collected. Perhaps he was so busy trying to
connect the rules and statistics stored in his head with the game
on the field that he forgot to worry about the names of the players.
"What's in that little bag?" he asked Root.
"That's the rosin bag. It has pine tar to keep their hands from
slipping."
"And why does the catcher keeping running toward first base
like that?"
"He's backing up the throw, in case it gets away from the first
baseman."
"But it looks like some fans are sitting in the dugout...."
"I think those are the interpreters for the foreign players."
The Professor turned to Root with his questions. He could tell
you the kinetic energy of a pitch traveling 150 kph or the relationship
between ball temperature and the distance a hit would travel,
but he had no idea what a rosin bag was. He had loosened his grip
on Root's hand, but he still kept close and relied on him for reassurance.
He talked throughout the game. From time to time he
bought something from the pretty woman selling concessions, or
ate a few peanuts. But he never stopped glancing over in the direction
of the bullpen, hoping to catch a glimpse of number 28.
The Tigers took a 6-0 lead going into the seventh inning, and
the game seemed to be moving along quickly. But all attention
soon shifted from the game itself to Nakagomi, who by the final
inning was pitching a no-hitter.
Though their team had been ahead all along, the mood among
the Tigers fans behind third base had grown more tense with each
pitch. As the Tigers' last batter struck out and they took to the
field, murmurs and moans could be heard from here and there in
the bleachers. If the team had continued to rack up runs, it might
have been easier to bear, but they had not scored since the fifth inning
and there was no change on the scoreboard. Like it or not, the
game was an intense duel and we were all focused on Nakagomi.
As he headed for the mound in the bottom of the ninth, someone
in the stands finally gave voice to the thought that was on
everyone's mind: "Three more outs!" A murmur of disapproval
went through the bleachers, as though this encouragement was the
surest way to jinx the no-hitter; but the only comment came from
the Professor:
"The odds of pitching a no-hitter are 0.18 percent."
Hiroshima sent in a pinch hitter for the leadoff batter. No one
had ever heard of him, but no one was paying attention anyway.
Nakagomi threw his first pitch.
The ball cracked off the bat and sailed into the midnight blue
sky, tracing a graceful parabola. It was whiter than the moon,
more beautiful than the stars. Every eye was focused on that one
point; but at the instant the ball reached its apogee and began to
fall, the elegant arc vanished and it became a meteorite, hurtling
toward us in a blinding streak.
"Watch out!" the Professor cried in my ear. The ball grazed
Root's shoulder, struck the concrete floor, and bounded off behind
us. I turned to find the Professor with his arms spread out to
cover Root, shielding him with his entire body to keep him from
harm.
Even after the ball had rolled to a stop, the Professor remained
frozen for some time, with Root pinned beneath him.
"Please watch out for foul balls," the stadium announcer reminded
us.
"It's okay now," I whispered. Peanut shells scattered down
from the Professor's hand.
"A baseball weighing 141.7 grams ... falling from a height of
15 meters ... an iron ball weighing 12.1 kilograms ... the force is
85.39 times...." the Professor whispered his incantation, huddling
over seats 714 and 715. My son and the Professor shared a
secret bond now that no one could break, just as the Professor and
I were linked by 220 and 284.
A cry went up in the stadium. Nakagomi's second pitch had
been hit into right field, and we watched as it rolled across the
turf.
"Kameyama!" the man at the fence cried one last time.
6
It was nearly ten o'clock when we reached the Professor's cottage.
Root was still excited, but he was now fighting back
connect the rules and statistics stored in his head with the game
on the field that he forgot to worry about the names of the players.
"What's in that little bag?" he asked Root.
"That's the rosin bag. It has pine tar to keep their hands from
slipping."
"And why does the catcher keeping running toward first base
like that?"
"He's backing up the throw, in case it gets away from the first
baseman."
"But it looks like some fans are sitting in the dugout...."
"I think those are the interpreters for the foreign players."
The Professor turned to Root with his questions. He could tell
you the kinetic energy of a pitch traveling 150 kph or the relationship
between ball temperature and the distance a hit would travel,
but he had no idea what a rosin bag was. He had loosened his grip
on Root's hand, but he still kept close and relied on him for reassurance.
He talked throughout the game. From time to time he
bought something from the pretty woman selling concessions, or
ate a few peanuts. But he never stopped glancing over in the direction
of the bullpen, hoping to catch a glimpse of number 28.
The Tigers took a 6-0 lead going into the seventh inning, and
the game seemed to be moving along quickly. But all attention
soon shifted from the game itself to Nakagomi, who by the final
inning was pitching a no-hitter.
Though their team had been ahead all along, the mood among
the Tigers fans behind third base had grown more tense with each
pitch. As the Tigers' last batter struck out and they took to the
field, murmurs and moans could be heard from here and there in
the bleachers. If the team had continued to rack up runs, it might
have been easier to bear, but they had not scored since the fifth inning
and there was no change on the scoreboard. Like it or not, the
game was an intense duel and we were all focused on Nakagomi.
As he headed for the mound in the bottom of the ninth, someone
in the stands finally gave voice to the thought that was on
everyone's mind: "Three more outs!" A murmur of disapproval
went through the bleachers, as though this encouragement was the
surest way to jinx the no-hitter; but the only comment came from
the Professor:
"The odds of pitching a no-hitter are 0.18 percent."
Hiroshima sent in a pinch hitter for the leadoff batter. No one
had ever heard of him, but no one was paying attention anyway.
Nakagomi threw his first pitch.
The ball cracked off the bat and sailed into the midnight blue
sky, tracing a graceful parabola. It was whiter than the moon,
more beautiful than the stars. Every eye was focused on that one
point; but at the instant the ball reached its apogee and began to
fall, the elegant arc vanished and it became a meteorite, hurtling
toward us in a blinding streak.
"Watch out!" the Professor cried in my ear. The ball grazed
Root's shoulder, struck the concrete floor, and bounded off behind
us. I turned to find the Professor with his arms spread out to
cover Root, shielding him with his entire body to keep him from
harm.
Even after the ball had rolled to a stop, the Professor remained
frozen for some time, with Root pinned beneath him.
"Please watch out for foul balls," the stadium announcer reminded
us.
"It's okay now," I whispered. Peanut shells scattered down
from the Professor's hand.
"A baseball weighing 141.7 grams ... falling from a height of
15 meters ... an iron ball weighing 12.1 kilograms ... the force is
85.39 times...." the Professor whispered his incantation, huddling
over seats 714 and 715. My son and the Professor shared a
secret bond now that no one could break, just as the Professor and
I were linked by 220 and 284.
A cry went up in the stadium. Nakagomi's second pitch had
been hit into right field, and we watched as it rolled across the
turf.
"Kameyama!" the man at the fence cried one last time.
6
It was nearly ten o'clock when we reached the Professor's cottage.
Root was still excited, but he was now fighting back
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