Championship Series
"Hmm… yeah, still not feeling it…"
That was the dilemma I'd been chewing on right up until game time before Game 5. The same one I'd already wrestled with not long ago. I still had two Boosters left. The question was whether to take one or not.
Honestly, it wouldn't have mattered if I did. If I leaned on a Booster, I was confident we'd win tonight. There would be side effects, sure, but if we took this one, we'd have a little breathing room before World Series Game 1 anyway…
Even so, I hesitated. The one Angels player I really had to watch for was… well, they all hit, but it was still Lee Gijun. And yet that monstrous bat of his had gone quiet in Games 3 and 4. It almost felt like Gordon Perry, who'd been carrying every single game of this Championship Series on his back, had finally found a crack in him.
"Might as well put a little faith in the old man."
If the game started going sideways, I could always take one then. It wouldn't be too late. Decision made.
I spotted Rafael Anderson sitting with a tighter expression than usual. After watching him grin like an idiot next to Lee Gijun all the time, seeing him like this was almost refreshing. Apparently a few so-called experts had been screaming that he should have pitched yesterday. Demanding to know why a guy who'd thrown 121 pitches in Game 1 only got three days' rest… Give me a break. Sure, I could handle that, but I was playing under completely different conditions.
A moment later, Rafael Anderson took the mound to a roar from the home crowd.
"Looks like he's got good stuff again today," Eric said beside me. He'd been hoping to start this one himself and come up empty.
"Yeah."
"Still not as good as yours."
"Huh?"
I turned at the sudden compliment and found Eric's face completely blank. Saying something like that with a face like that…
"I caught you earlier. I'm sure."
"…"
Hearing that my stuff was good today felt nice, but it was also somehow a little cringey…
"I probably won't get another shot, will I?"
"What are you talking about—"
"I blew it in Game 1. That's it for me."
"When did you ever blow—"
Game 1 against the Yankees flashed through my mind. The one where we'd let an 8–0 lead shrink to 8–6. Come to think of it, Eric hadn't started since. Even on my starts, Gordon Perry had been the one wearing the mask. I doubted Grandpa Manager would make a call like that off a single game… but I could see how Eric might see it that way. So that was why he'd been wearing that face lately. He'd been stuck on it this whole time.
I wanted to say something useful, but I was terrible at this kind of thing, so I just clapped him on the shoulder.
Our half of the first went nowhere. In the bottom of the first I worked mostly fastballs, the way I always did, and got two quick outs. Then up came the three-hole: Lee Gijun.
An out-of-nowhere first-pitch knuckleball sign. I shook it off—and watched Gordon Perry rip his mask off and half-rise out of his crouch. I am pretty sure I felt a genuine threat on my life just then. That face said he was about to charge the mound and murder me. He sat back down, seething, and put down the same sign. If I shook again he really was going to come out, so I nodded.
"Strike."
The ball danced in. Lee Gijun yanked his bat back the instant he saw it. The pitch floated into the mitt untouched for a called strike.
"You're getting pretty good at catching those."
Gordon Perry had just framed a knuckleball like it was nothing. He'd caught them before, but there used to be a little scramble to it. Just now he looked every bit as smooth as Eric.
"Changeup?"
Soft stuff after soft stuff. He clearly had something in mind, so I threw what I was told. A changeup that ran even farther away off the outer edge to a lefty. Lee Gijun's bat started and stopped, but Gordon Perry jabbed a finger at the third-base ump and got the swing call.
"You're coming out on that?"
It was a good changeup, no question. But for Lee Gijun to take that big a cut and miss…
"No way…"
Was even he feeling the heat? Lose tonight and it was over—that pressure had to be there. Plus the weight of going completely quiet the last two games…
"Lee Gijun? Feeling pressure?"
Maybe I'd just been burned by him too many times. In my head he occupied a different tier entirely, and that idea had stuck with me all the way until now… But the truth was he was just another really good hitter. A guy who felt pressure. A guy who felt the weight. Had Gordon Perry sniffed that out? Was that why he'd shut him down the last two games and was calling this kind of sequence tonight?
The pitch mix kept getting almost absurd. And Gordon Perry's plan paid off.
"Batter out!"
Soft, softer, then a slower curve—three pitches, three strikes. Lee Gijun stood in the box looking stunned while Gordon Perry was already on his feet and heading for the dugout.
"Whoa…"
"What?"
I hurried over, still marveling, and Gordon Perry grumbled for no good reason.
"Whoa…"
"What the…"
"Nothing. More importantly—you were going to kill me earlier, weren't you? That face definitely said murder."
Why wasn't he answering? He just walked off. Which meant yes.
The game drifted along quietly. In baseball, "quietly" is another way of saying a pitchers' duel. Rafael Anderson had come out grinding his teeth. Wanting it badly doesn't automatically make a pitcher throw well, but the guy clearly had his good stuff tonight. The movement on his pitches was filthy. My first at-bat ended in a clean swinging strikeout.
I'd skipped the Booster, but my feel was solid and Gordon Perry's game-calling was sharp. By the end of the third, neither side had allowed a baserunner.
Fourth inning, top of the order again. And this idiot who was supposed to be in the on-deck circle kept hovering in front of me—even though Arthur Burgart was already walking to the plate.
"What? What is it?"
"Uh…"
"… Just take it."
"Oh! Thanks. Heh heh."
There was only ever one reason Alan Thomas loitered in front of me like that. He wanted a bat. Ever since he'd borrowed one of mine and crushed a homer, any time something felt off he'd come begging for one. Using my bat didn't guarantee hits—after that first homer he'd flamed out plenty of times. Still, if he asked, I handed one over. I had extras lying around. It wasn't like it cost me anything…
Bottom line: Alan Thomas took my bat and grounded out on the first pitch. When the pitcher's stuff is that nasty, swapping lumber doesn't make it easy.
Rafael Anderson and I traded trips to the mound while the scoreboard kept stacking zeros. Through six, nothing but zeros on either side.
"That guy's actually insane…"
I punched out Lee Gijun a second time. Same idea as the first battle—soft stuff to draw the swing, then a four-seamer in on the hands to finish him. Tonight felt almost easy. Gordon Perry's sequencing was that good, and the Angels' bats were coming out of their hands a little too freely. Of course, our guys weren't touching anything either, so…
The game's first hit, unfortunately, was mine to give up. Bottom of the seventh. First pitch to their leadoff man snuck through the hole between first and second.
"Ah— damn it…"
I am not usually the type to show frustration on the mound. This time it slipped out before I could stop it. In a game where both starters had been perfect, I'd been the one to break.
I poured that anger into striking Lee Gijun out a third time, and only then did I feel a little better.
Then came the top of the eighth.
Crack!
"Hoo… finally…"
Greg led off and drove one over the center fielder's head for a massive double, and just like that the last of my anger washed clean. A pinch runner took over at second. Next up was Ernie Witt. He laid the bat down from the jump and dropped a bunt. Lee Gijun charged hard from third and fielded it, but he had no play on the runner.
One out, runner on third. The first real scoring chance either team had seen all night, and stepping in was the best catcher in the majors: Gordon Perry.
The stadium went dead silent. Everyone watching knew it. If that runner on third touched home, this game was over. A fast runner at third. Standing in the on-deck circle, I prayed for one clean fly ball to the outfield. A slow grounder would do. I was rooting for Gordon Perry with everything I had. From day one with the Red Sox we'd been at each other's throats, but right now there was no one I trusted more—as a player or as a man.
And he did not let me down.
CRACK!!!
""""Ah…""""
Rafael Anderson had been nearly perfect all night, but he'd already thrown more than ninety pitches when he came out for the eighth. He'd shouldered 121 in Game 1 by himself. It was about time the tank ran dry. Gordon Perry's ball disappeared into the fountain that was this park's famous landmark. Every player on the LA Angels could do nothing but watch it go.
"… Nice one, Captain."
"Bwahahaha!"
Smack.
Gordon Perry waited for me at the plate, then absolutely crushed the high-five I'd raised for him, laughing like a man possessed. It was the brightest I'd ever seen him look.
Rafael Anderson had given up the homer, but he didn't come out. There wasn't even a mound visit. He'd allowed the runs, but he gathered himself and kept throwing, quietly stacking outs. I was one of them.
He finished the top of the ninth, recording the last out himself, and only then was his night over. He watched the bottom of the ninth from the dugout without even icing his arm.
"Batter out."
"Out."
"… Batter out!!"
I closed the bottom of the ninth without much trouble and had the unhappy job of disappointing Rafael Anderson.
We were the first ones through to the World Series. On the other side, the LA Dodgers and Milwaukee Brewers were tearing each other apart. Milwaukee took Game 5, and for a moment it looked like a genuine upset was brewing.
The Dodgers clawed out Game 6. And then came Game 7. With everyone running on fumes, the LA Dodgers—who simply had the deeper pitching staff—finally put Milwaukee away and were the last team standing.