Chapter 26: A Battle of Pride (2)
TL: Hanguk
If there's one thing I've come to understand in my bones since arriving in the nineteenth century, it's that Americans are a people instinctively, hopelessly obsessed with sports.
Even in the twenty-first century, America was a country not just hooked on football, baseball, and basketball, but positively pickled in them.
Of those, baseball was the one I actually knew a thing or two about, so I'd been able to introduce it to the plantation with confidence.
The only problem was that the workers on our plantation turned out to be every bit as American as everyone else, which exceeded my expectations a little. No, quite a lot.
"Wh-what did you say? Baseball? You mean they play baseball here too?"
"Not 'here too'. This is where it started. I told you I'd modified it, didn't I?"
"Ah... right. So New York is the birthplace of baseball."
"Ohhhhh! The birthplace of baseball! Master! You simply must take us to that ballpark! Please? We're begging you!"
"We beg of youuuu!"
The moment they heard I'd be going to watch baseball with Isaac, Leo, Ben, and Sam all lost their minds.
"Grrraaah! The birthplace of baseball! If we pick up their techniques, that means we can sweep every plantation MVP award for ourselves."
"I wonder how different baseball in its birthplace must be."
"A feast of blazing fastballs and high-level mind games, don't you think?"
Yeah, sorry, but no. It really isn't.
The time I'd spent passing baseball down to them was long or short depending on how you looked at it, but for the slaves on our plantation, baseball and feast nights were the only entertainment they had.
As a result, they'd been living the noble life of complete baseball degenerates, swinging bats, throwing pitches, and running fielding drills every spare moment they got.
And that's not all. Driven by the ambition to get ahead, I'd also thrown my body around without mercy on a company rec-league team, which meant I'd absorbed everything from basic breaking balls to the fundamentals of sabermetrics.
After continuously feeding our workers the knowledge they were thirsting for, our plantation had already evolved to the point of using specially commissioned baseballs with figure-eight stitching and even rudimentary gloves.
To guys like these, wouldn't the primitive baseball of this era look hopelessly shabby, even pitiful?
"I know what you're all thinking, but if you go in with expectations, you're going to be massively disappointed. The rules aren't even the same, for starters."
As far as I knew, early baseball didn't even have a rule for walks, pitching was restricted to underhand only, and the concept of a strike zone was hazy at best.
For anyone used to the modern rules, it would feel less like watching baseball and more like watching something masquerading as baseball... but hey, they wanted to see it this badly, so what could I do?
Seeing is believing, as they say.
Accompanying Isaac Fowler to a joint New York–Brooklyn exhibition game, I was escorted straight to the VIP seats.
Apparently it was an exhibition match held before the season proper, since the weather hadn't fully warmed yet, and I could hear murmuring behind me about how it all seemed rather official anyway.
By this point, they said things like nine players, nine innings, and ninety feet between bases were already established, so it did have the definite shape of baseball.
"Ohhh, Master. Look at that crowd. New York doesn't disappoint."
"Watching those players out there, they've got a different air about them than we do. I'll be watching with a mind to learn a thing or two."
Leo, Ben, and Sam, standing beside me like bodyguards, made a great fuss over every single movement the players made.
"Hahaha, what do you think? This is the latest thing out of New York. The atmosphere's not bad either, is it? A bit noisy, perhaps, but I'm confident it has the potential to keep growing and growing."
Isaac Fowler waved toward the section where his supporters sat, doing his best to project a bit of presence.
Certainly, as strategies for elections and name recognition go, not a bad one.
But here's the problem.
CRACK!
"Yeahhhh!"
"Run! Ruuuun!"
As the game went on and the ecstatic cheering and roaring surged all around us, the mood in my immediate vicinity had gone stone cold in the exact opposite direction.
"What is this?"
"This is supposed to be baseball?"
"Is this some kind of joke... seriously. Why is he lobbing the ball in that slow? And what is with that baseball?"
"There's no strike zone here either? How is that baseball?"
A torrential downpour of criticism, delivered just quietly enough that only I could hear it.
See, I told you. Didn't I say you'd be one hundred percent disappointed?
I told them not to get their hopes up, and they went and got their hopes up, and now look. Exactly as predicted.
Even so, Leo apparently hadn't given up hope yet, and whispered to me in the tiniest voice.
"Master, this isn't it, right? This is just the warm-up act, and the real game is about to start, right? Please, please tell me that's the case."
"Sorry. It seems this is the level of New York baseball."
"But... you said this was the birthplace of baseball!"
"The pickup games we play for fun during practice are ten times better than this... what is with these guys? Is baseball a joke to them? Is it?"
"And they say they're going to start charging admission next year! They mean to take people's money to play baseball like this?!"
Guys, your voices are getting louder.
The aura of despair radiating from behind me was so intense that I was just about to be infected by it myself, when...
"Well, well, if it isn't Mr. Fowler. It's been a while."
From the VIP seats across the way, someone waved in cheerful greeting and approached, trailing a few men who looked like reporters.
Judging by the magnificent way Isaac's mouth twisted, it was obvious they were not on good terms.
And sure enough, Isaac Fowler returned the greeting in a voice that anyone could tell was dripping with sarcasm.
"Good day, Mr. Opdyke. I hear you've switched parties again. It was the Republicans this time, was it?"
"Not switched. Merged. And my time in the Democratic Party was nearly ten years ago now; don't you think you could let it rest? Surely you understand that I could hardly remain in a party that defends something as filthy as slavery."
"I see. Mr. Sergent, allow me to introduce you. This is George Opdyke. Ten years ago we belonged to the same party, until he received an offer to serve as a delegate for another party, left us, and has now moved his membership to the Republicans. He is also one of New York's most celebrated men of wealth."
Good grief, I'm going to get swept up in this pissing contest at this rate.
For all their vicious sniping at each other, George Opdyke was one of the heavyweights of New York City politics, pouring enormous donations into the Republican Party.
No need to make a bad impression in front of a man like that.
"How do you do. James Sergent."
When I extended my hand with an awkward smile, George Opdyke laughed heartily and clasped it.
"Ho ho, I've heard of you. The young grand planter from Mississippi. I'm told you resolved the National Hotel disease incident, and thanks to that, we've been able to breathe easier ourselves. It shut the mouths of those wretches spreading that atrocious rumor about Republicans planting poison."
"Haha... honestly, how would anyone even go about poisoning a hotel that size?"
"Quite so, quite so. And yet there were newspapers that printed such preposterous nonsense and called it journalism."
Opdyke glanced over the faces of Leo and Ben standing behind me, then, apparently quite pleased about something, chuckled and went on.
"By the way, now that you've had a good look at New York's famous attraction, what do you make of it?"
"Ah... you mean baseball?"
"Yes. Baseball is already a popular sport spreading throughout New York City. I'm confident it's only a matter of time before it spreads across the entire North as well. Where else but the free-spirited North, and New York at its heart, could such a spirited, inventive sport have been born?"
It felt like he was trying to needle me with a your-South-doesn't-have-anything-like-this-does-it, but astonishingly, I wasn't needled in the slightest.
I mean, I don't have an ounce of affection for the South or Mississippi in the first place.
What, you expected something innovative to come out of a region that spends every waking hour chanting "we love cotton, can't lose slavery"?
When I remained perfectly, astonishingly serene, Opdyke seemed caught off guard and was briefly at a loss for words.
Then he swiftly switched targets and turned his gaze to Leo behind me.
"Mr. Sergent, forgive me if this is meddlesome of me, but I believe even slaves require some minimal standard of human dignity in their lives. Watching a sporting event like this, how they must envy it, deep down."
"Hmm... you think so?"
"Of course they do. Why, the expressions on those slaves behind you, gazing at the field with such gloom, tell you everything, do they not?"
Did this guy come over here specifically to pick a fight?
Stealing a glance, I saw the reporter-looking fellow beside him scribbling away in a notebook without pause, and it clicked instantly.
He's planning to turn today into a story and spin it in the press as the North showing its proud spirit to the Southern hick.
Honestly, with a ruling as legendarily fucking brain-dead as Dred Scott having just come down, I'd wanted to keep my head low for a while, but when someone tries this hard to make a fool of you, you can't help but push back.
Just as a furious Isaac was opening his mouth to say something, I beat him to the punch.
"To be perfectly honest, I do see quite a few holes in the rules. There seems to be plenty of room for improvement."
"Oho... is that so? For example?"
"Take the ball itself. Far too little bounce off the bat, and the pitching is slow. You lose all the exhilaration that way, so shouldn't pitchers be allowed to throw hard from over the top, not just underhand? And when a pitch comes somewhere the batter has no hope of reaching, the rules ought to be revised so he isn't obliged to swing at it... if I picked at everything one by one, we'd be here all day."
"Hm, you seem to have watched quite attentively. But everything looks easy from the outside. Try it yourself and you'll find it has unexpected depths."
"You think so? I'd wager if I put my mind to it and trained my plantation workers for just a month or two, they could handily beat any team here."
Truthfully, I figured we could smash them to pieces if we played this very instant, but out of courtesy I softened it enormously.
In that moment, I caught a flicker of satisfaction in Opdyke's eyes that said, 'Finally needled him'.
"Spoken like a true grand planter of the South. Quite confident in your ability to handle slaves, I see? Ho ho, but this sport of baseball is not so easily conquered. Southerners always labor under this delusion that they excel at everything."
"Well, I'll admit the rules do look a bit antiquated. Adjusting might be difficult."
"Then, supposing we amended the rules just slightly, in the manner you pointed out a moment ago, would you be willing to actually play a match? Surely, after speaking so confidently, you won't tell me it was all just hot air?"
"Now wait just a moment! What on earth are you saying! Mr. Sergent came here to build a hospital for New York City. There are limits even to rudeness!"
As the conversation began to veer somewhere strange, Isaac Fowler blanched and tried to cut in, but by then the atmosphere had heated past the point where anyone could stop it.
Because the reporter at Opdyke's side, for starters, was already worked into a lather, openly broadcasting his intent to cover this fight blow by blow.
"Well now, well now, this is a scoop I cannot pass up. I only came to take in the atmosphere, and instead I find myself witnessing a historic moment. I'm Horace Greeley, editor of the New York Tribune. What would you say to the Tribune actively promoting this contest?"
"If the Tribune will promote it, then I shall sponsor this historic match myself. Of course, if you'd like to retract your words, say you spoke rashly in the heat of the moment, I will withdraw like a gentleman."
Now that not just some reporter but a press magnate far bigger than expected had latched on, the whole affair was showing every sign of snowballing.
Looking at the hostility being poured on me so openly, I had a pretty good guess at what was really going on here.
For these two, baseball was nothing but a pretext. The Dred Scott decision had them so venomous that they were desperate for any excuse to tear the South down.
And look, I get the sentiment, but if you want to throw punches, go throw them somewhere else. Why pick on me, the one guy minding his own business?
"A man can't go back on his word. But the ball and the rules have to be changed the way I described. We're beginners, after all. Surely you can extend us that much courtesy?"
"But of course. The conditions will be the same for both sides either way."
Horace Greeley headed off in high excitement, declaring he'd run this scoop in a big way first thing tomorrow, and Opdyke handed me his card, saying we'd meet the next day to settle the detailed rules.
And so the baseball commotion came to an end, and Isaac Fowler, apparently genuinely mortified, apologized over and over without even managing to meet my eyes.
"I am truly sorry. I never imagined those lunatics would go this far."
"What is there to be sorry for? I'm fine."
"Haah... I clearly overlooked how, because of that ruling, both sides are hunting for any pretext to start a fight with the other. With slaves standing in view, of course they'd think 'perfect' and make a beeline for our seats... this was plainly my oversight."
"Not at all. Frankly, my own response wasn't very mature either."
"But... do you truly intend to go through with it? Wouldn't it be better to withdraw now, while you still can? We have men at the post office who enjoy a game of baseball now and then, and it is not as easy as it looks."
Naturally, to eyes like Isaac's or Opdyke's, I could only look like a Southern greenhorn with far too much pride and no grasp of reality, running his mouth.
But if I'd thought we were going to lose, I'd have kept my mouth shut and stayed quiet from the start.
I left Isaac with a word not to worry, and after we parted, I turned to my players, who had been following along in silence, and asked.
"Leo, Sam, Ben. Answer me honestly, no exaggeration whatsoever. Think we've got a shot?"
The three of them exchanged a strange look among themselves.
"Well... honestly speaking."
Then delivered one thick, forceful line of review.
"They fucking sucked, sir."
Right? Couldn't agree more.
But Opdyke, knowing absolutely none of this, kept his promise, promoting the match far and wide and raising the stakes higher and higher.
I wondered what on earth he thought he was doing, but if the man insists on upsizing his own coffin, what am I supposed to do about it?
Nothing left but to close the lid on it in grand style, where the whole world can watch.
Won't be long now, Mr. Opdyke.
Get ready to have your ass beaten black and blue.
*****
If you like this novel, please leave a review or rating at NovelUpdates.
Link: https://www.novelupdates.com/series/i-became-a-wicked-landowner-in-the-american-south/
Join our Discord for announcements or to report any mistakes.