Perfect Game

"What's it feel like, standing out there throwing like that?"

"Beats me… I'm a catcher."

"That's not what I—whoa, another strikeout. That's eight batters in a row."

"And that's the second strikeout of this inning on just six pitches."

"Is he actually insane today? How does anyone throw like that?"

"I know. He looks like he's having an even easier time than when he played back in Korea."

"Yeah… must be nice for you."

At Ko Mandeok's sudden remark, Jeong Jong-seong's head snapped to the right.

"Why me?"

"You've already got the Asian Games gold locked up, don't you?"

"Ah~ heh heh."

"Would you look at that? Another whiff. He's just straight-up parking four-seamers down the middle and they're still swinging at air."

"That's not just any four-seamer. That's a hundred-and-six-mile rising four-seamer."

"It's over. Done."

"It's still only one–nothing."

"You think Hajin's going to give up a run? After seeing those pitches?"

"……"

"Wanna bet?"

"No."

Jeong Jong-seong's head shook hard and fast.

This was getting awkward.

I'd only thrown three innings, and already the guys were trying to keep their distance.

Just now Alan Thomas had come barreling over ready to yap my ear off, only for Gordon Perry to shut him down cold and send him slinking back with his tail between his legs.

Like I always said, I didn't care much about records.

Sure, it'd be nice to have my name attached to some all-time mark, but if it didn't happen, what could you do?

Apparently the people around me felt differently.

The reason everyone was acting like this already today had to be the consecutive strikeouts.

Starting from the first batter of the first inning, nine batters faced, nine strikeouts including the one I'd just rung up.

The Major League record for consecutive strikeouts was thirteen, I think.

But that guy's mark hadn't come in a single game.

The single-game record was ten.

Meaning if I punched out just the first batter of ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the fourth, I'd tie the single-game consecutive strikeout record.

"Well… wouldn't mind it."

Honestly, I felt like I could do it. Either one.

Last time I'd taken a Booster, I'd held a little something back.

Today I was just pouring everything out. That was how I'd already thrown a hundred and nine twice.

Someone could hit this stuff? Yeah, right.

Through three innings, twenty-eight pitches, and the bat had made contact exactly twice.

Both of them barely nicked fouls.

Crack!

"Oh~"

With one out, Carl Janton's single.

A clean liner that dropped in front of the center fielder, putting a runner on first.

Which meant if things went well this inning, I'd get a crack at it myself.

As long as Arthur Burgart didn't bounce into a double play.

But then—

Crack!

"Ooooh!!!"

Back-to-back hits.

Carl Janton on first misread the ball and only made it to second, but that didn't matter.

What mattered was two runners on base.

The more I thought about it, the stranger it all was.

The Hooded Woman who'd appeared out of nowhere.

I still had no idea who she really was. Still didn't know why she was helping me.

The pills she'd all but forced on me.

When I first started taking them, I'd figured I'd just have a little more success as a pitcher…

Never in a million years had I imagined I'd be stepping in as a hitter in the World Series.

And speaking of strange, Ho-min was a weird one too…

The way he'd looked at the suddenly transformed me and acted like it was nothing…

Sure, he'd been a little puzzled, but that was it. He never pried into how it happened. Just stuck to my side saying he'd be my manager and left it at that.

Wonder if that bastard's doing okay in the booth.

"Ball."

Is he really planning to stay on that path forever?

"Ball."

I offered him money and he cut his own rate, and now he's trying to peel off completely? Damn guy.

"Ball."

"Hey. You walking me?"

Three straight balls.

He'd been trying to paint the corners and coax a swing out of me, but I hadn't so much as twitched.

When you could see exactly what was coming and where, there was no reason to go fishing for balls.

"Appreciate the thought of walking me so I don't wear myself out pitching, but just give me one down the middle and let's get this over with. Wouldn't that be easier for everyone?"

"Shut up."

"Fine by me."

I traded a few words with Harim Gonzalez—there was almost a weird friendliness to it by now—and settled back into my stance.

Hoping maybe one would come in over the plate.

But I got the feeling this next one was coming in ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠low again.

"Do I just swing at this?"

Unlike the first three, it wasn't peeling off outside, which made me hesitate.

It looked like a pitch I could actually drive, which only made it harder.

CRACK!

"Ah…"

Damn it.

Too quick.

I'd been so focused on lifting the low pitch that I'd gotten out ahead of myself.

The ball sailed just outside the line and dropped into the edge of the third-base seats.

The crowd roared hot for a second, then cooled with a collective groan of disappointment.

"Tsk."

Close. The distance had been there.

I clicked my tongue and waited for the next pitch.

"Look at this bastard."

The exact same pitch in the exact same spot as the one before.

What was this?

Did he actually think that last ball had gone foul because he'd thrown it well?

If so, he was badly mistaken…

CRAAAACK!!!

Like hell I ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠was missing it twice.

"……"

"……"

"That guy is actually insane…"

"If I had to face him, I think I'd just get sick of it."

"Even if you're not facing him it's a lot, isn't it? I'm watching on TV and I feel it."

"You don't think he'll keep this up the whole—nah, no way."

"Yeah. That's… sigh. I don't even know anymore."

I was on a deserted island.

In my usual corner of the dugout, there wasn't a soul within several meters of me.

Truly no one.

Gordon Perry and Greg sat a little ways off like a pair of gatekeepers, and nobody even thought about crossing inside their perimeter.

"Do we really have to take it this far…"

A game that could end the World Series. A five-run lead that, by any reasonable measure, had the win locked up on our side.

Under normal circumstances this dugout should have been bouncing off the walls…

Instead it felt like a funeral parlor.

Against the Dodgers' new pitcher we went down in order.

We'd battled hard enough to run up his pitch count, but none of us managed to get on base. A shame.

I climbed the mound to face the thirteenth batter of the night.

Four pitches on Gordon Perry's trademark quick signs, giving the hitter no time to breathe.

"Batter out!"

And the next one too.

"Batter out!"

"YEEEAAAAAHHHHH!!!!"

The roar exploded from the stands and the dugout at the same time.

The crowd knew I'd just shattered the consecutive-batter strikeout record.

I tipped my cap to them, then locked back in on the next hitter.

Tick.

The second-pitch four-seamer caught a piece of the bat.

But he didn't get it clean—a high pop-up drifting backward.

It wasn't going far. Just a little floater right behind the plate.

Except Gordon Perry was acting strange.

He looked like he was flailing around on purpose.

"Don't tell me…"

Was this idiot deliberately not catching it? Trying to pad the strikeout record?

Was he out of his mind… pulling that in the World Series…

"Just catch it!"

I shouted as I closed on home, and only then did he spin around and lift his mitt.

Thud.

"…Out."

The home-plate umpire's call came a beat late.

Gordon Perry's fierce face was packed with pure regret.

I couldn't help snorting out a laugh at the sight.

"What are you so disappointed about? We're still perfect."

Gordon Perry recoiled like he'd been electrocuted and scrambled away.

The look of pure disbelief on his face was pretty entertaining.

The second I hit the dugout I grabbed my bat and headed right back out.

In the meantime the pitcher who'd thrown over twenty pitches the previous inning was gone, and a third arm was out there throwing warm-ups.

A moment later Arthur Burgart flied out to center.

"…What is this?"

Whether his command had slipped or not, the ball came barreling straight down the heart of the plate.

With the lead we had, I'd been planning to take it easy…

But when they served one up like that, there was no way I could just let it go…

CRAAAACK!!!

"Gone."

My third bat flip of the night, spinning lazy circles through the air.

As I rounded first, second, third, every single defender I passed had his head hanging limp.

Harim Gonzalez waiting at the plate was no different.

Our dugout, on the other hand, had completely lost its mind.

After sitting there like a funeral all night—

At least they still knew ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠how to celebrate a home run.

And then, right after—

CRACK!!

"It's goooone!"

Alan Thomas's back-to-back shot.

After that inning, you could call the game over without anyone arguing.

Through the top of the sixth, seventh, and eighth, the Dodgers' hitters came at me even more aggressively.

I didn't think they believed they could flip the game.

Three straight hits in the top of the seventh had plated another run, making it already eight–nothing.

Nobody charged the plate like that because they thought they could come back from this.

They just wanted to get on base somehow. Anything.

Top of the ninth. I stepped onto the mound and looked up at the scoreboard—a row of zeros staring back at me.

The one mild regret was that from the sixth through the eighth I'd only managed five more strikeouts.

Nineteen Ks so far.

The record was twenty, wasn't it?

Gordon Perry looked like his head was about to explode.

If you wanted the strikeout record you had to attack, but attack and you risked giving up a hit.

We'd kept the zero parade going this long, but it was already the ninth, and I was closing in on ninety pitches.

He was probably thinking my arm might be fading.

He didn't need to worry at all.

"Let's just do what we've been doing."

I decided to take the load off Gordon Perry's mind.

Same approach as always.

I'd attacked for eight straight innings—no reason to start running from the zone now just because of a record.

POP!

"Batter out!"

Even so, I hadn't expected him to be this bold…

Calling for it right down the middle like that…

Tick.

Facing the next batter, my third-pitch slider caught the end of the bat.

A routine grounder rolling toward third.

Alan Thomas charged it.

And then—bobble, bobble.

The kid fumbled it once, barely scooped it back up, and fired to first.

"…Out."

Way too close.

Gordon Perry glared at Alan Thomas like he was about to murder him on the spot.

Completely oblivious, Alan Thomas just wiped his chest in relief and grinned that dopey grin…

"Whew… good lord, that idiot."

How could anyone look that sunny…

Tick.

POP!