Pitcher’S End, Batter’S Start [EN]: Chapter 172

The entire city of Atlanta was buzzing with excitement. A palpable sense of anticipation hung in the air, with people’s faces beaming with joy and celebratory banners and signs adorning every corner. Lee Jung-woo, on his way to the stadium, couldn’t help but chuckle at the sight.

“21% off all items if the Braves achieve a 21-game winning streak!”

This slogan was plastered on banners in front of nearly every store. While the discount itself wasn’t massive, the fact that even high-end electronics retailers were participating spoke volumes.

Many establishments were offering even more substantial discounts, some advertising 50% off or more. Certain bars were even offering free drinks.

Everyone was eagerly awaiting this moment: a chance to tie the National League record after a century.

To be fair, the Cleveland Indians had already achieved a 22-game winning streak in 2017, surpassing the existing record. However…

‘They always need a bigger, more sensational hook. Besides, it’s not exactly a lie.’

The Indians probably felt a bit slighted, even a little ridiculous. Most media outlets had jumped on the Braves’ bandwagon, promoting the potential record-tying game as a once-in-a-century event.

Anyone with a modicum of sense knew who was orchestrating this frenzy.

‘The league office is fully behind it. They don’t know when another event this big will come along.’

It was an opportunity to amplify the already intense baseball fever ignited by the “Three Musketeers” (Harding, Hunter, and Lee), pouring gasoline—or rather, entire drums of it—onto the fire.

It might sound a bit unfair to the Indians, but the truth was being temporarily sidelined due to the Braves’ overwhelming popularity.

The result was the scene unfolding before him. Braves fever everywhere. Atlanta was completely consumed by the Braves.

Even Atlanta residents who typically favored the NFL’s Falcons or the NBA’s Hawks, and had little interest in baseball, were being coerced by family and friends to don the white and red Braves uniforms.

‘It’s overwhelming.’

Lee Jung-woo, who was accustomed to driving through these streets, felt a strange weight on his chest amidst the extraordinary atmosphere.

‘And I’m not the only one feeling it.’

The city of Atlanta, the state of Georgia, countless media outlets, and Major League Baseball itself were collectively generating immense pressure.

Unless someone was a complete sociopath, the players tasked with meeting these expectations were bound to feel the strain.

‘It would be amazing to break the record… not just tie it, but shatter it and set a new MLB record. That would be incredible.’

He doubted it would last a century like the Chicago Cubs’ [referring to their long championship drought], but at least a generation. The excitement was palpable, but Lee Jung-woo shook his head.

‘But if we fail, the backlash will be brutal. We’ve been winning so consistently that a loss will fundamentally change things.’

A team that always wins. A team where, regardless of the opponent, the Braves were expected to emerge victorious. That aura of invincibility surrounding the Atlanta Braves would be severely diminished.

It wouldn’t completely collapse, of course, but it would take considerable time to rebuild that level of confidence and dominance.

‘If we lose, the impact will be significant, unless it’s a truly spectacular loss.’

Lee Jung-woo glanced out the window at the bustling streets and started the car again as the light turned green.

####

The Mets players, upon arriving in Atlanta, were met with an unsettling feeling. They could sense the entire city scrutinizing them from the moment they disembarked from the plane.

Some of the more boisterous, hardcore fans glared at them with palpable intensity, as if warning them that any thoughts of winning in Atlanta would be met with dire consequences.

“Are they going to shoot us or something?”

“This isn’t Philadelphia. Atlanta people aren’t that crazy. Probably…”

The Braves fans viewed the Mets as mere sacrifices on the altar of the record. Nothing more. And they seemed prepared to suffocate any resistance from those sacrifices.

Some Mets players, who remembered Atlanta as a relatively calm and subdued city due to the team’s past struggles—which was only last year—were taken aback by the unfamiliar atmosphere.

Truist Park had transformed dramatically in a short period. So much so that those familiar with its previous state felt a sense of disorientation.

While they didn’t face the blatant, vitriolic insults hurled at Citizens Bank Park [home of the Philadelphia Phillies], the intensity felt even greater.

“Because of that bastard…”

A coach muttered in despair. He didn’t need to specify who he was referring to; everyone knew. The “bastard” in question was Jung-woo Lee. The Braves’ suddenly emerged star. Their “God,” even. It seemed like an overblown title to bestow upon a player in only his second year, and technically less than a year since his debut, but Braves fans embraced it wholeheartedly.

Their actions resembled those of zealous devotees worshipping a deity. It was both absurd and understandable.

If such a player had emerged from the Mets, their fans would undoubtedly be acting the same way.

In that tense atmosphere, the pitcher scheduled to start today’s game looked particularly grim. The catcher shared the same expression.

The battery’s [pitcher and catcher] unease was palpable even amidst the general gloom. Usually, some veterans would approach them with words of encouragement, but today, no one did.

They couldn’t help but feel a sense of dread.

“Why us, of all teams…”

“Ha, why do we have to be the ones?”

“Everyone seems to be forgetting something. Even without the record, we still need to win, you know? We’re in third place right now. The gap between us and second place is widening, and fourth place has narrowed the gap to three games. We have to beat the Braves, or even their grandfathers.”

Why us? The players who had been grumbling nodded in agreement at their captain’s stern words. The Mets’ situation was too precarious to be selective about their opponents.

It wasn’t just about preventing the record and avoiding humiliation; every game was crucial.

They were fighting for a playoff spot, with the gap between them and the Marlins, who had once seemed distant, shrinking rapidly.

“Braves or whatever, we just need to focus on winning. That’s our job.”

####

“Those guys are serious, too.”

“Their performance is on the line, so the players must be feeling it.”

“Well, even though it’s only the first half of the season, it’s getting a bit dicey. If they fall further behind, their chances of making the postseason will be slim.”

The Mets players emerged onto the Truist Park field one by one, their faces etched with determination. A palpable resolve to win permeated the team. Some hitters, in particular, glared at Lee Jung-woo, brandishing their bats.

‘They’re going to burn a hole in my face.’

They were probably thinking, ‘If you hit, I’ll hit too.’ Relief pitcher Roy Pennington, who was lightly warming up, tilted his head as if he had noticed the tension, then chuckled.

“When you think about it, shouldn’t we be the ones acting like that? They can just recover their performance, but we’re trying to stop a record-breaking winning streak.”

The Braves seemed surprisingly calm considering the high stakes and the immense expectations from the fans. Roy Pennington shook his head at the contrast between the Mets’ fiery passion and the Braves’ composure, but then he mirrored their expression as if he had realized something.

“The most important thing for us right now is to just keep doing what we’ve been doing.”

The Braves were a team riding an 18-game winning streak. If they hadn’t lost their last game against the Cubs, the streak would have been even longer. They had been winning far more often than losing since the season began. Victory had become the norm for the Braves.

Therefore, the Braves didn’t need to force themselves to elevate their game or create an artificial atmosphere of intensity. They simply needed to maintain their established routine.

“Ahem, now that we’re out of Coors Field [known as a hitter-friendly ballpark], I’ll get a hold as usual today…”

“Pennington won’t be out there today.”

Pennington, who was brimming with ambition while maintaining a calm facade, tilted his head and followed Lee Jung-woo’s gaze when he pointed towards someone.

“Allen? Why Allen? Is he in good condition? Is he going to pitch a shutout or something?”

“It’s not about a shutout…”

Lee Jung-woo turned his attention back to the Mets. Players radiating a fierce desire to win. Their eyes were undeniably menacing, but Lee Jung-woo was confident that they could extend their winning streak, at least in this game.

‘O’Donnell is a very unique player. Both his playing style and his general demeanor.’

Allen O’Donnell.

The starting pitcher for this game, and an unexpected gem that the Braves had acquired during the offseason.

As unconventional as his pitching style was, he also had some peculiar habits. Lee Jung-woo knew a great deal about him, not only from his pre-regression knowledge but also because he was a shortstop who was well-liked by pitchers.

That’s why he had a strong feeling they would win today.

‘Didn’t he say he wears pink baseball shoes on days when he’s feeling good? I’m not sure, but I hope that’s the case.’

Bright pink shoes adorned both of his feet as he chatted with his teammates.

The surrounding players stared at the vibrant color, which seemed more appropriate for young girls, as if they were witnessing something truly bizarre.

Lee Jung-woo nodded upon noticing them.

“It’s not about a shutout, then what is it?”

“If he’s on, he might even pitch a perfect game.”

“Is he that good?”

Lee Jung-woo, who had been plagued by worries until he entered the stadium, was now simply curious. He was a natural ground ball pitcher, and if he was in peak form, coupled with the defense of a top-tier shortstop like himself—though he felt a bit self-conscious saying it—and a top-notch second baseman like Derek, what would the outcome be?

‘No matter how good I am, the pitchers are the ones who ultimately face the hitters. I need to focus on that. What’s the point of fixating on the same hitters?’

Lee Jung-woo cast a slightly mocking glance at the Mets hitters, who were still glaring at him, oblivious to the situation, and refocused on his warm-up.

####

The Mets hitters were brimming with determination, mirroring the Braves’ resolve. They knew that their current pitching staff was unlikely to contain the Braves’ potent lineup.

That left them with only one option: a slugfest. They were slightly, or perhaps significantly, outmatched, but they believed they could overcome it.

‘Allen O’Donnell, his performance is decent, but it’s mostly luck anyway.’

‘His velocity is average, his stuff isn’t impressive. All of his pitches are just average. If we can get to him, we can beat him.’

Beneath their bravado, there was a hint of disdain for the opposing pitcher.

One might question their audacity in dismissing the Braves, who boasted a formidable starting lineup reminiscent of the powerhouses of the 90s. But at least this particular series didn’t feature those aces.

The starting rotation was currently relying on its 3-4-5 options, and while Allen O’Donnell, today’s starting pitcher, had a respectable record, there was something unconvincing about him.

A lucky pitcher, a pitcher whose success was built on smoke and mirrors. A pitcher heavily reliant on his defense. A pitcher vulnerable to attack if they could just figure him out.

That was the prevailing perception of Allen O’Donnell among the Mets hitters. He had been producing solid results since being traded from the Yankees, seemingly enjoying a career resurgence. But few attributed it to genuine skill. It seemed like too many fortunate circumstances were contributing to his success for it to be considered a true reflection of his ability.

That’s why the Mets hitters were burning with the desire to win and determined to puncture his bubble. But it didn’t take long for them to confront reality.

[Finally, the game we’ve all been waiting for is about to begin. Braves versus Mets. First, let’s take a look at the lineups for both teams. Just as expected, right?]

[Yes, both teams have fielded their strongest possible lineups.]

[It’s clear they’ve prepared thoroughly for this crucial game. The recent head-to-head record between these teams is… and the starting pitcher’s record is…]

With all preparations complete,

The Braves players took their positions on the field. As the commentators provided their analysis, the umpire bellowed, “Play ball!”

“Let’s go! Let’s go!”

“I’ll get on base first, let’s start with a run. That’ll make things easier.”

“We need to score as many runs as possible before their bullpen comes into play, otherwise it’ll be tough.”

It took approximately one minute for the Mets’ 1-2-3 hitters to be retired.

“Hmph-”

First, the leadoff hitter. He attempted to prolong the at-bat as much as possible. But as if mocking his efforts, he swung wildly at a pitch that was practically down the middle of the strike zone.

As the bat made weak contact with the ball, a few visiting fans tentatively began to cheer, but quickly subsided.

Some Braves fans glared in their direction, but more importantly, the resulting ground ball was so pathetic that they were embarrassed to have even stood up.

“Oh? Thank you.”

The pitcher, Allen O’Donnell, bowed slightly as if thanking the hitter, then casually scooped up the ball that had trickled in front of the mound and tossed it to first base.

Out before he could even take a few steps from the plate. A collective sigh of disappointment emanated from the Mets’ dugout at the futile first at-bat. But after that, they were rendered speechless.

Because what followed was so absurd that they couldn’t even muster a reaction.

[Uh… in an instant, the top of the first inning, the Mets’ attack has concluded.]

[Huh, what is this? Three up, three down in the blink of an eye. Literally a 1-2-3 inning.]

[He’s known for inducing ground balls… I think we can expect something special from him today.]

Even the commentators, who had been building the tension from the outset of this highly anticipated game, chuckled at the anticlimactic turn of events. Three up, three down. Everyone in the stadium watched Allen O’Donnell, who had thrown only three pitches during the entire inning and was casually strolling off the mound as if he were going for a leisurely walk, with a mixture of awe and disbelief.

What the heck is that guy?

Lee Jung-woo, who had already anticipated this outcome, shook his head at the farcical inning that had deflated the tension hanging over the stadium, but he also felt a wave of relief wash over him, dispelling the lingering doubts that had been nagging at him.

‘The defense is solid. All I have to do is score. I don’t need much… just one run will be enough.’

At least today, he didn’t have to brace himself for defeat.