Pitcher’S End, Batter’S Start [EN]: Chapter 265

Amidst the unwavering support of Philadelphia fans and the visiting team’s mixture of awe and exasperation, the game commenced. Despite their fervent cheering, the spectators were palpably anxious.

“We’ve gotta win today, please…”

“If we get swept, seriously…”

“It’s not just the sweep; if we lose, our Wild Card hopes are gone.”

“Damn it, just let us have this one. We won 16 games against them this season; isn’t that enough?”

Their brains long since infected with rage, they reflexively hurled insults at anyone in a Braves uniform, but it wasn’t enough to soothe their frayed nerves.

With only four games left until the end of the pennant race, they were teetering on the edge, clinging to a Wild Card spot while facing the daunting prospect of a winless record against their rivals—a dubious achievement in itself.

It was quite remarkable, and somewhat pathetic, that they were still in the Wild Card hunt despite losing sixteen times to the same division rival.

“That’s it! Yeah, baby!”

“Finally playing like human beings! If you’d done this earlier, we’d be fighting for the division, not just the Wild Card! Idiots!”

“16 straight losses? Screw that! The only games that matter are the ones in the fall! We just need to win when it counts!”

So, when the Braves’ first-inning offense—a lineup that included a particularly nasty player—ended smoothly, the crowd erupted in cheers as if they had already won the game.

The fact that the nasty player hit a somewhat powerful shot made their hearts sink a little. Okay, maybe a lot.

The ball was hit so hard that it elicited a collective gasp of surprise. But it went foul and was caught by the right fielder.

“His condition… it’s not great, right?”

“He’s supposedly exhausted, right? Only two hits in the last three games? It can’t be.”

“Can’t you tell? His batting is off. I saw him against Washington; he was getting caught every time. The bubble is bursting.”

Nevertheless, they desperately clung to positive thoughts, fervently hoping for a different outcome today, and they spurred on their batters.

“If you don’t hit, you’re dead!”

“Mason is running out of steam! Let’s make him wet his pants in the postseason!”

“Show Atlanta what’s up! Let the Liberty Bell ring loud and clear!”

Despite it being only the first inning, the fans were already demanding home runs and the ringing of the Liberty Bell. The batters, dragging their weary bodies to the plate, wore expressions of resignation.

They had long grown accustomed to these demanding Philadelphia fans who seemed incapable of offering genuine encouragement. Still, if they met their exacting standards, they occasionally received praise, and today, the atmosphere felt promising. So, the batters were generally optimistic.

That is, until the Braves’ first pitch was thrown.

“Strike!”

A booming call echoed.

The pitcher, having thrown a crisp first pitch and secured an early strike, seemed impatient, firing off pitches in quick succession. Mason Looper, with his wicked two-seamer [a type of fastball that breaks slightly] and his renowned curveball, and then his devastating fastball, struck out the first batter, finally nodding in satisfaction. It was reminiscent of his dominant days as a super ace, not the slightly shaky form he had shown towards the end of the season.

“How is he?”

“Awful. That bastard is back, and Mason is too. What the hell is the scouting team doing?”

“Just tell me if he’s good or bad. Stop whining.”

“He’s good, damn good. You can see the velocity. The stuff is there. Especially the fastball, which might be that weird two-seamer, so just lay off it. Try to hit the curve or changeup. His control seems pretty good, but it’s still early.”

“Okay, you should have said that earlier. I’ll head up there. I’ll go up later.”

The batter, patting his grumbling teammate on the shoulder, grimaced at the roaring crowd as he approached the plate.

Typically, the first at-bat is essentially a reconnaissance mission: assessing the pitcher’s condition, the quality of his pitches, and his control.

Therefore, the leadoff hitter needs to be able to draw out the pitcher’s pitches to gather information. If they can also get on base, that’s even better.

‘It’s not like we struck out with the bases loaded. It’s just one out, and they’re already like this….’

His teammate, who had struck out on three pitches, was clearly disappointed, but even after growing accustomed to the Phillies, he still found it annoying that they would make such a fuss over a leadoff hitter striking out in the first inning.

‘Ugh, I wish I could get traded. All I ever do is get yelled at.’

He grumbled to himself, but he gripped his bat tightly, knowing that he had to give these angry fans something to cheer about.

If he could just get on base, they might quiet down a bit, and if he got a hit, they would shower him with cheers laced with curses.

‘Alright, let’s see what you’ve got. It can’t be as good as it used to be. He’s still human.’

Feeling confident in his hitting, he calmly assessed the pitcher, but he bit his lip at the first pitch. It was better than he expected.

The 96 mph fastball, jammed inside, would have been difficult to hit even if he had anticipated it.

Were these damn guys really planning on winning every game against them this season? He felt a surge of anger, but he channeled it into focus.

‘He’s not in peak condition, so it’s not impossible.’

Compared to his monstrous pitching in the first half of the season, from April to June, this was manageable. He stared intently at the pitcher, trying to time his swing.

Then came the second pitch.

“Strike!”

‘Two-seamer, or was it a one-seam? Why did he have to tell me that? If you’re a hitter, you should at least be considerate of your teammates.’

The modified two-seamer, or one-seam as the pitcher and creator called it, he simply let it pass. Unless he got used to it, he wouldn’t be able to hit it anyway, and even if he did, the ball would probably just roll along the ground.

‘Changeup or curveball, right? Curveball… he throws that well too. Changeup, please throw the changeup.’

Recalling his teammate’s advice, he repeated the two pitches in his mind as he glared at the pitcher, ignoring the third pitch that seemed like a test, and maintained his stance. Then, the pitch he had been waiting for arrived.

‘There it is!’

The changeup, arguably the weakest of his pitches. His good condition didn’t let the opportunity pass, but having seen three fastballs in a row, he was a bit late.

‘Just need a hit!’

So, he abandoned any ambition for a big hit and just flicked the ball, feeling the satisfying sensation in his hands as the ball made contact. The well-struck ball flew slightly to the right of second base.

‘Yes!’

A difficult course for both the center fielder and second baseman. He was slightly concerned about the Braves’ second baseman, Derek Hunt, who was a Gold Glove-caliber player [an award for defensive excellence], but he seemed to be positioned slightly to the right, anticipating a pull hit. The batter felt a sense of relief.

Then the crazy bastard ran.

‘Ah, right, even if you get past the pitcher, that guy is behind him.’

The guy was running out of the infield, past the center line, like he was a center fielder. It was a familiar sight, and so was his movement.

He had lost many hits to that guy’s incredible speed and range since his debut. This time was no different.

“Hey, Peterson. Don’t you think that’s a bit much?”

“It is. Glad he’s on my team. Good hustle. Now get lost.”

“The Braves are full of jerks, whether they’re rookies or veterans.”

The second out. Watching the shortstop, Lee Jung-woo, snatch the ball like a dog catching a frisbee and add another red dot to the scoreboard, he gritted his teeth. But in a way, it was a relief.

‘At least they’re not yelling at me for getting out like that.’

Usually, the home fans would hurl insults at the batter regardless of whether it was a great play by the fielder. But now, they were just staring blankly with their mouths open.

He took solace in that as he trudged back to the bench, but he also felt a chill down his spine.

‘I thought I was in good condition. Is he feeling the same way?’

He had a feeling that he wasn’t the only one feeling good today. And as always, his ominous premonition was spot on.

####

‘His stuff is good. The Phillies have a solid starting rotation, even though they seem to be struggling. I guess that’s why they’re still in the Wild Card race.’

The pitching from the Phillies’ number two starter was excellent, proving why they were still aiming for the postseason. Even Giovanni Tuchi, a veteran and franchise star, had to admit that he was better, which was why he was pushed back to the number three spot.

Compared to last year, when they won over 100 games and were considered a championship contender, the Phillies were somewhat weaker, but they still had a lot of potential.

But that was it.

[Three innings, and he’s shut them down. He looks great today.]

[Yes, the Braves have been losing steam as the season winds down, but even considering that, this is excellent pitching.]

The fans were generally satisfied with the pitcher’s performance, as he had kept the Braves hitless through the first three innings.

“Keep it up!”

“What are you hitters doing? The pitcher is doing so well!”

“Hahaha! I told you the Braves were scrubs! Now this is baseball!”

Of course, some were frustrated by the lack of runs and started yelling, but that was normal, and it was relatively mild compared to other times. But soon, the bone that had been thrown to them was taken away.

[He hits it! Derek Hunt, a base hit!]

[He was pitching so well. But the Braves are always tough.]

The fans, who had been quiet, changed their expressions again and started cursing as they watched Derek reach first base with a clean hit.

They called him clueless, useless, and simply a jerk, but Derek, who had been playing for the Braves for a long time and had become friendly with the Phillies fans, didn’t even notice.

“It’s okay! It’s just one hit! You’re doing great!”

“Just get that guy out! The rest are scrubs! That’s all you have to do!”

They tried to boost the pitcher’s morale with uncharacteristic words of encouragement, but everyone’s faces fell when the next batter stepped up to the plate.

Usually, they would be yelling insults, but now, they couldn’t even open their mouths. It was a kind of trauma. He was a guy who would always retaliate in a brutal way whenever they cursed at him.

They still remembered the time he came in as a pinch hitter and hit a home run, so they couldn’t bring themselves to say anything.

‘They’re surprisingly quiet? They were calling me every name in the book at the beginning.’

It wasn’t often that the notorious fans were silenced by a single player, so even the Phillies players glanced at the stands with a slightly awkward expression.

Some of them even felt a strange sense of camaraderie, thinking that those jerks who always cursed at them were just people like them.

They were feeling the same emotions as the fans.

“Long time no see. Aren’t you going to say hello?”

“…”

“What’s wrong? You used to be so friendly. It’s a little awkward.”

“Shut up.”

“Alright, alright.”

Lee Jung-woo, seeing the catcher’s silence, prodded him a little, but he just chuckled at the weak “Shut up” and looked straight ahead. The pitcher also looked uncomfortable. After all, Lee Jung-woo was responsible for a significant portion of his ERA [Earned Run Average, a measure of pitching performance] and hits allowed, so it was only natural that he would make that face.

‘His fastball is good. Not impossible to hit. The others are the same. Slightly low. If it’s around there, I’m swinging. Please don’t walk me.’

Lee Jung-woo, knowing they couldn’t hear him, took his stance, and the pitcher, trying to hide his nervousness, pulled his cap down further, covering his eyes with the brim. But that action itself revealed his state of mind, so it was pointless.

[Braves fans often call it the Macro, right? Derek Hunt gets on base, and Lee cleans it up.]

[It’s hard not to see it that way. Jung-woo Lee currently has 179 RBIs (Runs Batted In). The two players work well together, but it also means that Lee has great clutch ability.]

[In modern baseball, there are still doubts about a hitter’s clutch ability. But putting that debate aside, Lee’s RBI ability is transcendent. We’ll have to see if he can do it again this time.]

It was natural to be nervous. Even if it wasn’t Lee Jung-woo, and even if it wasn’t just against the Phillies, any pitcher or opposing team would be afraid if a hitter with similar stats to him came to the plate.

But even so, Lee Jung-woo was more than just a good player, an incredibly good player, to the Philadelphia Phillies.

[Here comes the first pitch.]

The first pitch comes. Usually, he would let it go, to get a better sense of the timing and pick a good pitch. But there was no reason to do that now.

He had already found his timing in the previous at-bat. And the pitch was good enough based on his condition today.

‘Slightly low. Probably a fastball. One, two-’

Bang- The sound that had echoed so many times in Citizens Bank Park burst out. The noise of wood and hard leather colliding.

But even that was not enough to compare to the power of the hit. It needed to be the sound of an airplane engine to be comparable.

‘He’s really in form. Almost too much.’

Lee Jung-woo threw his bat. The ball, having cleared the fence, whispered to everyone in the stadium. The Phillies’ disaster had returned. And this time, he was going to kill them all.