World Series
"Weird..."
Whoosh!
"Strike."
"Why is this..."
Whoosh!
"Strike."
"Is the game this easy?"
Whoosh!
"Batter out!"
I struck out Andre Mays—the third batter of the top of the fourth—on three straight pitches and walked off the mound.
I'd given up a fluke single in the top of the third, but we'd turned it into a double play. The ball had been a little deep toward third, yet Alan Thomas snagged it with a spectacular backhand and completed the twin killing.
At the plate I was flying too. After the home run in my first at-bat, I'd ripped a triple in my second and was tearing around the bases. Whatever the reason, my condition today was clearly razor-sharp.
The LA Dodgers hitters, by contrast, looked more and more like something essential had gone missing from their game. Maybe it was because the score had opened up from the first inning—honestly, it even felt like they were half-assing it. Defensive errors piled on top of everything else, and by the end of the top of the fourth the score had ballooned to 0–6.
Even Andre Mays, the only Dodger I'd been truly wary of, went down swinging three times in a row in his second at-bat and trudged back to the dugout looking empty. An overall collapsed look—that was the Dodgers so far.
The second pitcher who'd come on in the bottom of the third took the mound again. Watching him throw in the third, it had seemed like they could have pulled him... yet for some reason they were sticking with him.
"Don't tell me they've already thrown in the towel?"
It was only the fourth inning, but it felt like they'd already given up on the game.
"If you figure you've got to score six runs off you, yeah, that could happen."
"That so? Hmm..."
Well, it wasn't wrong. I hadn't given up six runs even once all season.
Crack.
Arthur Burgart smacked his second hit of the day and trotted to first. Then it was my turn again. A hit and a walk already—this was my third at-bat of the afternoon.
"Seeing a lot of you today."
I offered another greeting to Harim Gonzalez, who was being unusually silent. Bottom of the fourth and already the third time—yeah, that counted as seeing a lot.
Pop.
"Ball."
A pitch that buried itself in the dirt for ball one. Today every Dodgers pitcher seemed to plant the ball in the dirt the moment they faced me. The previous two at-bats they'd been burying breaking balls... this guy was burying four-seamers.
Pop.
"Ball."
Again a pitch that broke early and headed straight for the dirt.
"If you're gonna do this, just walk me. It's hard and annoying for both of us."
Pop.
"Ball."
Three balls in a row. This one at least didn't dig into the dirt—it came in way high instead. Could this pitcher not throw anywhere near the middle? I'd need something halfway decent before I even thought about swinging. I figured I'd just take the walk. His control looked completely shot, so I decided to take this pitch too and settled into my stance.
But then...
"Huh?"
What the hell was this? A pitch floating in beautifully, right down the heart of the plate. I wondered if it might still break, but no. So it was just coming in like that? Even with three balls—even if he wanted a strike—still, a pitch like this...?
Crack!!
My bat whipped through clean. With a crisp, ringing sound the ball soared into the distance. I tossed the bat aside like there was nothing left to see and jogged casually toward first.
But why... was Arthur Burgart, standing on first, suddenly sprinting full tilt?
Thud.
"Oh, fuck..."
The massive wall towering in left field stopped my home run cold. Of all places, it had to catch just short of clearing the top. Luckily the ball caromed off the wall and dropped away from the defense, so I coasted into second with room to spare. Arthur Burgart, who'd been running full speed from the jump, had of course already scored.
"You knew it wouldn't go over, huh?"
Was it because he'd been with this team so long? Just from the flight of the ball he already had the feel for it. I'd played a full year myself—so why couldn't I...?
Crack!
Alan Thomas stepped in right after me and scooped a pitch that was practically scraping the dirt, turning it into a base hit. That guy's luck was riding with him today too. In three at-bats he already had a cycle going—just a double left to complete it. Looking at the way the game was flowing, he might actually pull it off.
The bottom of the fourth stretched on forever. Long enough that Arthur Burgart, who'd led off the inning, came up to bat again. Really loooong. Five runs in the bottom of the fourth alone. Score: 0–11. Anyone with eyes could see today's game was over.
"How about wrapping it up here?"
"Sounds good."
After we finished the bottom of the sixth and I returned to the dugout, Grandpa Manager kindly asked me himself. I answered right away that it was fine, and he headed back to his seat looking satisfied. Normally I'd want to keep throwing longer... but there was zero reason to. After the fourth more runs had poured in, and the score now sat at 0–13. In a thirteen-run game there was no need for me to dig in my heels. On top of that, the Dodgers had already subbed out several of their starters.
They'd given up.
The mound I left went to two pitchers who hadn't gotten many chances lately. The huge lead seemed to take the pressure off; aside from one unexpected home run they allowed, both of them threw well.
Final score: 2–13.
Our Red Sox had taken two wins at home.
The road trip to Dodger Stadium.
We spent the off day as pure rest. Under Grandpa Manager's orders that nothing else would be permitted, we literally just ate and slept.
After that full day of recovery, the Game 3 lineup once again had Eric Danson's name written on it. Gordon Perry's body, which he'd insisted was fine, still didn't seem fully recovered. He himself claimed there was nothing wrong... but if that were true, he would have been starting. At least, after shutting them down perfectly for one game, Eric's face looked pretty good. Watching him joke around with today's starter, John Greinsky, it seemed he'd completely shaken off the pressure.
John Greinsky, who'd looked rough through the Division Series and Championship Series, also wore a decent expression. When I'd seen him at dinner the night before he'd still looked a little dark...
"How's the ball?"
I casually asked Eric, who'd been catching John Greinsky's bullpen before the game.
"Pretty much okay."
"······"
Then isn't that not good? To make up for the two previous losses, it needed to be better than "pretty much okay." That was just a polite way of saying it wasn't great, right?
Seeing the worry on my face, Eric confidently repeated that it would be fine. Since he told me not to worry, I couldn't push any further, so I let the conversation drop there.
Top of the first—we were batting first. Once again I was hitting second, right behind Arthur Burgart. Behind me was Alan, who'd finally completed the cycle in his last at-bat of Game 2. That talkative guy was already going around declaring he'd hit for the cycle again today, chattering nonstop.
The Dodgers' starter was Dennis McQueen. An unexpected start. Dennis McQueen had only been called up past mid-season. He'd put up decent enough numbers after arriving... but I never expected him to start in a series like this, in a situation like this.
"Did they put him out because the previous guys' control was such a mess?"
Dennis McQueen was known as a control specialist. His fastball velocity didn't even reach major-league average. These days the average MLB fastball sat around 95 mph, so his was slower than that. And it wasn't as if his breaking balls were particularly special either. What he did have was a lot of different pitches. He could throw most pitch types to some degree...
I figured he made his living off that variety and his command.
"Batter out!"
Until Arthur Burgart came back after striking out on four pitches.
"That's not 'to some degree'..."
"Damn. The curve is insane. It drops right in front of your eyes."
Leaving Arthur Burgart's grumbling behind, I stepped into the box.
"Good morning~"
"Shut up and get in already."
Oh—this guy was answering today. But the catcher's tone was awfully confident. Because he'd just struck out Arthur Burgart? He'd only faced one batter so far. What on earth had made this catcher so full of himself?
"Strike."
On the first pitch—a curve that clipped the outside corner low—I thought I understood the reason a little. The pitcher was on fire today. Just like Arthur Burgart had said, it really felt like the ball dropped right in front of your eyes. What kind of curve was this? It wasn't even a forkball.
Tick.
After two consecutive strike calls, the ball I barely forced onto the bat became a weak pop fly to the first baseman. Then Alan fell behind in the count and grounded out as well.
"This is..."
Something felt ominous.
Then came the bottom of the first with the Dodgers batting. John Greinsky got two outs with just five pitches and started off nicely. Then Andre Mays stepped in.
Crack!
"Whoooooaaaaa!!"
Andre Mays, who'd been quiet the previous two games, finally showed what he could do. The instant the ball left the bat, everyone in the stadium knew it was gone—an absolute missile. It hit the roof at the far end of the outfield and caromed straight out. John Greinsky's head drooped weakly after getting the first two hitters and looking like he might finally show a different side today.
"Aigoo..."
He gave up another hit to the next batter, making my heart lurch, but thankfully he got the following hitter on a fly out to end the bottom of the first.
"This won't be easy..."
Only a one-run deficit. But the early momentum had already shifted to the home team.