A Person with Morals gets Transported to Another World [LitRPG] [Satire]

At the centre of the baseball field was a teacher who was coordinating the contest with help from some assistants. There were 15 people already participating and we were about to fill the final three spots. Among some of the participants, I saw several already had stamps on their forearms. One even had a red stamp, so they had to win this game or fail Sports Day.

“Hello, we would like to compete,” I said to the teacher.

His attention was drawn and he responded, “Ah, perfect. Now we can begin. You three will be on the red team.” The teacher slapped a red baseball cap on the top of my head and handed out two more to Penrin and Newmill. “By the way, I’m the head coach for our school’s baseball team. If you have fun, consider joining our club.”

“Are you advertising?” I said while adjusting the cap to a comfortable position.

“I suppose a scrawny kid like you wouldn’t be interested, huh?” The coach had a devious smile.

“Reverse psychology too. You’re a tricky one,” I said.

The coach was a well-built man in his 50s. He had a square chin and a triangular nose and circular eyes. He had a beard but no moustache, which showed off the long nose hairs that escaped his nostrils. “Everyone to your dugouts,” he said.

An announcer made himself known by shouting into a rune-powered microphone, “Looks like the game is on, folks!”

This elicited loud cheers from the audience who now focused on the field rather than the food in their hands. Being at the focus of so many eyes had an exhilarating effect. I knew my every move would be scrutinised while playing, so I had to give it my all.

“Isn’t it nerve-racking?” asked Newmill. “Knowing so many people will be watching?”

“Don’t be nervous,” Penrin said while holding a bat she had been practice-swinging with. “You have me on your team, so we’re going to win.” She was shaking with excitement.

“That’s the spirit, little girl,” said one of our teammates. He was a tall and muscular man with his hair tied into a manbun.

The announcer announced, “Red team will be batting for the top half of inning one. Everyone, give them a round of applause.” The crowd erupted into cheers.

“To make things easy, I’ve randomised our lineup. Y’all okay with that?” said a teammate. Everyone agreed.

That seemed like a poor strategy, but I wasn’t about to cause a fuss so early. I could tell that the other players on our team apart from our trio were seasoned baseball players. They were probably part of the baseball club considering how close they were with the coach.  Any advice I had wouldn’t be accepted easily.

Though, I wondered if I even needed to give any.

Our team was full of muscular men and women, whereas the opposing team was full of scrawny nobodies. From what I could tell, only a few of them were even familiar with baseball. The starters put on their batting helmets and went out into the field. With the thought that this contest would be easy in my head, the game began.

“Strike three. Out!”

“Strike three. Out!”

“Strike three. Out!”

My eyes nearly bulged out of their sockets. In a matter of minutes, we were already switching. I was watching the whole thing and even I couldn’t tell how we lost so fast. The opposing pitcher did not throw any particularly fast pitches. Though, he did have some breaking balls.

“That’s my son!” A loud and familiar voice came from the crowd. My eyes pinpointed the perpetrator immediately. It was Duke Gosport, the vile host of the soiree I once attended with Newmill and Penrin. “Make this a perfect game, Wembley!” he shouted encouragingly to his son.

In response, the pitcher who was leaving the field put up two middle fingers towards his father.

Now that it was our turn on defence, the other members of the team decided our positions. Since they were more familiar with baseball, they took the harder positions upon themselves. Our trio was relegated to the outer edges of the field. We were told to catch any balls that were sent our way.

It was an intelligent strategy. If the infield played well, there would be no need for us to do anything but catch fly balls. Our reflexes would not be tested hard since we could see the balls coming in the air and just jog over to catch them. And occasionally we would need to pick up balls and throw them back in the general direction of the infield. No one expected much from us after all.

Penrin was not happy with our placement, but she was outvoted.

From afar, I was able to watch the game as if I was a spectator. Surprisingly, the glove on my hand fit nicely. They had smaller ones made for children in the dugouts.

“Ball four!” The first batter went to first base.

The announcer said, “Looks like the red team’s pitcher is having difficulty getting used to the mound.” This gathered a small laugh from the audience.

I was certain it was a false statement though. It was subtle, but I saw the pitcher intentionally missed his pitches to walk the first batter. I’m sure he had his reasons, but what surprised me was how well the pitcher hid it. No one else seemed to know that he had purposefully thrown balls.

The next batter hit a pop-fly which the catcher caught. After that, it was a strikeout. The fourth batter hit a deep shot to the outfield.

“Is that a homerun?” the announcer yelled.

The pitcher held his head in his glove. He was frustrated by his pitch, and he assumed that any ball to the outfield would be a lost cause, since our trio were the outfielders. I even saw one of the infielders running towards me, because they thought we were incompetent.

However, the ball landed in my glove. At the moment the batter swung at the ball, I knew exactly where the ball would land. Somehow, I was able to map out its complete flightpath in my brain.

Five seconds beforehand, I simply walked over and stood at the location where I knew the ball would land. My glove hand was held up, and the ball simply went into it. I needed to make no movements whatsoever.

“What was that?” the announcer shouted. The crowd exploded in response to my unorthodox catch. “Can that boy predict the future?” said the announcer. My teammates came over to congratulate me.

“Well done, little boy,” the pitcher said as he slapped me hard on the back. With three outs, it was the end of the first inning. Time to switch again.

While in the dugout, I kept my eyes on Wembley, the opposing pitcher, like a hawk. Newmill was singing my praises and hoping that he would get an opportunity to catch a ball like that.

The next batter up was Penrin. She was filled with determination. The first pitch was a fastball. She swung at it, but it was a ball and she missed.

“Strike!” the umpire called.

The next pitch was a curveball, which Penrin did not swing at but landed in the strike zone.

“Strike!”

The third was a changeup which Penrin missed.

“Strike three!”

Penrin roared in frustration and stomped off of the field. Newmill was up next. Surprisingly, he hit the first pitch, but it was a groundball to the shortstop who threw it to first base for an easy out. Throughout it all, he had a huge smile. He was so happy to finally be able to play the sport that he had always wanted to play.

The next batter was me. Unfortunately, despite all my analysis of Wembley, I couldn’t figure out his weakness. So far, he had thrown three varieties of pitches: a straight fastball, a curving curveball, and a slow changeup. However, there was no rhyme or reason to what he threw.

I could tell he wasn’t receiving signals from the catcher. Everything he threw, he decided on himself. One would think he would have some inclination or biases in his throws, but I hadn’t seen any so far.

What was even scarier was that for each pitch, he had the same pitching motion. Down to the minute detail, his movements were exactly the same. It was impossible to predict what he would throw from his body.

I took a pose at the batter’s box. The first pitch was thrown, and I did not even attempt to swing. The pitch was a high and inside fastball.

“Strike!” the umpire said.

As expected, I was unable to predict it. The first pitch that he threw for Newmill was a curveball, and the first one for Penrin was a curveball too. I could remember every single pitch thrown, but I couldn’t find a pattern among them all.

There was no inclination in his body or his pitches. My opponent was very skilled at this game.

Another pitch flew by me. It was straight down the centre. I ran through every combination of pitches in my head, but still nothing.

“Strike!”

Wembley, kicked at the dirt on the mound while maintaining eye-contact with me. For his third pitch, he took far longer. From under his cap, his eyes were piercing. I could tell that while I was analysing him, he was doing the same to me. I hadn’t given him an ounce of information yet, since I hadn’t reacted to a single pitch.

He twirled the ball in his fingers and then threw another pitch.

“Ball!” said the umpire.

Unlike my own pitcher, Wembley was bad at disguising intentional misses. Though, that could’ve been on purpose. The ball was too low. What did that tell me, I wondered?

Another pitch came out. It was a slow changeup that landed in the centre of the strike zone. Wembley clicked his tongue. From that pitch he knew that I had no intention of swinging from the start. Anyone else would have swung at such an easy pitch. I had given up my chance at hitting to examine him.

“What the heck was that?” screamed the announcer. “Did the boy wet himself at the box or something? Why didn’t he swing?” Laughter at my expense came from the audience and my opponents. Even my teammates were heckling me.

It was quite humiliating to be the recipient of so much ridicule, but at least there were only several thousand spectators to view my embarrassment.

“Let’s look at the instant replay of that shameful display on the big screen!” said the announcer. A large projection of my swingless at-bat was shown to the audience. “Remember folks, there’s a camera crew that’s recording everything that happens here. The performances shown here will be immortalised in film and spread into the world.”

I hung my head as I returned to the dugout. There were several camerapeople in the audience that I hadn’t noticed before. Were they late arrivals?

When Erith saw the cameras, she immediately tried flashing her water balloon breasts, but one fell to the ground and exploded.

My team expressed their disappointment to me, but ultimately we began fielding again. This time, Wembley was batting.

Our pitcher threw an inside fastball that was called a ball. Then, he threw low and outside, which ended up being hit. From the moment of contact, I knew it was a homerun. It was going to just barely make it over the outer wall. I wasn’t athletic enough to scale the wall and catch it, so I took off my glove and threw it upwards.

The ball hit the glove and had its trajectory thrown downwards against the wall. As it fell, I caught it but from my knowledge, that wasn’t an out.

Wembley was running as fast as he could around the bases. I did not throw the ball to the infield. Instead, I threw it to Penrin who had a much stronger throw. She hurled it to the third baseman. Unfortunately, Wembley had already made it there in time.

Thanks to my abilities, I was able to reduce the hit from a homerun to a triple.

“What an immaculate glove throw!” yelled the announcer. “This boy might be the worst batter, but his defensive skills are insane!” The crowd mostly agreed in their cheers. The announcer continued, “Though I wonder why he didn’t throw the ball directly to the infield. Was he trying to make the little outfielder girl feel included? How cute.”

Penrin glared at the broadcasting booth. She knew why I had thrown it to her but was unhappy with the assumptions made about it.

The next batter hit a groundball that went through the infield and towards Newmill. He picked it up and returned it to the infielders. In that time, Wembley scored a run and the batter made it to second base. By the end of the inning, we had lost 3 runs.

We went back to the dugout and the third inning began.

“Argh, it’s so unfair,” I groaned to Newmill and Penrin. “That Wembley is a prodigy at pitching and batting.” I lied back against the bench while staring at my opponents.

“Is he really that good at pitching?” asked Newmill. “Our pitcher throws way faster than that Wembley can.”

“It’s not about speed. He throws his pitches differently for each opponent he faces. He makes sure to fully conceal where he’s aiming and what type of pitch he throws. He had a hunch that I was analysing him, so he risked throwing an easy ball to confirm his suspicions. He’s like a sly fox.”

“And yet we’ll still beat him,” Penrin said. She was an optimist only when it came to sports, it seemed.

I watched another one of our batters get struck out. “Damnit!” he shouted.

Everyone else in the dugout had sombre expressions. It was starting to feel hopeless. They all envisioned a loss in the form of a red stamp imprinted on their forearms. I didn’t blame them. “It’s no use for me to try and find a pattern in his pitches,” I said. “Even if I saw a thousand of his pitches in a row, I doubt I would figure anything out.”

Newmill became saddened. He asked with a frown, “Does that mean there’s nothing we can do?”

I got up from my seat. “I didn’t say that.” The second batter was preparing himself in the batter’s box. Wembley’s attention was focused on him, so I approached our third batter and whispered some helpful advice to him. He listened to me as he practised his swings. “What do you think of that?” I asked after explaining the plan.

He was uncertain. “I’m not sure,” he said. “I guess it’s an okay plan but there’s no guarantee of it succeeding. I’m actually quite skilled, you know? Despite how things seem, I can hit pitches.” He adjusted his helmet. “I don’t want to risk losing my swings on your plan.”

“I understand,” I said. “Then, how about this, if you fail to hit the ball on the first pitch, try my strategy.”

The batter tilted his head from side to side and finally said, “I’ll consider it.”

I went back to the dugout and seated myself between Penrin and Newmill. “What did you tell him?” they asked.

“You’ll see,” I responded.

The three of us watched the first pitch being thrown. It was a high fastball. The batter missed it completely.

I told my teammates, “Since the last two pitches to the last batter were curveballs, he probably expected the same.”

“Is that so?” asked the coach. He had snuck into the dugout while I wasn’t looking. Since the game was already underway, he did not have much to occupy himself with. He and several others on the team listened to my explanation and agreed with my analysis.

“Is this part of your plan, Yarm?” asked Newmill.

I did not answer as the next pitch was already being thrown. It was another high fastball. This time, the bat almost touched it. The batter had swung with incredible force. If he had hit the ball accurately, it would have been a home run.

“So close!” said Newmill.

“That wasn’t a normal swing,” observed the coach. Despite his age, he was keener than I imagined.

“At least get on base!” a girl prayed. Her hands were clasped together while watching the third pitch come into play.

It was a changeup, an extremely slow ball heading towards the catcher.

“It’s a ball! He should let it pass,” a teammate said.

“No! Hit it!” Penrin shouted.

The batter swung hard at the ball and sent it skyward. From the moment of contact, everyone could predict it was a homerun. The ball flew into the air and far over the outfield. The batter was understating his abilities when he said he was skilled. That hit was spectacular.

“HOMERUN!” screamed the announcer. “It’s a homerun! The first hit pitch is a homerun. The superstar pitcher has been defeated for the first time.” The crowd exploded into cheers. They flung hats and other such apparel into the air in celebration. They were cheering like we had won the game.

While all that went on, Erith was quietly escorted out of the schoolgrounds for smuggling alcohol inside her water balloons.

The dugout was even more celebratory than the crowd. Most were feeling like defeat was inevitable but all that had changed. Victory could be attained.

“I don’t understand,” said the coach. “Why would he throw that changeup? Such a slow ball would obviously be hit.”

“It’s because of the second pitch,” I said. I stretched my arms behind my back as if I was the one who had scored the run myself. “I told the batter to close his eyes and swing as hard as he could on a pitch. On his second pitch, he did exactly that.”

“What would that accomplish?” asked Newmill.

Stroking my chin in pride, I said, “From my at-bat, I knew it was impossible to predict where or how Wembley would pitch. However, on his last pitch, he revealed to me the first nail in his coffin. He changed his pitch to test me. It was smart, because he learned a lot about me, however I learned much more about him.”

Newmill rattled his knees together impatiently waiting for my explanation.

“He has no pattern in his pitches and changes his throws to best suit his situation. Baseball is a mind game to him. A person like that is too smart for their own good. When he saw that the batter decided to throw away reason and swing wildly, he knew it wasn’t a one-off thing.”

“Why’s that?” asked the coach.

“A person driven to do something so illogical would not stop after only doing it once. They would keep trying to hit wildly. Perhaps out of frustration or anger. Whatever drives the derangement doesn’t matter. Wembley was certain that the batter would close his eyes again, that’s why he threw a slowball, because the batter’s timing would be off if his eyes were closed. In his mind, either he went with a fastball or curveball, which had a chance of being hit, or he went with a slowball which had no chance of being struck.”

The people surrounding me stared in silence after hearing my plan. Most were speechless at the stupidity of the plan itself. “This plan hinged so much on Wembley acting the way you wanted him to,” said another teammate.

“He’s a smart person so I expected him to react in a smart manner. What issue is there in that?”

It seemed that no one could decide if I was a genius or a moron. The coach then started to laugh heartily. “I must get you and that Wembley boy to join the team.”

I internally told myself that I would never, but I kept a pleasant smile towards the coach on the outside.

Newmill asked, “Why didn’t you tell me about the plan beforehand?” His bright blue eyes looked at me expectantly.

“Erm, well, I didn’t want to spoil the fun of seeing it for yourself.” I nervously avoided his gaze.

“Actually,” Penrin started, “he didn’t tell you the plan in case it failed. If he explained such a foolhardy plan, and it didn’t work, then he would be really embarrassed. He didn’t tell you to save himself the humiliation.”

I glared at Penrin and said, “Has anyone ever told you that you’re too smart for your own good?”

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