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

Our fourth batter was trying his best to hit a pitch, but no one thought he stood a chance. Everyone was more focused on my next plan to take down Wembley.

 Being the idea guy was a heavy burden to bear. I raised my finger and said, “I’m out of ideas at the moment, but I’ll try to think of something during the match.”

Somehow I seemed to lose a small amount of respect. While fielding I told Penrin to take the centre spot. Newmill and I would take up a smaller portion of the sides since Penrin was far faster than us. I gave Penrin a series of signs to watch out for. Instead of looking at the ball, I told her to look at me.

I could predict the ball’s trajectory faster than she could, so by following my directions she would be reacting faster than normal.

With the new plan underway, the bottom of the third inning went off without a hitch. Though some runners got on base, none of them scored a run. The score was still 3-1.

At the dugout, we prepared ourselves to bat. I was still formulating my ideas.

A teammate said, “It’s the last inning. We must make this count.”

“This is the last one?” I shouted. “There are only 4 innings in this world?”

“Of course. How many did you expect?”

“9!” I said.

“That’s way too many.” The man prepared himself for the offence.

If there were only 4 innings, that meant if we didn’t score at least 2 points, the match was over. Penrin, Newmill, and I would all get the dreaded red stamp on our forearms, and the game would be lost. “Alright, listen up, everybody.” I gathered everyone into a huddle. “First batter, I need you to bunt in the direction of the shortstop.”

“What? Why?” he asked. Under normal circumstances that would be tantamount to begging for a loss.

“Not all of their players are familiar with this game. Like us, they put their worst players on outfield.”

“Hey!” Penrin glared in rejection of the notion that she was among the worst on our team.

“However, they also put a scrawny mage on the shortstop position. Trust me, they’ll fumble the ball or their throw to first will be too inaccurate. You’ll get on base.”

The batter nodded in acknowledgement. “Shouldn’t we keep repeating that strategy, then? Everyone should bunt.”

“Nope. The second and third basemen are good. They’ll pick up the slack if we start targeting their weak player.” I then addressed the next batter. “For the first pitch you’ll be bunting.”

“Huh?” he asked. “Didn’t you just say we shouldn’t do that?”

“Yeah,” I said. “We shouldn’t and we won’t. Make the pitcher think you’re bunting, however I want you to miss on purpose. Don’t make it obvious, though.”

“What’s the point in missing?” he said.

“The pitcher will throw a curveball into the dirt once they see your strategy is to bunt again. Don’t swing on the second pitch. On the third pitch, he’ll have realised you tricked him and so he’ll let his guard down, and that’s when you’ll really bunt!” I started laughing to myself. I truly was an evil genius.

 “I thought you said not to do that?”

“Yeah well, I lied. Bunt a foul.” I realised that my increase of Mind did not only help me to think of good ideas, but it also enabled me to think of bad ideas at a much faster pace too. “Once he sees that you intentionally fouled and thereby gave yourself a strike for no reason, his brain will be in shambles.”

All respect for me was drained. No one on the team thought my plan was worth even a grain of salt.

“After that, he will pitch a ball to the outside. Wembley is a person who won’t take chances when unnecessary. He’ll throw an intentional miss to the outside, but it will be close to the strike zone. Hit a homerun off of that.”

“You’re a madman,” the batter said.

The defence had finished preparing so the batters went over to put my plan into motion. While they did that, I addressed the third batter, Penrin. “When it’s your turn, Wembley will be untrusting of his own thoughts. Someone who goes through so much trouble to hide their pitches, would feel suspicious of even themselves. He’ll start wondering if he has a tell. He’ll think that his pitches can be predicted.”

Penrin sat and listened well. She believed in me more than the others did.

“Safe!” The first batter had made it to first base in accordance with my plan.

“You need to aim for his uncertainty, Penrin. When the pitcher throws his first pitch, look at his feet. It doesn’t matter what he throws, just look at his feet and then watch the ball enter the catcher’s glove. Then, nod your head, as if you’re sure the pitch you predicted just came out.”

Penrin smiled. “I understand. You want me to pretend like I can tell what he throws from the motion of his legs, right?”

“Exactly. By letting the pitch go by, and acting happy about it, you’re digging deeper into his psyche,” I said.

“What about the next pitch?” Penrin asked.

“By then, he’ll be sure that he has a tell. Wembley will think that you can predict his pitch, so he’ll throw a fastball. In his mind, a breaking ball would be too slow. If his opponent could predict his pitch, then he had to throw something fast, which had the least probability of being hit well.”

“Foul!” the umpire said.

“Makes sense.” Penrin stretched as she got ready for her turn.

“What about me?” asked Newmill who was the next batter after Penrin.

“I’m confident that Wembley will only throw fastballs from now on, however I don’t know where he’ll aim. Just do your best.” I patted him on the back.

“Aww. Everyone else gets advice and you’re just telling me ‘good luck’?” Newmill was disappointed but I didn’t have much more to say. I was pretty sure that the game was already won.

“Out!”

“Out!”

While I wasn’t paying attention a double play had occurred. Our second batter had hit the ball deep, but an outfielder had caught it. I wondered if the homerun suggestion was too ambitious. After that, Penrin got on base following my orders, and surprisingly Newmill did too. Wembley was clearly shaken.

His pitches had become less accurate and wilder. He was too scared to throw slow balls, so he just threw as fast as he could without care for precision.

Two outs, the bases were almost loaded, and the pitcher was scared. This was the perfect opportunity for a homerun; however, the next batter was me. I stepped up to the plate and wondered if I even had the strength to hit the ball past the infield. My weak body wasn’t suited to this position.

I readied my bat.

There was some good news. The pitcher had not yet seen me bat. He didn’t know what I was capable of. Since he was currently afraid, he probably assumed the worst. He thought I was capable of hitting the ball out of the park if he pitched wrong. That fear would only lead him to one thing.

“Don’t be drab and intentionally throw a ball again,” I said.

Wembley froze. From his reaction, he probably thought I read his mind. It was obvious to me that Wembley wanted to see me swing above anything. Once he saw my batting motion, he would feel a lot more comfortable. He’d throw three balls in a row to make that happen.

He gripped the ball tightly and threw it so wide that the catcher had trouble getting to it. A wild and inaccurate fastball.

“Ball!” the umpire said.

“You’re not going to win with pitches like that,” I mocked.

Wembley felt like his brain was on display for all to read. His very thoughts that he had tried so hard to hide were visible. It wasn’t true, of course, but he believed it.

“Ball!”

Wembley intentionally missed again. I did not swing. “Oh, come on, don’t be scared.” I grinned at the pitcher and said, “Tell you what, I’ll let you have two free strikes. Will that get you to be brave and throw a real pitch?”

“What are you saying, Yarm?” Penrin shouted from second base. “Don’t be silly. If you get three strikes the whole game is over!”

She was right to say so, but I wasn’t being arrogant. I was feigning arrogance. I knew I could only swing one time. Once Wembley saw my weak swing, he would immediately gain the confidence necessary to win. I wanted to watch two strikes go by to further analyse my opponent and also inflict further mental damage.

Wembley threw a pitch that was closer to the strike zone but still too far outside.

“Ball!”

Then, his next pitch was a fastball low and outside.

“Strike!”

Then, a fastball high and inside.

“Strike!”

The announcer was on the edge of his seat. “This boy will not swing! What is wrong with him? Has no one taught him how baseball works? You have to hit the ball with the bat, boy!” The audience laughed some more, but I was too focused to care.

I was certain that the next pitch would not be a ball. The pitcher would never forgive himself if he risked that after I hadn’t swung at all. Wembley would aim for the strike zone, and it would be with a fastball. The question was where.

I had a feeling that I knew the answer. At the start of the game, I was sure that Wembley had no biases in the regions he would aim at. His pitches were completely unpredictable. But now that he was rattled, it was becoming clear that he had certain safe spots where he would always go back to.

When the ball left Wembley’s hand, I knew. “Low and outside.” I aimed the bat exactly where the ball would go and hit it far into the sky. A satisfying clink came from my bat.

The ball soared. I knew then that the game was over.

“Out!” the umpire said.

The amateur shortstop had caught my ball. My swing had sent the ball high but not far. I just had too little strength.

The crowd cheered for the victors and us losers held our heads in shame.

“How did you know?” shouted Wembley who was unhappy with his victory. He knew that if I had any strength whatsoever, the game would have been his loss. “How did you know I would aim there?” His teammates dragged him away, thinking he was being a sore winner. “I have to know!” he yelled as he disappeared into the distance.

The coach came around to put red stamps on us losers and recommended that I join the team. I politely declined.

“That was fun, wasn’t it?” I said.

Penrin angrily responded, “No! Losing isn’t fun. We’re winning the next three contests no matter what!”

“Well personally, I thought it was fun,” Newmill said while scratching his cheek.

Penrin pulled out a string with a coin attached to one end and dangled it in front of Newmill. Like a pendulum it swung back and forth. “When I snap my fingers, you’re going to say that wasn’t fun.”

“Hypnosis?” I said. She was willing to go that far?

Penrin snapped her fingers and Newmill said, “That wasn’t fun.”

“It worked?” I had to learn how to do that.

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