Championship Series

"Ugh... why does everything hurt so damn much..."

The next day I showed up at the stadium and focused on working the stiffness out of my body. Whether it was leftover tension from the night before or something else, everything felt a little heavier than usual. Of course, it might just have been because I was already preparing again the day after pitching—unlike during the regular season, when the day after a start meant nothing but light running and pure rest.

"If I'd taken that booster, I really would've been screwed."

Yesterday, when the moment was right on top of me, I'd actually considered swallowing it without thinking about the consequences. Looking ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠back now, it would've been a disaster starting with today's game and running straight through Game 3.

Just as our manager had announced the night before, John Grainskey was ready to start today. Thankfully it wasn't because anything was wrong with Rondo. They'd simply shuffled the order a little to fit the team's situation. I was batting seventh again, same as yesterday. The only real change was that Gordon Perry—who'd been on an absolute tear at the plate—moved up to fifth, with Ernie Witt sliding down to sixth.

Top of the first.

Honestly, John Grainskey's Division Series outing hadn't been pretty. Even after we handed him a three-run lead, he'd given up runs every inning, eventually surrendered the lead, and taken the loss. He'd been grinding hard, swearing it wouldn't happen again today...

CRACK!

Lee Gijun's two-run homer sailed over the wall in the top of the first, just like yesterday, and we headed into the bottom of the inning already down 2-0.

The Angels were throwing their number-two starter, Marcelo Lalas—a lefty who worked from somewhere between three-quarters and sidearm. That 95-mph two-seamer coming in from that angle was his real weapon. The part that really demanded attention was that he'd thrown seven perfect innings ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠in Game 2 of the Division Series. He'd finally cracked in the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠eighth, given up a run, and been pulled, but until then the performance had been filthy. In short, just like yesterday, their starter today was no pushover. And we'd already given him two runs to start...

CRACK!!

"Ooooooh!"

But we weren't exactly pushovers either. Leading off, Arthur Burgart jumped on the first pitch and sent it over the right-field wall. Just like that, the lineup had cut the deficit to one.

CRACK!!

"Huh?"

Then Alan Thomas went back-to-back. Three pitches was all it took to erase the two runs we'd given up.

Still...

"This son of a bitch... does he only look like this when I'm the one pitching?"

These guys who could hit like this—what the hell had they been doing yesterday?

Lalas had been rolling through the Division Series and riding high, but the sudden back-to-back homers clearly rattled him. He completely lost the zone against the next batter, Eun-hyung, and walked him on four straight balls. The Angels' pitching coach was already on the mound in the bottom of the first. Honestly it was a little irritating and a little satisfying at the same time—but for us it was a golden opportunity. If we could cash in while their starter was already wobbling in the first, we might walk away with an easier win than expected...

Tick.

"Out."

"Out."

Greg's first-pitch grounder went straight to the second baseman for a double play. Looks like the pitching coach had settled the kid down perfectly before heading back to the dugout. With the bases empty, Gordon Perry worked a five-pitch at-bat but still managed only a weak fly out.

John Grainskey looked shaky again in the second. He started with a free pass, then gave up a productive out and a single for another run. The score stretched back out as we headed into the bottom of the second—my first at-bat of the day. Ernie Witt made an out, so I stepped in with one away.

I made sure to do all the stretching and loose swinging I'd forgotten yesterday, then faced the first pitch.

Pop.

"...Ball."

The outside two-seamer just missed the zone. If the umpire had called it a strike, I wouldn't have had a single complaint about the location.

"You always go hunting for the pitcher's best pitch, don't you? Are you an idiot? They're not going to keep throwing that forever, so why aim for the one they throw best?"

That was what Ho-min had said when he called yesterday. It wasn't always true... but the bastard just kept talking and talking, then hung up because he was "busy." At least he'd left me with the one piece of advice I actually needed.

CRACK!!

The second pitch was exactly what I'd been waiting for—a slider that started in on the hands and dropped diagonally. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a fan way out there leaping with his glove ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠up. Looks like he'd snagged the ball clean.

"Moments like this, it almost feels like a waste just to let it go..."

First at-bat of the day, and I'd done it Ho-min's way. Success.

"Out!"

The final out of the bottom of the fifth went up on the board. Score: 7-7. Both starters were already gone—four innings, five runs for one; six runs for the other. John Grainskey had once again failed to look anything like his regular-season self and left the mound looking drained. Every now and then you see pitchers who throw lights-out all year and then mysteriously collapse the second autumn arrives... I was starting to wonder if John Grainskey was about to join that club.

Through five innings I was 2-for-3 with a homer. And that monster on the other side? 3-for-3 with a homer and a double. I had no idea what the hell he was doing differently, but he was somehow even more unhinged than he'd been during the regular season.

Both the Red Sox and the Angels ran their bullpens inning by inning. Buxton and Yua—guys who had become real points of pride for our team—came in one after another, but the Angels' lineup was on fire and refused to go quietly. Our lineup was just as stubborn, though. When the eighth inning ended, the scoreboard still read 11-11.

CRACK!

"You've got to be kidding me."

Lee Gijun's second homer of the night—his fifth hit of the game—came in the top of the ninth, and that was the ballgame.

We headed to the Angels' home park for Game 3. Our starter was Rondo, the guy who'd given up his Game 2 turn. The Angels countered with a right-handed traditionalist named Aiden Wright. I had history with this pitcher. The day I'd basically forced my way onto the mound against the Angels, the guy on the other side had been Aiden Wright. I hadn't even batted that day. But watching him then—and watching the scouting video again now—one thought kept coming back:

"He really pitches like a Korean."

Clean, simple delivery. Four-seam, slider, curve, changeup. Top velocity only 94 mph. The pitch mix, the way he worked through a game... it all felt familiar. How do I put it? Unlike most pitchers around here who try to overpower you with pure force, there was none of that. He just got high marks for pitching smart. Looking at the numbers, he almost never completely dominated a game—but he almost never completely fell apart either. In short, a pitcher you could count on. The kind of guy managers go crazy for.

Our lineup was the same as Game 2. Gordon Perry, still locked in, stayed in the five-hole, with Ernie Witt and me right behind him. And so Game 3 began.

"Whoa... that changeup is filthy."

"Curve's nasty too."

Even though we'd lost Game 2, our hitters had looked good. Aiden Wright still put runners on base almost every inning against them. Yet he only allowed three runs over six innings—while leaving eight men on base. In other words, he got hit around freely but somehow never allowed consecutive hits. It was outstanding game management.

But...

"Batter out!"

Rondo, with an extra day of rest, showed the full force of a veteran in his prime: six innings, zero runs, nine strikeouts. And the bullpen that had looked completely gassed in Game 2 came out looking like a different unit entirely.

Game 4, series 2-1.

"...How the hell did you do that?"

"Do what?"

"Lee Gijun. What did you throw him to make him look that helpless?"

"Hell if I know... I just threw whatever Eric put down..."

I could understand Rondo. The guy had always been that good. But Jim Tomey... what even was this guy? He'd already thrown the game of his life in the Division Series, and now he'd just gone six innings, three hits, zero runs again. On top of that, he'd held Lee Gijun hitless with two strikeouts. The same Lee Gijun who'd been completely unhinged was now quiet for two straight games on his home field. The only explanation that made sense was that Gordon Perry had figured something out. But when I actually asked, he said there was nothing.

What the hell is this...

"You didn't throw him anything different?"

"I already told you no."

Jim Tomey sat icing his arm, calmly watching the field. I kept pressing him for answers right beside him. Eric hovered next to us, clearly hoping to overhear something useful. None of us were worried about the game, though. Because right there on the scoreboard next to our name was a beautiful big 10.

Greg's grand slam in the first. Then Ernie Witt's second grand slam later on. We were watching the rest of the game with a comfortable lead. I'd already been pulled the moment that second grand slam left the yard, so there was nothing left for me to do.

The game ended in our win. We'd given the bullpen that had worked hard in Games 2 and 3 a little rest, so we allowed a few runs, but it never threatened the result.