#kyle schwarber

The final round of the 2026 Home Run Derby is shaping up to be an even more electric sequel to 2018, with Schwarber going first and absolutely crushing his previous record. More than that, he ends up setting the new all-time record, beating Vladimir Guerrero Jr.’s 2019 total by 2 with a sudden barrage of Schwarbombs during his bonus time that has the entire city on their feet.

Bryce screams along with them, pulling his teammate into an embrace that’s equal parts excited baby shaking and proud, crushing bear hug.

“Holy shit, dude! How am I supposed to top that?”

“Hey, now you just need 999,907 total and then that’s not the only thing getting topped.”

“Man shut the fuck up! I’m gonna get 94 now, just watch.”

Bryce walks up for his for his own at bat, ignoring his fellow All Star’s receding jeers of “Come on, that won’t even get you over the pants stuff!” as he takes a breath and locks in.

The round goes incredibly well, and on his final swing, Harper does get to 94. And then 95. And then 96. As a reminder of the rules, a player who hits a home run on their final swing continues swinging until they fail to hit one out. Bryce continues swinging.

97. 98. 99. The crowd is losing their minds.

But as he hits his 100th home run, forever cementing his name in the annals of baseball history, Bryce Harper can tell that something is wrong.

After 175, an official approaches Bryce to ask what the hell is going on, only to be bodily stopped by an invisible forcefield. After 250, Bryce begs his father to stop pitching, and Ron Harper looks at his son, terrified, and tells him in a strained voice that he can’t.

The entire ballpark has been evacuated after 750. By the time he reaches 1500, the bizarre story has made every national news outlet. By 5000, it’s every international outlet as well.

10,000. 25,000. 50,000. They send medical professionals, scientists, the National Guard. No one can get near him, and Bryce cannot stop. He isn’t eating or sleeping or doing anything but ringing that damn bell over and over and over, but he’s still in peak athletic form. In fact, as one reporter writes, utterly bewildered, he’s never looked better.

100,000. 250,000. 500,000. No one can figure out where the balls are coming from, but they have to start sending ball boys in round-the-clock shifts to collect them from every corner of the park. Cherelle Parker loses her mayoral race to the first candidate to propose a way to fully reshape Philadelphia’s economy around Bryce Harper’s Home Run Derby curse.

750,000. 850,000. As Bryce Harper enters his 100th day of hitting dingers, the MLB enters a lockdown, but not for a reason anyone could have seen coming. Most players sign overseas in the meantime, but some retire outright, too unsettled and disillusioned with the sport. Shohei Ohtani was seen standing motionless on the perimeter of the forcefield on day 105, watching Bryce with an unreadable expression for 8 hours straight, even through a severe thunderstorm.

900,000. 950,000. After the immediate flurry of media attention in the days following the Home Run Derby, Kyle Schwarber had seemingly dropped off the face of the planet. No teammates, friends, or family could comment on his whereabouts, and there were almost no signs of life at all, except for a quiet but aggressive campaign launched by his legal representatives to remove every recorded instance of an interview from the day before the fated ballgame.

980,000. 990,000. Kyle hadn’t wanted to believe it at first. And then he spent every day trying to reverse the spell. And then he accepted his fate.

999,998. 999,999. As he steps back onto the field for the first time in 127 days, dirt crunching under his cleats, Kyle admits to himself that he missed this place. As he sees Bryce for the first time in 127 days—form still perfect, uniform pants still straining just right against his thighs—Kyle admits to himself that the ancient, cosmic yearning he’s felt since that stupid fucking interview did come from deep within Citizens Bank Park…but also from himself. The forcefield shimmers a familiar maroon as he steps inside.

The two men lock eyes as another perfectly placed pitch goes hurtling toward Bryce, and Kyle walks towards home. They take a breath in unison.

Traffic compresses near the park. Petco’s light towers spear into the dusk and switch from soft to surgical; the Western Metal Supply building wears a banner the size of a ship’s sail—WORLD SERIES—GAME 7—and for a second you swear the words put weight on your sternum. The parking structure elevator is shoulder-to-shoulder jerseys: a thicket of Tatis 23s, a sea of Machado 13s, a scattering of Soto 22s, your Harper 3 sticking out like a cardinal in a pine forest. A kid in an infant-sized Padres tee stares up at you with the solemnity of a priest. “You’re brave,” he declares. His dad makes a dying noise. You crouch to the kid’s level and whisper, “We’re all brave tonight,” and the kid nods like you handed him a spare life.

The doors slide open and the concourse breathes warm on your face—grilled onion heat, popcorn salt, spilled beer and sunscreen, ocean air sneaking under concrete. Vendors chant Ice-cold water! Churros! Peanuts! in rounds like a stadium choir. A brass band near Gallagher Square refuses to stop playing “Seven Nation Army.” The concrete hums with 40,000 feet. Bob defaults to logistics when feelings get big. “Food first,” he orders, as if you’re a squad and calories are ammo. Hot dog stand for him—mustard, grilled peppers, nothing silly. Cheesesteak stall for you because you found it in April and bookmarked it like a prophecy. You meet at a cutout where the ballpark opens like a postcard: the grass goggles-green under cathedral lights, home plate a white arrow, the dirt combed to velvet, the mound a small altar somebody burnished by hand. A bullpen catcher pops a warm-up throw; half the concourse flinches like they’ve been kissed.

“Last chance to defect,” Bob says, passing you napkins.

“In your dreams, sailor.” You bite in—grease, joy, salt—and talk around it. “But if you cry later, I’ll lend you the towel.”

He glances away like he’s hiding from the sunshine of you. “Deal.”

Your seats are indecent. The net starts just above your eyeline; you can read the scuffs on the ump’s shoes, the pine-tar gloss on the bat handle in the on-deck circle. The jumbotron detonates a hype reel: Darvish feathering the black; Wheeler sawing men off at the top rail; Harper’s load-and-fire like a siege engine; Machado a human hinge, folding around a backhand and rifling a seed to first. Every clip wrings a different roar out of the building. Lineups roll; you go feral for HARPER 3 and a block of red twenty rows back answers like you rehearsed. Bob tries to sprain his lungs for MACHADO 13. Schwarber’s name gets booed on reflex and then respected when his postseason bombs flash like police lights.

The PA’s baritone booms the ceremonial language and the flag unfurls like a continent. Everyone stands. The anthem skims the rafters and then the jets rip the sky open, carving white seams through indigo. Without thinking, Bob’s hand finds the small of your back; without thinking, you lean into it like gravity.

Warm-ups sharpen. Darvish looks like he’s rehearsed by a choreographer—cat-shouldered, balanced, elegant even when he’s mean. Wheeler is a blade warmed to a glow in right-center, long toss into violence, then fastballs that knock invisible dust off the air. You and Bob trade terms under your breath—ride, cut, tunneling—not because the words change anything but because naming things makes them less capable of eating you.

“Terms,” you say, because ritual keeps the baseball gods entertained. “Loser wears the winner’s jersey for a week.”

“Loser buys parade flights.” He clears his throat like he just said something larger than airfare. “For two.”

“For two,” you echo, and the echo doesn’t fade so much as settle, like a coin at the bottom of a fountain.

Ump brushes the plate, taps his clicker. Realmuto flashes a first sign; Darvish shakes once, nods. Schwarber digs in, cleats chirring in the clay. You can hear it. You can hear your pulse.

“Here we go,” Bob says, and the calm has burned off him. He’s all spark.

First pitch of Game Seven: 95 on the black, thunk to leather. Strike. The building exhales like a dragon. Darvish treats Schwarber like a thesis—curve that falls through a trapdoor, cutter that just misses off, ladder fastball he skies to the moon. Out one. Turner chops a slider to short; clean. Two down. Harper steps into a different noise, not louder—denser—like weather rolling in. Darvish won’t give him dessert. Harper walks by refusing to eat anything that isn’t a meal. Castellanos chases letter-high gas and sits. Top one ends like a door shut gently.

Wheeler takes the ball and the pitch clock becomes a second heart. Kim sees three pitches and swallows a slider he can’t recognize in time. Soto walks like gravity loves him more than you. Machado jumps 97 in and turns it into a scream past third; Turner bodies it to keep life from getting rude. Runners at the corners, one out, the sound condenses into a storm cell over home plate. Wheeler goes cruel: riding fastball, then a curve that drops out of the picture like it owes money. Back-to-back punchies end it. You sag against the rail, apologizing under your breath to paramedics for what you will do to your heart tonight.

“That’s your free threat,” you tell Bob. “No more corner offices.”

“Cute talk from a city that booed Santa.” He grins sideways. “You want me to buy you a battery now or later?”

“Say ‘battery’ again and I’ll have security carry you out by your shoelaces,” you purr, and a Padres fan two seats down barks a laugh, slaps your shoulder like he’s drafted you.

Second inning trims like a sharp montage. Bohm lasers a liner; Machado turns it into geometry—snare, set, seed—one out. Stott chirps a single into shallow center; Realmuto rolls a two-hopper; Kim eats it and spits out 6-4-3 like a magic trick. In the home half, a two-out double splits the gap; Marsh knifes it off the wall, the relay is clean, and the would-be run dies under a red stop sign so crisp you taste peppermint. Realmuto steals a borderline sinker with velvet hands; you cup your mouth and thank blue for preserving truth in a dishonest world.

Third inning, both aces wear the look—eyes flat, pace quick, world reduced to a white square and its sins. Schwarber fights and loses. Turner steals second on a read like telepathy; Harper gets a fastball he lifts to the biggest part of the yard and the ball dies two bricks short into a glove that has no business being there. Wheeler erases the bottom third with two Ks and a chopper Stott throws on the move, momentum like a live wire running up your arm.

“Feels like first crack opens the dam,” Bob says, still staring.

“Feels like you’re jinxing it,” you say, knock the rail three times with your knuckles. The woman behind you knocks too. “Superstition is free,” she whispers. “And cheaper than therapy.”

Fourth is the crack. Padres leadoff single, a loud out that feels like a warning shot, Soto 3–1 and nobody with a mortgage wants to throw him a cookie. Walk. Machado looks like a man who knows what future he’s in and punishes 97 in on the hands, yanking it fair inside the bag. The ball ricochets off that ugly corner and caroms along the line while Petco leans east; two runs score and Machado stands on second like a man who owns mineral rights. Bob is on his feet with both fists up, a sound ripping out of him that’s clean and helpless. You sit and taste metal and—because you’re you—are a little in love with the way joy lights him from the inside. Wheeler depressurizes the inning with a back-foot slider that makes a bench full of millionaires flinch, and you stand because sulking is for April. “Plenty of game left,” you warn, and Bob taps the bill of your cap with an index finger. “You always say that like a threat.”

Darvish sharpens into the cushion. Bohm gnaws through two death pitches and loses to a parachute curve. Stott grinds a walk. Realmuto murders a fastball to the deepest cavern in left-center, and it dies under the hand of a park engineered by petty gods. “Big yard,” Bob murmurs into your hair. You elbow him in the ribs with concentrated love and malice. He oofs and grins.

Fifth is where your soul moves to a different address. Marsh slaps a single and steals second on a panic-pitch; Turner legs out an infield roller that Machado barehands and only barely cannot beat time with; two on, one out, and Schwarber walks in wearing the sound of dread like it’s tailored. A man in a vintage Phillies jacket two rows up points at the sky and yells, “Do it for my ex-wife!” The section laughs too hard. A Padres lifer in a sun-bleached brown jersey pinches the bridge of his nose and says into his palms, “Anyone but this man.”

Darvish handles Schwarber like he’s defusing a bomb. Cutter away, foul. Curve that snaps; Schwarber spits, eyes bored. Ladder fastball; he swings through, late. 1–2. Two wastes; Schwarber punishes the arrogance by not acknowledging them. Full. Realmuto sets up a hair in, because if you miss out you might live; if you miss in, you die on TV.

Darvish shakes twice, nods.

He misses in.

Schwarber unloads like mythology. The crack isn’t sound; it’s a rupture. The ball turns into a certainty long before it becomes a souvenir. Right field stands prepare like they’ve rehearsed catching meteors. You scream because your body decides to run a program older than language. Rally towels whip the air into a gale.

Grand slam. Phillies 4, Padres 3.

You climb Bob without permission, shouting nonsense syllables like you’ve been hit by a natural phenomenon. He’s devastated and beaming because your joy is a disease he’ll never vaccinate against. The woman behind you—therapy enthusiast—grabs your forearm and shrieks, “RING THE BELL!” A pocket of Philly transplants five rows up detonates into a whirling mass of red towels and questionable dance moves. A Padres die-hard with a tattoo older than you two holds his beer aloft and declares, “Still love you, Friars,” in a voice that makes you want to hug him and not hug him at the same time.

Baseball being baseball, ecstasy gets punished immediately. Darvish dispatches the next two unharmed on three pitches like he’s offended you forgot his name. In the bottom half, Wheeler yields a leadoff single and then paints a 6–4–3 that belongs in a museum. Soto lines a ball that hooks foul by a cigar paper; forty thousand inhale the same ghost and let it go together. He flies to the track, parks there, tips a phantom cap to the deep that denied him.

Sixth swings back cruelly. A blooper falls where equations fail; a seeing-eye single becomes a threat; a two-out, two-strike nibble becomes an RBI when a professional hitter does professional violence to a stubborn pitch. Tie game, 4–4, and your stomach drops like an elevator. Bob shoves both hands under his thighs and sits on them to keep from squeezing you in half. “It’s fine,” he lies. “We like drama.” Harper tries to end the argument first pitch, unloads on something center-cut and everyone believes together until the ball chooses mortality and dies in a glove on the warning track. Your laugh scuffs into a sob. “Physics can catch these hands,” you say, and a teenager in a Phanatic bucket hat yells, “SAME, QUEEN,” like an ordination.

The stretch lands and you sing even though your voice is a gravel road. You throw your arm over Bob’s shoulders and lean into the sway with thirty thousand strangers; you don’t care if you never get back, except you care with marrow about getting three more outs than they do. After “at the old… ball… game,” the organ player bangs a flourish like a bar fight.

Top seven: bullpen phone, a man loosening like a tall question mark beyond the fence. Wheeler’s count whistles. Leadoff walk—boo hiss. Sac bunt, old religion. A flare into no-man’s with the audacity of fate—Padres retake a 5–4 lead on a sac fly you despise because it’s smart. Bob kisses his knuckles and tips them to the sky like he’s cashing in favors. “You’re insufferable,” you tell him, clutching his sleeve anyway. “You’re adorable when you’re wrong,” he says sweetly, and you promise to trip him on the way to the truck. Bottom seven, Turner legs a single; Harper scalds a one-hopper that should carve a canyon and Manny Machado commits a war crime at third: smothers, plants, flamethrower to second, pivot, double play, inning strangled. “That’s my third baseman,” Bob crows, and you say something anatomically rude about exit velocity and the devil’s favorite sons that makes a grandmother in front of you sip her beer to stop laughing.

The fans around you become their own roster. To your left, Navy Dad in a faded camo cap keeps stats in pencil on a program and explains leverage index to his daughter like it’s bedtime math; she nods solemnly every time someone throws a slider in a 1–0 count. Behind you, Therapy Woman hoards napkins and passes them like communion. Across the aisle, a bachelor party in dishwater brown tries to start the wave and gets booed by an old man who hisses, “Not in a one-run game, heathens,” with priestly authority. A kid with a glove bigger than his face turns to you and asks, “Is Schwarber going to do another one?” and you whisper, “If we are very good,” and the kid clasps his hands like he can bribe the sun.

Eighth opens on a wire hum in your spine. The Phillies’ bullpen is stitching the inning with dental floss. Leadoff single, a thunderous lineout that turns into a throw-’em-out at first when the hitter forgets physics, a walk on a slider that misses by eyelashes. Realmuto guns down a steal attempt like time travel, ball in glove before the runner knows he is only a photograph of speed. You are on the rail, hoarse, barking “DON’T TRY TEN!” like you’re his lawyer. Final out floats into Marsh’s mitt with a mercy you do not question. Bottom eight, two outs, a runner on first, and Harper strides up to a sound the building learned in a past life. First pitch: not his. Second: borderline; he chokes on it and spits. Third: he tattoos a double into the left-center gap, a seam-splitting, cut-the-field-in-half kind of swing. Runner scores standing. Tie game, 5–5. You climb Bob like a tree and he groans into your shoulder, “You’re going to bruise me,” and you answer, “You knew the risks when you invited me,” and Therapy Woman gifts you both a napkin like it’s a blessing.

Ninth is a nightmare where you remain awake. Padres load the bases on walk-bloop-walk, two outs, and the reliever flips a 3–2 breaking ball that starts a hair off and stays a hair off and the hitter lunges and half-swings and home plate rings him up and the brown-and-gold lower bowl experiences collective spontaneous combustion. You are unwell. Bottom nine, two on, two out, the closer finds a cutter that kisses the black twice and steals your future. Your brain mutely labels a new emotion: fear married to love married to certainty you can’t prove.

Ten.

The top of the tenth is insultingly on-brand: single, sacrifice, intentional walk, one out, bases loaded, the ballpark breathing like a lung collapsing and reinflating under a hand. The reliever—kid face, old eyes—saws a bat in half and the bloop lands harmless; two outs. Full count. Realmuto sets up off the plate, a fishing lure; he gets a bite; he catches and hides the catch like a magician. Strike three. The building flickers. You hug a stranger so hard his glasses fog. Bob doubles over the rail with his cap over his face and laughs this wrecked laugh of a man being vivisected by hope and choosing not to die.

Bottom ten. Walk. A swinging bunt that dies fair in grass like it knows a story, safe by a step because the first baseman thought about tomorrow for a breath. Brown-and-gold gnashes teeth and prays; pockets of red stand on seats and chant something untranslatable to outsiders. The closer looks like he can feel his pulse in his gums. A single through the four-hole loads them. Bases drunk. Nobody out. You can taste metal. You can taste sugar. You can taste history if you bite down hard enough.

Schwarber walks to the box and the sound changes. Not volume—density. Your hand clamps Bob’s forearm. He winces. “He can’t do it twice,” he says, begging, bargaining.

“He can,” you rasp. “He will.”

First pitch: waste up and away. Ball. The crowd grinds its teeth. Second: cutter away; Schwarber watches like he’s bored of disobedience. 2–0. Catcher goes out, says theater to calm a city; everyone stands around pretending to share a secret. Back behind the plate, third pitch leaks middle and Schwarber’s a tick late, foul straight back; the net trembles; your bones ring. 2–1. Fourth: splitter dies early; 3–1; arithmetic crawls over everyone’s face at once—must-throw fastball territory. He shakes once, twice, looks like a man looking into a mirror and not recognizing the version of himself who gives this pitch. Nods. Realmuto squats. Stillness like a held breath.

Fastball, middle-in, trying to saw hands before history can write itself.

Schwarber writes anyway.

The swing is violence sanctified. Hips clear, barrel flattens the world, contact is the absence of doubt. The noise becomes a rupture that erases language. You don’t track the ball with your eyes; you track it with the way humanity around you pivots—right field rising like a wave, heads tilting in unison, mouths opening into the kind of smile people wear when the universe finally picks a side. The arc climbs high enough to get its passport stamped, pure enough that people are celebrating before it leaves the frame. Then it leaves the frame.

Walk-off grand slam.

You are already airborne. You are already straddling the seat, then him, then air again, then anything with mass because mass is the only proof you didn’t evaporate. Fireworks ricochet off the night. Confetti unzips above you like a red snowstorm. “Dancing On My Own” detonates from a PA that sounds giddy. On the field, bodies are color and limbs and joy; somebody disappears under a cooler; somebody else loses his hat and never notices. The bell graphic on the board rings so hard you feel it click the bones in your feet into place.

You cry and laugh and extend the duration of your own life by screaming. Bob is wrecked and grinning, hands on your waist, your new championship hat crammed down to your eyebrows. “Philly forever,” you gasp, not sure if you’re announcing, commanding, or praying.

“Guess I’m going to a parade,” he says, voice wrecked to gravel, smile soft like he was built for this moment and just found out.

Your section becomes a temporary family. Navy Dad writes “GS” in tiny letters on the scorecard and then actually fist-pumps. Therapy Woman kisses you on the cheek, leaves a confetti print behind. Bachelor Party offers you a plastic lei, then apologizes to the old priest for trying the wave, and gets absolution because even he is laughing. The Padres tattoo guy raises his beer to you and says, truly, “See you next year,” and you salute him with respect because hearts like his are why stadiums matter.

The walk out is a river of sound. The city outside has decided to be a chorus; horns sync to chants, phones light up like constellations, somebody climbs a stop sign and sings off-key, somebody else hands you a slice of pizza like communion. Bob keeps a hand at your back and you keep two fingers laced in his belt loop like you were issued to each other by a benevolent quartermaster. Under a streetlight, confetti has drifted into little red galaxies. He tucks one piece into your cap band like planting a flag.

“You were insufferable,” he murmurs, thumb sliding over your cheekbone to brush away a glitter bit.

“You were adorable in defeat,” you say, lifting his chin with a knuckle. “San Diego should be proud. And mildly concerned for your blood pressure.”

“Philly should be afraid,” he counters, leaning in. “You’re going to be unbearable for months.”

“Start hydrating now,” you advise. “Parade cardio is a contact sport.”

He kisses you there, loud city and louder hearts, and when he breaks he’s smiling in a way you want to frame. “For two,” he says again, quiet and sure.

“For two,” you answer into his mouth.

Back in the truck, the afterglow sits with you like a warm animal. He pulls onto the freeway and laughs without moving his mouth, a sound made of releases. You flick the brim of your new hat, rest your head back, and watch the fireworks afterimage sew itself into the dark behind your eyes.

“Still think smelling rosin isn’t romantic?” he asks at a red light, side-eyeing you with the kind of fondness that could do structural damage.

“I think tonight made everything romantic,” you say. “Even you.”

“Even me?” He feigns injury.

“Especially you.” You lace your fingers with his the way seams lace a perfect four-seamer. “Just wait until we get to Philly. I’m going to teach you how to yell properly.”

“I’ve been in combat zones,” he says.

“Cute,” you reply. “Try the Broad Street Line after a clinch.”

He laughs so hard he has to wipe his eyes. “God help me.”

“He did,” you say, squeezing his hand. “He gave you me.”

“And you gave me thirty thousand people screaming in my ear,” he says, glancing at you, traffic a river of brake lights and bliss. “And I think I liked it.”

“Admit it,” you murmur, the bell still ringing under your ribs. “You love me like you love a one-run lead.”

“No,” he says, and the corner of his mouth lifts. “More. One-run leads make me nauseous. You just make me loud.”