World Series Game Two

World Series Game Two.

I arrived at the stadium, loosened up, and got ready for the game, yet something felt a little off.

My heart was just so calm, you know?

When we were grinding through the Championship Series I had been tense, carrying a bit of pressure. But with a World Series start right in front of me, why was I this indifferent?

The rest of the guys were the same. Even though we were in the World Series, nobody looked especially worried or weighed down. Everyone was just doing their own work, preparing for the game…

Ah. Except for one person.

"Hey, try to settle down a little."

"Hoo… I'm fine. Don't worry about it."

Eric, who would be wearing the catcher's mask as the starter today. He clearly hadn't seen it coming; the moment the lineup was posted he froze solid and started stammering. And he had been like this ever since. At this rate I half expected him to get pulled before the first pitch.

The reason Eric was starting behind the plate instead of Gordon Perry was that Gordon had felt a slight twinge in his knee. It wasn't serious—Gordon himself insisted he could play—but the skipper apparently decided there was no point forcing it. With any other pitcher it might have been different, but Eric and I had been a battery all season long. The manager must have figured Eric would be more than enough.

He just never counted on the guy locking up like this.

"Hey."

Our team, however, had a terrifying presence—someone who stuck his nose into every single thing that happened around the clubhouse. There was no chance a man like that would ignore the guy who had to take his place. Eric got grabbed by Gordon Perry and hauled off into a corner.

"You're going the distance today, right?"

"…Hard to say. I'll know once I start throwing."

"Honestly, if you just decide to do it, you can, can't you?"

"Well, yeah, but—"

"I pitched yesterday. Their stuff really isn't sharp."

That was Rondo, sliding into the empty seat Eric had left. A complete game, huh… Depending on how the game went it could change, but if they asked me to finish it, I would. If I went the distance today and the Dodgers struggled early the way they had yesterday, the rest of their series was going to get ugly fast. Their starter had crumbled early last night and they had burned through a lot of arms. We had used three bullpen guys ourselves, but each of them had thrown clean single innings and they had been well rested, so it was no big deal.

If I carried the whole load tonight and the Dodgers had to keep dipping into the pen again? They would get tomorrow off, sure, but that would not be enough. On top of that, the one pitcher they trusted most had already been wrecked yesterday. Whoever they ran out for the rest of the series was going to be a step down. No matter how you looked at it, the Dodgers' ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠bullpen was going to get ground into dust.

"Anyway, you good?"

"With what?"

Rondo's finger pointed toward the corner of the dugout where today's lineup card was taped up.

"Ah—of course. Actually, I like it better. Those damn hitters… every time I pitch they turn into garbage. Might as well get out there early and swing myself."

"Hahaha! I'll pass that straight to Gordon."

"…Leave that guy out of it."

Gordon Perry always hit just fine when I was on the mound, so what was the problem? The reason Rondo had asked with a little concern was that the batting order had changed. No new faces—just a slight shuffle in the order.

My name was plastered right there in the two-hole. Everyone else had simply slid down one spot. All season long I had insisted that stamina was never an issue for me, and finally our old man of a manager had listened. The guy he always stuck in the six or seven hole had been jacked all the way up to second. Today's concept for the lineup was crystal clear: an absurdly dangerous number-two hitter.

"Kang! Kang! Kang! Kang! Kang!"

As I climbed the mound the cheers rolled in behind me. I had tried getting a few of the fans to pronounce "Kang" properly and they managed it fine—yet when they actually started chanting they went right back to "Kang." I had given up fighting it by now.

Eric reappeared looking thoroughly drained after his private session with Gordon Perry. Whatever the man had done to him, Eric looked completely cowed. Still, he seemed a little steadier mentally; he was raising his voice and barking demands at people, especially at Alan Thomas over at third. Watching him jab a finger and yell, I could tell he had learned from the master. Why Alan Thomas always ended up on the receiving end of that finger-pointing, I had no idea.

A little more time passed, and at last ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the home-plate umpire's call started Game Two.

No waiting around. I went straight into the windup.

Whap.

"Strike."

As always, the first pitch was a four-seam fastball in on the hands. A hundred-plus-mile heater on the inner half right out of the gate always worked. I punched out the leadoff man and got the second hitter on a ground ball. Then the third batter of the day stepped in—Andre Mays, who had been batting cleanup yesterday and had moved up a slot.

"Here comes the scary one~"

I had felt the same thing with Anthony Borden and with Lee Gijun: when hitters like this walked up, the strike zone suddenly felt tiny. Andre Mays in particular was excellent at shortening up and putting the ball in play when the situation called for it. He was not a pure full-swing guy like Lee Gijun.

Eric stared at Mays as the hitter dug in and scraped the dirt, then slipped his hand between his thighs. Fingers flashed.

Tick.

"Foul."

A two-seamer that ran away from ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the left-handed Mays on the outer edge caught the end of the bat and shot foul down the line. Mays watched the ball, nodded once, and reset. Same location, but a changeup that ran even harder, taken for a ball—one-and-one. Another two-seamer away fouled off, then a splitter he refused to chase, and the count sat at two-and-two.

Four straight pitches working the outer half. They all started in the same spot; the only difference was how much they ran or dropped. If I were the hitter I would have been forced to start thinking about the inner half. Anyone would. That was exactly why we had set up the outer half with those four pitches. We had talked through this exact sequence before the game.

"We're going with that?"

The next sign was a little different from what we had planned, but it was not hard to understand, and I liked the idea enough to give it a try. I nodded right away.

A four-seamer in on the hands—exactly what the hitter would be looking for.

Whoosh.

"Batter out!"

The high four-seamer rode up at chest height and Andre Mays could not stop his swing.

"Nice."

"Thanks."

I tapped gloves with Eric and headed for the dugout—only to grab my helmet and bat and walk right back out again.

LA Dodgers starter Neil Werther took the mound. Right-handed overhand guy whose main weapon was a heavy four-seamer that touched ninety-eight, plus a changeup that scouts rated as pretty damn good. Outside of the Dodgers or other top-tier clubs he would have been a solid number-two starter. In the Championship Series against Milwaukee, though, his stuff had not been what it was during the regular season—two starts, two losses. Kind of like our own John Greinsky.

The reason he had stumbled in the Championship Series was that four-seamer. Yesterday Mike Weathers had kept missing arm-side and getting himself into trouble; this guy kept leaving the fastball over the heart of the plate. If a pitch misses, at least you might get a swing. When it comes in fat, all you can do is get hit.

Like this.

Tick.

Our rock-solid leadoff man Arthur Burgart took a slightly inside third pitch and casually punched ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠it through for a single. He could have gotten greedy, but the swing was short and clean—just enough to clear the infield.

"Good morning~"

I greeted the umpire, stepped into the box, and offered the same hello to catcher Harim Gonzalez that I had given him yesterday. Yesterday he had at least answered. Today he completely ignored me.

"Do me a favor again today. I'll pay you back a little later."

"……"

Still ignored. I finished waving the bat around just as a sign came from Arthur at first. Arthur was the only guy on our club with a green light—run whenever you see the chance—yet he was not actually much of a base-stealer. Today, though, right from the jump, he put the sign on himself. He was going if he liked the look.

I had to match him. The bat handle that had been up by my ear dropped to my shoulder. The barrel that had been standing straight tilted just a hair back, and my stance opened a fraction. That was it—I had gone back to the old swing, the same full-cut form I used to use when I swung like Lee Gijun. Tiny adjustments. Had the Dodgers pitcher and catcher even noticed?

Apparently not, judging by the pitch they called.

The second the pitcher started his delivery, Arthur broke. The ball was a slider diving away on the outer half. I watched it drop and only then started the bat. A massive full swing that completely blocked the catcher's view of second base.

"@#$%@#$@%@#!!!"

Harim Gonzalez never even got the throw off. Arthur's jump had been perfect, and by the time the catcher secured the ball the bat was already sweeping past his face; his reaction was late. All he could do was stand there and curse. The pitcher covered his mouth with his glove, so he was clearly unloading a few choice words of his own.

Whatever. Nobody out, runner on second.

I let the next breaking ball drop for a ball, one-and-one.

"About time for one to leak over the plate."

A pitcher whose best pitch was the four-seamer had thrown two straight off-speed pitches. Even if he knew his fastball was not sharp and was trying to cut back on it, he could not avoid it forever. One had to come soon.

I took the changeup for ball two. Then, finally, the four-seamer I had been waiting for on the fourth pitch. It was not as middle-middle as I had hoped, but a fastball on the outer half that he was trying to throw for a strike was not hard to handle. He had clearly been fighting to locate it; the velocity was down and the life on the ball was ordinary.

Crack!

I punched it the other way, the ball clearing the first baseman's reach and rolling down the line. Just like Arthur earlier, I had simply taken what was given and pushed it the other way, and the location was perfect. Arthur scored standing up; I coasted into second. Score: 0–1.

First inning of my start and we already had the lead. I had driven in the run myself, and the good feeling had not even faded yet when—

CRAAAACK!!

"Holy shit…"

Alan Thomas, batting third today, smoked a line drive that never came down, clearing the right-field fence in a heartbeat. Nobody out, score 0–3.

Once again, the game had caught fire right from the start.