The Genius Hitter Who Conquered America - Chapter 88

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This chapter was translated by Lunox Novels. To support us and help keep this series going, visit our website: LunoxScans.com
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Chapter 88
Tom Brennan, the Caster in the broadcast booth, picked up the microphone once more.
[And so it begins at last. The West Division takes the field for the top of the first inning. The West Division’s Starting Pitcher! Ethan Worf, currently with the San Diego Padres’ Double-A affiliate, takes the Mound!]
Ethan’s statistics appeared on the Scoreboard.
[This season’s record: 12 wins, 2 losses. ERA of 1.85. And he currently ranks 8th overall among Minor League Baseball pitching prospects. This player’s fastball is said to be unhittable even when you know it’s coming.]
[Ha, well, it’s time to see if that reputation holds true. The East Division’s leadoff batter stepping up to face him is no pushover either. Ricky Velez, the hitting machine from Tampa Bay’s Triple-A affiliate.]
Ricky Velez stepped into the Batter’s Box, gripping his bat short as he fixed his gaze on Ethan.
A palpable tension hung over the Ground.
It couldn’t be any other way.
For some, this might be nothing more than a festival of prospects, but not for the players here today.
Impress here, and you might earn an invitation to next year’s Spring Training Camp.
And if you showed your best self here.
You could make the 40-Man Roster.
Or if you were already on the 40-Man Roster, you could even set your sights on the Major League.
Had there ever been a moment in life when desire burned so fiercely?
The players’ eyes blazed with fierce determination.
But baseball is a cruel sport.
Under such extreme pressure, the goddess of victory typically favored the pitcher.
The pitcher initiates; the batter reacts.
Fear and tension constrict a person’s muscles.
A pitcher’s contracted muscles can be converted into explosive power when throwing, but for a batter, it’s devastating.
Stiffened limbs become a poison that erodes reaction time by 0.1 seconds.
With the pitcher holding the advantage—especially a fireballer like Ethan—the outcome was predictable.
Crack!
“Strike! Out!”
As the crowd roared, Ricky Velez retreated with a deflated expression.
Ethan’s pitches showed no mercy.
The second batter grounded out to the infield; the third struck out swinging.
And so the top of the first ended, with sides changing.
The West Division’s offense began.
And Soo-ho was scheduled to bat in the bottom of the first inning.
* * *
A lean Black player stepped into the Batter’s Box.
The West Division’s leadoff batter—Jose Rivera.
Tom Brennan opened his mouth with evident interest, studying the scorecard.
[Our leadoff batter is Left Fielder Jose Rivera. This player has a fascinating record. His batting average sits at .270, but his on-base percentage is an impressive .395—nearly .400.]
[A classic eye hitter. His bat may be cold, but his eye for pitches is sharper than most veterans. Pitchers sometimes find it more frustrating to walk him than to give up a hit. Rivera is exactly that type.]
Rick chuckled and added his thoughts.
[With modern baseball emphasizing aggressive play, he’s a rare breed these days. But Tom, did you know? This team has another player of that same type.]
[Oh, who might that be?]
Rick pointed to Soo-ho warming up in the On-Deck Circle.
[And here comes Oh Soo-ho, stepping up as the number two batter today.]
[Ah yes, quite right. Both players employ a narrow Strike Zone approach, running up pitch counts to frustrate the opposition. And when it comes to speed on the bases, neither yields to anyone.]
[Precisely. The commonality between Jose and Soo-ho is unmistakable—both possess that explosive speed that allows them to create havoc for the opposing battery no matter the circumstances. They’re the rare talents who can manufacture runs without needing a hit.]
Rick paused momentarily, then injected fresh intensity into his voice to pivot the narrative.
[But there exists one critical distinction. While Jose focuses with laser precision on reaching base, Soo-ho operates differently.]
[You’re referring to the power display he’s demonstrated recently?]
[Exactly. Looking purely at his Low-A statistics, there’s little separating him from Jose. But here in the Arizona Fall League, his OPS surpasses 0.9 with ease.]
Disciplined batting eye and blazing speed—the common denominator.
Yet the divergence lay in whether that final punch existed in the arsenal.
[Indeed, on a stage as grand as today’s, which approach proves more conducive to team victory will become a fascinating subplot to this contest.]
[Agreed. But before we proceed, we cannot overlook the Pitcher himself.]
Rick gestured toward the Mound with a meaningful smile.
There stood a Pitcher with the sculpted features of a statue, blonde hair catching the light.
[The Starting Pitcher! A gem beneath the New York Yankees organization, and the current number one prospect across all of Minor League Baseball—Victor Moretti!]
As Victor’s face filled the screen, the Stands erupted with fervent energy.
Yet Victor’s expression remained glacially composed.
[This specimen hurls a fastball clocking 102 miles per hour—a true monster. He’s already garnered assessments that his integration into the Yankees’ Starting rotation next season is all but assured. But there exists one blemish upon that otherwise flawless career—a game that left an indelible stain.]
Tom Brennan seized the opening with practiced timing.
[Just recently, wasn’t it? That catastrophic collapse against the Desert Dogs.]
[Precisely. Victor’s mental fortitude crumbled entirely that day, forcing his removal from the game. And the architect of that nightmare….]
Rick’s gaze shifted toward Soo-ho, who continued his warm-ups in the On-Deck Circle.
[None other than today’s number two batter for the West Division—Oh Soo-ho.]
Footage from the previous game flickered across the screen.
[Word has it that Victor volunteered for today’s Starting assignment. The reason is transparent—on this grandest of stages, he intends to demonstrate his superiority to the oracle who scarred his record.]
[A revenge match! The number one ranked Pitcher, bristling with malice, reunites with the giant-killer who toppled him!]
Standing upon the Mound, Victor Moretti tapped the rosin bag lightly with his toe.
The Stands overflowed with spectators, countless Scouts’ gazes fixed upon him, and the West Division players seated in the Dugout.
All of it registered in Victor’s mind as merely a blurred backdrop.
The identity of his opponent held no significance.
Whether they were All-Stars or each team’s brightest prospect mattered not.
He operated on a different plane entirely.
He was already chosen.
The New York Yankees empire’s next ace, the prospective Major Leaguer destined to take the Mound next season.
This venue existed solely as his coronation stage—who would dare obstruct his path?
Victor gazed down at the Batter’s Box with eyes turned to ice.
Lead-off batter Jose Rivera.
A hitter with an on-base percentage approaching .400, renowned for his exceptional eye at selecting pitches.
‘A good eye, they say?’
Victor’s mouth twisted into a sneer.
Then there was only one way to find out.
Whether his opponent could resist swinging at his pitches.
Or whether they couldn’t touch them even if they saw them coming.
Whoosh!
First pitch.
A 99-mile fastball that filled the outer borderline perfectly.
Jose’s eyes widened.
He’d held back, thinking it was a ball, but the Umpire’s hand rose without mercy.
“Strike!”
The second pitch followed.
This time, a 100-mile heater boring deep into his body.
Jose flinched and pulled back, but the ball miraculously grazed the inside edge of the Strike Zone.
“Strike two!”
It was flawless control that toyed with the batter’s eyes.
He wasn’t simply overpowering hitters with raw velocity.
This was Major League ace-level precision—hitting the corners as if measured by a ruler.
And the third pitch.
The ball released from Victor’s hand was sucked into the glove.
Jose couldn’t move an inch.
No—he couldn’t even react.
“Strike out!”
Three pitches, three strikes.
Gasps erupted from the Stands.
Three pitches were all it took against a batter known as a hitting machine.
This was the difference between a Major Leaguer and a Minor Leaguer. The gap in class.
And the fact that he could throw a 100-mile fastball with such precision.
It stemmed from a lack of pressure.
Victor knew he was the best here, at least in this place.
Without burden, he could perform at 120% capacity.
Victor’s brow suddenly furrowed despite his ease.
The next batter was walking toward the Batter’s Box.
‘Finally.’
In that moment, a memory from days ago flashed through Victor’s mind.
‘…I’ll admit it then.’
Victor clenched his teeth.
That day, he had lost.
There was no room for excuses.
There was only one reason.
He hadn’t known his opponent.
No—he hadn’t wanted to know.
Just promoted from Low-A.
He’d dismissed some unknown Oriental batter as beneath him, never expecting to face a real threat.
‘I let my guard down. But….’
Victor picked up the rosin bag and locked eyes with Soo-ho directly.
Now I understand.
That guy is dangerous.
A player I absolutely cannot underestimate.
Yet that didn’t mean I believed I would lose.
If anything, my conviction grew stronger.
‘At the end of the day, you’re still Minor League.’
No matter how talented, you’re just a frog in the shallow well of Minor League Baseball.
I’m destined for the vast ocean of the Major League.
‘We’re playing in different worlds.’
Victor gripped the ball tightly inside his glove.
The sensation of the stitches biting into his fingertips was vivid and sharp.
‘I’ll dismantle him thoroughly.’
Make him never want to hold a bat in front of me again.
I’ll make him feel bone-deep just how high and impenetrable the wall of a prospect pitcher truly is.
Today, Victor had no intention of letting anyone reach base.
* * *
The moment Soo-ho stepped into the Batter’s Box, he felt a suffocating pressure wash over him.
The aura radiating from the Mound was extraordinary.
It was like the chill of a razor blade grazing bare skin.
Victor Moretti wasn’t throwing a baseball—he was preparing to hurl a lethal weapon.
‘He’s sharpened his teeth.’
I could tell just from that blazing intensity in his eyes.
This wasn’t mere competitive spirit.
It was unmistakable malice—a desire to erase my very existence.
Moreover, Victor’s condition today was nothing short of peak form.
Hadn’t he proven it against Jose Rivera moments ago?
Those vicious fastballs exceeding 100 miles per hour—he was placing them in the corners as if laying them down by hand.
A day when power and precision aligned flawlessly.
‘What do I do about this?’
I pressed my helmet down with my left hand and moistened my lips.
‘Objectively speaking, winning here is honestly beyond my reach.’
The outcome felt predetermined.
My opponent was a prospect confirmed for the Yankees’ starting rotation next season—a monster ranked number one.
Meanwhile, I was merely a challenger who’d just conquered Low-A, with an endless road still ahead.
But.
‘That doesn’t mean I intend to lose.’
Soo-ho tightened his grip on the bat.
If I back down here today, next year’s Spring Training Camp and the 40-Man Roster will both slip through my fingers.
More than that.
‘My pride won’t allow me to lower my tail to someone I’ve already beaten once.’
Instead, my mind grew cold and calculating.
The stronger the opponent, the more their weaknesses hide within that very strength.
‘Victor is desperate to wash away the humiliation of the past.’
My mind cooled as I recalled the memory of our last confrontation.
How had I brought down this monster back then?
‘The fake bunt slash.’
I’d scraped his pride by feigning a bunt against his 100-mile fastball.
Exploiting the moment the confused infield shifted forward, I’d pivoted to a powerful swing and manufactured a hit.
It was a victory born not from a straightforward confrontation, but from thorough deception and cunning.
That memory would remain an indelible shame for Victor.
So then, what would Victor—burning with revenge—be most wary of today?
The answer was obvious.
‘He won’t fall for the same trick twice.’
Though it had ultimately been a fake bunt slash, he’d been shaken by my bunt attempt.
This time, he won’t get caught up in a battle of tricks and destroy himself.
‘A proud genius would rather die than fall for the same tactic twice.’
So with his overwhelming power.
He’ll be desperate to prove that cheap tricks won’t work.
‘No breaking balls or bait pitches. He won’t even give me a chance to employ tricks.’
As my thoughts crystallized, my lips twisted into a smile.
His options had narrowed.
In fact, he had only one path forward.
‘His most confident pitch. His fastest pitch, delivered with overwhelming force.’
Victor’s pitch was already decided.
His only weapon to prove his superiority.
The 100-mile fastball.
And it would be right down the middle of the Strike Zone—no escape.
He’d be thinking I was expecting a bunt.
Against a 100-mile fastball with velocity and spin, a clumsy bat contact would yield only one result.
Either a foul ball that couldn’t overcome the pitch’s power, or a weak infield fly that drifted up helplessly.
The windup.
The pitch was released.
In that instant, my lips curved upward with fierce determination.
‘Just as I thought.’
My eyes blazed with clarity.
Exactly as predicted.
Out of sheer pride, he refused to throw anything down the middle or an inviting pitch.
Doing so would be admitting he’d avoided it because of my momentum.
‘Americans really do have strong pride.’
That was his fatal mistake.
I had already completed all my preparations.
Before I even stepped into the Batter’s Box, I knew what he would throw and which course it would take.
Now only proof remained.
‘I’ll destroy it.’
Every muscle in my body tensed taut.
The rotational force beginning from my lower body traveled up through my waist, exploding through my shoulders and elbows with devastating power.
Not a shred of hesitation.
It was a full swing executed with absolute conviction.
Crack!
The crisp, crystalline sound of impact tore through the Arizona sky.
The ball, struck perfectly at the bat’s sweet spot, rocketed forward so violently it became invisible.
Beyond anyone’s reach.
Soaring toward the deepest center Fence beyond.

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This chapter was translated by Lunox Novels. To support us and help keep this series going, visit our website: LunoxScans.com
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