty today, so Hajin probably figured that would be the put-away pitch against him too. Now that he’s in the hole, though, his head’s got to be spinning a little. Haha.”
“Ah… I-I see.”
“But Macstein still has to be careful here. If he gets cute and throws a half-hearted waste pitch just because the count’s in his favor—”
Crack!
“—this is what happens.”
“Kang Hajin’s ball is screaming toward left! The left fielder is chasing… back… will it clear the Green Monster?! Ah!! It hits the wall and caroms back!”
“Just like Seo Homin said—Macstein floated a soft low bait and got crushed. Hajin was waiting for it and golfed it. What an at-bat.”
“First hit of the game for the Red Sox, and Kang Hajin is standing on second. Boston has a chance to draw first blood.”
“…Steal. I think we might see a steal here.”
“What?”
“Manager Kirk Scurby loves a bold play more than people realize. The pitcher’s slide step is slow, and Kang Hajin has real baserunning instincts.”
“But there’s only one out…”
“Just a hunch.”
“All right… ninth hitter Charles Bedard steps in. Runner on second, first pitch from Macstein—he’s going! He’s running! Third base! The catcher can’t even get the throw off!”