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Opening Day in Yellowstone was usually quite crisp, as if the players needed any more waking up. A couple Magic players were hopping up and down the dugout trying to warm up and get loose, and only one of them was an actual frog.
Bonk Jokes was cold to the touch as they strode up the old steps and onto the field through a bevy of teammates’ fist bumps, though that was nothing new for them.
Neither was the end result: strikeout looking, just like Lachlan before.
PolkaDot Patterson loomed over the batter’s box, lanky and impossibly still, fidgeting with the ball in their glove after sitting down the skeleton. They were stoic to begin with, unflappable in a way that almost seemed to deter the breeze itself. They drew a breath of the cool mountain air. Shut their eyes, just for a moment. Tried not to think too hard about the next at-bat, about pitch sequencing and locating their curve and the new set of signs for the season, crafted purely to mess with the Spies.
Up to the plate came the only player who could match Dot’s stoicism, through the sheer persistence of her smile.
Chorby took a cut at the first offering. Late by a day and a half. She smiled, nodded, adjusted her helmet.
She watched the second pitch pass, huffed at the way it dropped off just feet from the plate, plummeting right into the miniscule strike zone that, really, was her only advantage here.
Against mortals, anyway. Mortals could throw balls. Dot pounded the strike zone like a heavyweight boxer, delivering body blow after body blow until each at-bat ended with the batter skulking back to the dugout to pick themselves up off the mat.
Dot reared back, hiding the ball in their glove until the last second. Same overhand motion every time, inch-perfect at worst. This time, Chorby was on top of the fastball. It nicked off her bat, bouncing on home plate before skidding back through the grass.
Foul ball. 0-2.
The ump tossed Dot another ball while an apprentice (an intern, but with a cool wizard’s hat) scrambled after the fouled-off pitch. They gloved it, brought it up to their face, glared down at the frog in the batter’s box.
Just seconds later, another fastball.
Shot down the first-base line, mowing grass all the way to the bleachers.
Foul ball. 0-2.
Dot wiped their brow, gave a nod, twirled the ball in their glove.
The curveball that came next leapt out of their hand, then died in mid-air like a quail shot from the sky. It dropped at least a foot, maybe two, swerving across the plate.
It nearly came off the handle of the bat, dribbling just inches away.
Foul ball. 0-2.
A buzz started to arise from the stands. Some thought they knew what was going on already. Others were simply amazed at the tenacity of the frog at the plate, as if it hadn’t been on display for a few seasons now.
It didn’t matter what pitch came next, or where it was. It was one thing to paint the corners against Bonk. It was another to do it when they all rubbed up against each other, when the most minuscule of adjustments was the difference between a ball down the heart of the plate or a ball outside the zone entirely. It didn’t matter that Chorby drew walks about as well as Bevan could draw a truce with Oz. It was a test even for Dot to keep delivering.
And they did.
Ten pitches passed, with no change. Twenty pitches passed, and a few of the more prescient fans rose to grab some concessions. Thirty pitches passed, and the lines to the restrooms behind the rock formations began to grow.
Fastballs punctured time itself, sliders warped space, spitballs watered the grass between the mound and home. All of them ended up in foul territory.
At forty, Curry turned to Yeong-ho, wings twitching.
“You, uh, wanna play some poker or something?” they asked, producing a deck of cards from under their spot on the bullpen bench.
The mage regarded the imp with bemusement, not even blinking at the still-sealed box.
“Maybe just go fish instead. I have rent to pay,” they replied dryly.
Fifty pitches in, Chorby put her hand up, hopping out of the batter’s box. She dropped the bat to the dirt for a moment, just to stretch her fingers out. Any longer like that, and they’d have been curled for the rest of the year, like whatever monkey’s paw was probably already contorting in anticipation of the offseason. She took her time doing it, working each finger, wrapping them around the bat and bending them back one by one.
After adjusting her helmet, after drawing in the brisk air, after moseying back into the box under the impatient eye of the umpire, she fouled off the fastest pitch she’d ever seen.
The score stayed 1-0. In the bullpen, it ran up to 3-1 for Yeong-Ho when Curry demanded they rope Inky in and switch to Uno.
Off to the side, Logan just huffed as he peered out at the field.
“This is taking forever,” he grumbled. The others were too busy arguing about stacking a Draw 2 after a Draw 4 to get the joke.
The at-bat nearly reached half an hour by the time Dot stepped off the rubber.
They gave a thumbs up to their dugout, all of whom turned to them as they did a lap around the mound. Took off their cap and wiped their brow, sweat forming even under decidedly crisp conditions.
Dot spun the ball in their hand, with practically a finger on each and every seam holding it together. They gave it a fastball grip, four-seam, then two-seam. Slid their fingers apart, rolling it ever so slightly as they pictured the splitter knocking Chorby’s amphibious little knees. Shifted them all to the side and rubbed a knuckle against it for a curve with enough bite to chew through her bat.
They looked over at the frog. She was still there, still smiling, waiting for the next pitch so, so dutifully. Half an hour in, and she was still smiling. Half an hour in, and Dot was still here, still putting everything into every pitch and seeing no reward, still wondering how many more fingers it’d take to get her out.
They stared at the ball, at that sole knuckle digging into the hide.
They stepped back onto the mound, shifting their grip in their glove. Winding up again, finally. Delivering pitch number seventy-two.
The knuckleball was the chaotic neutral of pitches. It was the only pitch that made its own decisions, that was beholden to an entirely different set of rules than the linear physics that governed any other. It could start left, decide to swerve the opposite direction, and then change its mind again, all in around half a second. It could float to the top of the zone like a buoy, or sink like an anchor at any time.
The knuckleball did whatever it wanted to do, veering around like it was dodging bullets.
Then it did what Chorby wanted it to do, getting sliced into the Moist Talkers’ dugout.
Foul ball. 0-2.
Dot dipped into pitches only thrown in practice, pitches only known to some of their fingers. Circle changes came out of their hand like fastballs and bent like screwballs, slicing down and in. Cutters ripped away from Chorby at the last second, with far too much speed for that kind of late movement. The last shuuto thrown in Blaseball was in Season 5, and that was deposited into the next county with haste. This one broke on Chorby, tailing in to try and saw her off. She turned on it, enough that it sent the third-base coach into a jig as it skittered down the line.
The time between pitches got shorter and shorter. Dot hardly took a breath before winding up again, and Chorby hardly got set again before connecting with each and every one.
By the hundredth pitch, Curry was staring down a hand of 25 cards. They resolved to never play Uno again. Should have stuck to their guns with poker.
Dot panted, even as they delivered their first ever forkball. Chorby stretched her arms after every foul, getting every bit of reprieve she could. Even the umpire called for a timeout just to look at something other than this cage match.
The strike zone could be smaller than the eye of a needle, and PolkaDot Patterson could shove a square peg through it faster than you could say Dot. From sixty feet away. Hardly any effort required.
And then Chorby would foul it off.
Dot just wondered how.
They wondered how they got this far. They wondered how much farther it could go. They wondered how they kept a straight face, when they could throw ten fastballs in a row, then a slider that looked like it took a left turn at a stoplight, and none of them got a swing and a miss.
They wondered how, 110 pitches in, they were supposed to get out of this purgatory.
Fastball, turned into a daisy cutter down the right field line. Foul ball. 0-2.
It was opening day.
Spitball, nicked through the ump’s legs and back a few yards. Foul ball. 0-2.
They had thrown more pitches in this at-bat than in most full games.
Knuckle curve, flared into the bleachers by third base. Foul ball. 0-2.
The count was stuck here for eternity. As long as they threw strikes, Chorby would slap them anywhere but in play.
Eephus, shot far behind everyone, coming to a stop next to a grazing bison. Foul ball. 0-2.
As long as they threw strikes.
It hit them like one of their fastballs popping the catcher’s mitt.
They took a deep breath, pacing around the mound, willing their fingers into something, anything less than the perfection they were hard-wired to deliver.
Dot wound up, coiled their body tight as possible before letting loose a curveball poised to drop off a sheer cliff face at exactly the right time.
It did. Two feet in front of home plate.
The fans turned to each other. Both dugouts froze, processing that 115th pitch. The apprentice darted over behind center field to wake up the scoreboard operator.
Chorby stared at Dot, smile plastered on her face, and snorted.
Ball. 1-2.
The next fastball had more run than Beans chasing down a deep fly ball. It sent the radar gun into spasms that put it out of commission until the 7th inning stretch.
It blew by Chorby before she could take the bat off her shoulder.
Both she and Dot walked back to their respective dugouts with grins. Pride puffed out their chests, adrenaline still flowed through them, relief washed over everything
Then they realized: it was only the 2nd inning.
There would be two more of these at-bats. At minimum. God forbid they go to extras.
Season 12 was going to be a long one.