"What an impressive pitch—Brandon, has this kid always had such a fierce speed? An average fastball of 100 miles, and the tail speed is just as remarkable. Truly outstanding..." Even Joe Girardi, well-versed as he is, couldn't help but applaud Lin Guanglai's daring and ticulous inside fastball.
"At least since I've started following him, yes." Daquworth confird, "It's not just about the speed; it's about his ability to precisely control a 100-mile-plus fastball into every corner of the strike zone under pressure. That's his most outstanding quality... This young man is not just about speed."
1 ball, 2 strikes, ahead in the count—for the Japan Team's pitcher and catcher, this is their best chance to go head-to-head with Pujols.
Without hesitation, Shima Keihiro signaled the decisive pitch code from their playbook, positioning his glove firmly low on the outside corner, almost touching the ground.
Whether it was Lin Guanglai or Shima Keihiro, or all their teammates on and off the field, they all firmly believed in one thing: no one could hit that ghostly Forkball on first sight, not even Pujols!
A lot of spectators in the stands held their breath at this mont: they knew that the mont of destiny might lie in this pitch.
The ball left Lin's hand, whizzing toward ho plate with the initial speed and spin characteristic of a fastball: From Pujols's perspective, it looked like a four-seam fastball heading outside, and within a fraction of a second, his brain made the judgnt, urging his body to swing rapidly.
In the batter's box, that mountain-like figure of Pujols moved, his powerful hips turning first, his core strength driving his arms, and the bat in his hand swung like a giant snake leaving its lair, swift and precise—a perfect pulled swing targeting the outside fastball from inside out.
However, just as the bat was about to connect with the ball, the white sphere seed to suddenly lose its support, plunging sharply downward as if an unseen giant hand had yanked it down.
Forkball! Intense vertical drop!
Pujols's pupils constricted sharply. His extraordinary hand-eye coordination allowed him to realize at the last minute that it wasn't a fastball; the legendary hitter tried to make a last-ditch adjustnt, frantically lowering his hands in an attempt to catch the rapidly dropping ball with the bat head.
"Whoosh—" the bat cut through the air, hitting nothing; and the Forkball, at the last mont, fell into the bottom of Shima Keihiro's glove with a muffled thud.
"Strike three, you're out!" The umpire used all his strength to gesture, his voice booming through the microphone across every corner of the field.
Ti seed to stand still for a second.
Looking at the empty ho plate in front of him, Pujols shook his head, then picked up his bat and walked back to the dugout, a clearly visible expression of helplessness on his face; turning back to look at Lin Guanglai who had completed the strikeout, he nodded slightly and said, "Nice pitch."
Standing on the pitcher's mound, Lin Guanglai clenched his fist tightly: he didn't shout to the sky or celebrate wildly, he simply lifted his head and let out a long breath, releasing all the pressure built up in his chest.
For Lin Guanglai, who had already conquered Nippon Professional Baseball, this was just an ordinary at-bat in his life, but it was also a significant one.
Standing atop the mountain nad Albert Pujols, he saw across the ocean.
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