World Series: One Win Away
Honestly, it was true that I’d gotten a little uneasy after Game 1 wrapped up.
Ever since we entered the short series, the performances John Greinsky had shown weren’t exactly confidence-inspiring.
Was I the only one? The other players probably felt the same. They just never let it show.
When John Greinsky came into the dugout, everyone patted him on the back, saying it had been good pitching.
Especially Greg.
“We’ll flip it right back,” he said, grabbing his bat and heading out of the dugout.
This taciturn old guy had specially stepped up to throw in a word of support. But John Greinsky couldn’t even manage a smile for him.
Clearly, his confidence in his own pitching had taken a hit.
What do you do in a situation like that… Just patting him on the shoulder from the side didn’t seem like it would restore that lost confidence…
Honestly, I didn’t really know. It wasn’t that I’d never lacked faith in my own pitches… or rather… I just didn’t have any memory of ever feeling burdened by it.
Before meeting the Hooded Woman, my pitches themselves had been nothing special. That much was true. A right-handed pitcher throwing barely 87 mph… yeah. On top of that, I couldn’t even throw a dropping pitch.
The reason I still felt no pressure was because of my damn role. That cursed position. They only sent me out to eat up innings in games that were already lost. Why would there be any pressure? If I went into a game down by eight and gave up another five, who was going to say anything?
If the hitters managed to close the gap a bit while we were down big, maybe—but that team had neither the ability nor the will for that… And back then, even if my confidence dropped, there wasn’t anyone around to console me either.
So here I was, watching John Greinsky fretting beside me, wanting to help somehow but having no idea how.
Greg, who had gone out promising to flip the score, failed to keep that promise. To flip it, you first needed baserunners to get on and then drive them in, but we couldn’t even get a single runner on base. Of course, Greg didn’t hit a home run either.
“Batter out!”
Ernie Witt’s bat sliced through empty air, and the top of the second ended that way. Everyone was the same. They just couldn’t deal with that absurdly dropping curveball.
Bottom of the second, one out.
Thud.
The ball that slipped from John Greinsky’s hand hit the batter in the back and dropped. The batter went to first without a word, but the pitcher who threw it was far from calm. He covered his face with his glove, but the stream of curses was loud enough to reach the dugout.
Seeing that, the old man manager moved. The bullpen started getting busy. Even though it was only the second inning with one out.
Bottom of the fourth. With one out and runners on first and second, the pitching coach stepped out of the dugout. For having fired up the bullpen so early, they had waited quite a while to make the move. They’d made the guy warm up for a full two innings…
The score was 1–4. After 3.1 innings and four runs allowed, John Greinsky handed over the ball and left the mound. Three straight games with a loss on the line. Without meeting anyone’s eyes, he walked straight past the dugout and out, the only sound trailing him the crash of a trash can getting kicked halfway across the room.
We were down by three. Charles Bedard’s random blast had gotten us one run closer. It was still a deficit one good chance could erase. That made this pitching change critical—whether we gave up more runs with one out and runners on first and second, or whether we shut it down right here.
The man who took the mound with that mission was Karl Pollard. The same pitcher who, in Game 1 of the Division Series against the Yankees, had come in with an 8–0 lead and promptly given up six runs, nearly torpedoing the team. In short, the guy who had almost blown my win. After that, Karl Pollard hadn’t gotten a single appearance—until now.
Dodgers fans must have thought this was the moment to pad the lead and put the game away. Our own fans, still carrying the memory of that Division Series Game 1, were probably anxious too…
But Karl Pollard was calmer than expected. He threw two consecutive sinkers for a 1-1 count, then—
Crack.
“That’s it!”
Just as Gordon Perry roared, leaping to his feet with a clenched fist, Pollard executed his role perfectly.
“Out.”
“Out.”
A ground ball to short for the double play. Just like the old baseball saying—opportunity comes after crisis.
Crack.
Ernie Witt, who had struck out in his previous at-bat, laced a clean single up the middle and reached base. Then came Eric.
Thwaaack!
An enormous drive on an 0-2 count. Eric, who had gone up looking only for the curveball that had given everyone fits all day, lofted it clean over the center-field wall.
3–4. The game had gotten interesting.
“It feels like it’s going to happen and then it just… doesn’t. Damn it…”
We had climbed all the way back to 3–4, only to give up a two-run homer and fall behind 3–6 again. But just when everyone was feeling the sting, the opposing starter came out—and Eun-hyung immediately answered with a two-run shot of his own. Back to 5–6.
We had nearly tied it, yet both bullpens refused to give up another run after that. And finally, the closer who had carried the Dodgers to their first World Series appearance: Avery Robson. The monster who threw a sinker that cracked 100 mph took the mound.
Facing him, our lineup started with the nine-hole, Carl Janton. Carl hadn’t reached base all day. I prayed he’d show us something this time—
Crack!
“Whoa, fuck!!”
The ball dropped just inside the foul line. It looked like an inside sinker… how the hell did he hit that? The bat had been pushed, the ball had almost no juice, but the placement was pure magic. A soft liner that just cleared the first baseman’s glove, then immediately rolled away toward the line like it was trying to escape. Carl Janton made it all the way to second.
Nobody out, runner on second, and now the leadoff man, Arthur Burgart. I wondered if a bunt sign might come, but our manager chose to swing away.
Whap!
“Strike.”
That insane sinker caught the zone. Wasn’t this guy’s weakness supposed to be command? That pitch had been filthy. His stuff was elite, but the occasional wild stretch sometimes produced blown saves… Today, though, it looked like we could forget about that hope.
Whap. Whap.
One ball and one more strike made it 1-2. Another sinker came in, and Arthur Burgart finally swung.
Thunk.
The contact sounded dull. The bat shattered clean.
“Oh! Lucky break…”
A shard of the broken bat flew toward the pitcher. He hopped over it cleanly, no harm done—but the unexpected attack left him unable to field the soft roller that came right after. The third baseman charged late, barehanded it, and threw to first, but the batter was safe. In the meantime the runner from second advanced to third.
Top of the ninth, and it suddenly felt like the luck was swinging our way.
Before I stepped into the box, I had already made my decision. The pitcher on the mound threw sinkers for 90 percent of his pitches. You could call him a pure sinker one-tool guy and not be wrong. So of course I was going up hunting sinkers. Who wouldn’t?
What I’d decided on wasn’t the pitch I was looking for—it was the swing itself.
If I’m hunting one pitch, the old form is better.
The current form was better for reacting to whatever came. But when you were sitting on a single pitch, the old one was far superior. Gordon Perry used to call me crazy for switching swings so often… Thanks to the pills, it never bothered me at all. So this time I went back to the old one.
I stood in the box and carefully waved the bat. The pitcher, needing no signs, went right into his delivery.
Whap!
“…Ball.”
“What?”
The umpire’s ball call. The catcher looked startled. And me, letting out a quiet sigh of relief inside. It had been that close. I’d thought it was a strike myself.
I watched him hand the ball back with a look of regret and reset.
Crack.
“Foul.”
I tried guessing inside, figuring pure reaction was hopeless, but it broke less than I expected and I fouled it off.
“Ball.”
“Foul.”
One that missed badly and another foul made it 2-2. From the first pitch until now, the only thing in my head had been the sinker. Why bother with anything else against a guy who throws it over 90 percent of the time? Sure, something else might come… but this wasn’t a pitcher you faced thinking that way.
And then—
Cutter?
The instinct that had been dead quiet all day suddenly lit up. A cutter, out of nowhere. A pitch he might throw once a game if he felt like it. A right-hander’s cutter… In this count it would naturally run away outside…
A waste pitch? No… He’d challenge. A pitcher who’d found his command today would try to paint the black, wouldn’t he?
Thwaaaaack!!
Honestly, I just swung at the outside pitch and nothing else. But because I’d changed my mind at the last second, the timing felt a hair late. That was probably why the ball flew toward right field. Only it flew very fast. And very far.
Boom.
KAAAAANG!!!!