Boston Has Gone Mad
That was the headline of an article that dropped today, one day before Game 1 of the World Series.
I have to hand it to the reporter who wrote it — the title was perfect.
Because Boston really had gone mad.
We hadn't played a single World Series game yet. And still, the Red Sox faithful were already celebrating like the trophy was in the bag, losing their minds in the streets.
And who were we facing? The defending champions — the LA Dodgers. National League's best record this season, too.
Our fans did not care. They were out there shouting that the championship was already decided.
"The Dodgers don't have Kelly Holton — but we've got Kang Hajin!"
"And Rondo Garcia!"
"Why are you leaving Jim Tomey out of this?!"
John Grainski was… well. Dropping two games had probably cost him. A shame.
The fans weren't wrong, though. The fact that Kelly Holton — the Dodgers' ace and the heavy favorite for this season's National League Cy Young — couldn't take the mound was a massive blow for them. Losing a pitcher you could count on for a guaranteed win. Especially in a short series, where he might have started two games, maybe even three if they pushed him. If that wasn't a disaster, what was?
Sure, the Dodgers' rotation was solid even without Holton. But an ace is an ace for a reason. If someone could have filled his shoes, they never would have gone seven games with Milwaukee.
Our rotation, on the other hand, was rock solid. Me and Rondo Garcia. Jim Tomey, who'd become a star in this postseason run. And even John Grainski, who'd been solid all year despite a rough stretch at the end. Anyone looking at the two staffs could see which one carried more weight.
The bullpen? Don't even get me started. Ours had been resting deep. They didn't throw a single pitch in the last game. The Dodgers' pen, meanwhile, had been ground into dust through seven games — the same arms out there night after night, no time to breathe. Championship Series ended and they'd gotten a little rest, sure… but was that really enough?
The lineup edge was going our way too, according to just about everyone. Our offense had always been one of the most feared in the majors. The Dodgers had good hitters, no question — but this was a team that had always won with pitching first. Of course, they did have a monster like Andre Mays. .320 average this season, nearly fifty home runs, the best hitter in the National League. But still…
"The Angels had Lee Gijun, too."
One hitter doesn't take over a whole series. Walk him, and what's he going to do about it?
So that was Boston the day before — completely unhinged. And when Game 1 finally arrived, Fenway Park was packed to the rafters long before first pitch. The place was roaring earlier than usual.
"Hey, Kang."
"Yeah?"
"Look over there."
I'd been thinking about catching a little rest when Rondo materialized out of nowhere, tapping my shoulder and pointing. I followed his finger — and there was Harim Gonzalez, staring a hole straight through me.
"The hell is that guy's problem?"
Harim Gonzalez. The catcher who'd tried to pick a fight with me at the All-Star Game for no good reason. He'd asked if I'd backed out of the Dodgers because I was scared of the competition, so I'd given him a little something back — told him if he'd been even half the manager Gordon Perry was, maybe I would have gone to his team. Watching his face go red in real time had been pretty great.
I'd forgotten about him since then. Seeing him again brought it all back. But why was he just standing there like that?
"What's he doing?"
"Beats me. But he's definitely looking at you."
"Me? Why? You sure it's not you?"
"Nope. He was locked on this way before I even walked over."
"…Is he trying to put a curse on me or something?"
The second our eyes met, he glared even harder, like he'd been waiting for it. So Rondo was right — it really was me.
"Why don't you say hello?"
I was always good about listening to my elders. I raised my right hand high and gave him a big wave.
He took one look, spat on the ground, and walked off.
"……Guess he didn't want the greeting after all."
Rondo cackled and wandered off. What was that about? If he'd wanted a fight, you'd think he would've done something more than just stare.
Home field, Game 1 of the World Series. When Rondo — who'd earned a glowing review from Gordon Perry during his pregame bullpen — stepped out of the dugout and headed for the mound, the entire stadium came alive. He climbed the hill with an easy smile, soaking in the roar like it was nothing. Not a trace of nerves on him.
Gordon Perry, on the other hand, had his mask off and was screaming himself hoarse. Something had him furious — he was jabbing a finger at Alan Thomas and bellowing at the top of his lungs.
The chaos eventually settled. The umpire called play ball, and the first pitch left Rondo's hand.
Crack!
"Huh?"
The batter jumped on the first pitch. A well-struck ball, low and screaming, knifing toward the gap between first and second.
"Out!"
And then a massive body launched itself sideways and snared it clean.
"Whoa… he can do that?"
Greg's diving catch erased a sure single. You never saw that during the regular season. Throwing a body that size at the dirt — the impact alone had to hurt like hell. But Greg didn't hesitate. He went for the out.
Before the game, our old man of a manager had drilled it into us over and over: no complacency tonight. Focus. He'd seen a few guys floating around like the title was already won, just like the fans out in the streets. Alan Thomas especially — the guy had been dancing around before the game even started. Got caught, and the skipper tore into him. I'd never seen our manager that angry. Come to think of it, Gordon Perry's finger-pointing earlier was probably him driving the same point home one more time.
Whatever the case, Grandpa Manager's words must have landed — because that first ball in play produced an insane defensive play. Greg, at least, was locked in.
It had been a scary ball, but Rondo stayed cool. He induced a routine out from the next hitter, then went aggressive inside on the one after that and froze him for a looking strikeout.
There's a saying that in big games, the team with the player who goes crazy is the one that wins. Usually it's some unexpected guy — a bottom-of-the-order bat going nuclear — that gets people talking. But who said it had to be the bottom of the order?
CRACK!!
The cleanup hitter could go crazy too.
With two outs, Eun-hyung worked a walk and took first. Then Greg — the same Greg who'd just stunned everyone with that diving catch — turned on the first pitch and yanked it clean over the wall.
He practically flung his bat away and circled the bases. I half-wondered if the Dodgers catcher would say something about the bat flip, but that guy didn't say a word to Greg. Didn't even look at him.
That bastard… the second he saw me, he started something…
Greg came back to the dugout with his face flushed deep red. Clearly fired up — and why wouldn't he be? This was his first World Series. Thirty-three years old, a veteran, and not a single one of his previous teams had ever made it this far. That was probably why he'd been so locked in from the first inning. And then he went and hit a home run in his very first World Series at-bat. Yeah. He had every right to be buzzing. He was just so quiet and reserved by nature that all the excitement stayed bottled up behind a red face.
There were a few of us like that — guys tasting the World Series for the first time. Me. Greg. Yua and Buxton, who'd come over in trades. The rookie Aaron. Eric, who'd barely gotten a shot until now.
Next up was a World Series veteran, Ernie Witt, who kept the pressure on a pitcher already rattled by the home run and drew another walk.
Dodgers starter Mike Weathers. Their number-two guy, solid enough through the Championship Series — but tonight he was coming apart in the first inning.
"KAAAAAANG!!!"
I was batting sixth today. Gordon Perry had stacked the lineup to protect me from behind.
"Kang Hajiiiiin~ Hooome ruuuun!"
Korean, out of nowhere, on my way to the box. I turned and spotted a guy in the front row screaming himself raw — unmistakably Korean. I shot him a thumbs-up, and that whole section lost it.
This is gonna be embarrassing if I strike out after that…
"Good morning~"
I stepped in and greeted the umpire like always, nice and friendly.
"Shut up and get ready to sit down."
The same guy who hadn't said a word to Greg was talking to me.
"Judging by the pitches, feels like you're the one who should be packing up."
Two walks and a home run already. No reason to go easy on a pitcher getting lit up like that.
The umpire told us to quit the chatter and play ball, so I cut it short and took the first pitch.
"Ball."
This guy's command was a mess tonight. How many had he already buried in the dirt?
"What, can't hit it? You just gonna stand there and take your walk to the dugout?"
What is wrong with this lunatic? The ball just bounced off the ground.
"Y-yeah. It's too tough. So just float one down the middle and we'll call it even."
I answered him nice and sweet again. The kid seemed a little slow — I couldn't bring myself to be mean about it.
Turns out he wasn't a bad kid after all.
"You're really gonna give me one?"
A changeup drifted in flat, right down the heart of the plate. I silently apologized to the catcher I'd misjudged and turned on it.
CRAAACK!!!
"YEAAAAAAAH!!!"
The wrist snap came through the swing in one perfect chain. The bat took the force and spun beautifully through the air as it flew.
Our home park, Fenway, has a giant wall in left field. But so what?
When you hit it like that, it goes out anyway.
I took my time circling the bases, soaking in the crowd, and touched home.
"Thanks. I'll return the favor tomorrow."
A promise for the kind, slightly dim friend I'd unfairly doubted.
"$#@%@#$^@%$@$!!!"
He was thrilled.