B OSTON -- Asked for an example illustrating the difficulty hitters face against Red Sox closer Byung-Hyun Kim, Jeremy Giambi laughed.
"Tomas Perez struck out batting left-handed," Giambi said, "and the ball hit him."
That's what happens when one of the most confounding pitchers in baseball takes the mound and starts chucking frisbees at hitters used to swinging at darts. Perez' gaffe earned him coast-to-coast airplay on SportsCenter, the ball smacking him in the waist as he lunged like a farmer swinging a scythe.
"Suppose he'd swung at that pitch the way he did and actually made contact," Phillies teammate Doug Glanville hypothesized to ESPN.com last August. "It would have knocked the mask off the umpire's face. That would have been a first."
No matter how horrible the swing, it's hard to be surprised by anything Boston's submarining closer induces. With an arsenal that seemingly defies all laws of pitching -- his ball sinks when it should rise, cuts when it should run, and explodes when it should have no life -- the diminutive Kim has become one of the toughest hurlers in the game.
Listed at 5-foot-9 but standing no more than 5-7, Kim dominates hitters with deception and some of the most unorthodox stuff in the majors.
"Obviously," said Red Sox pitching coach Dave Wallace, "he's a little funky."
And how. Since arriving from Arizona for Shea Hillenbrand on May 28, Kim has converted nine of 10 save opportunities and posted a 3.22 ERA in 582/3 innings. Initially a starter, he has excelled since moving to the back of Boston's bullpen on July 1, limiting opponents to a .207 average and striking out a batter an inning.
Red Sox manager Grady Little credits Kim with resurrecting Boston's bullpen and his teammates would be inclined to agree. Though Kim has had his rocky moments -- like two losses and a blown save against the Yankees -- he's also had stretches of pure dominance.
He didn't allow an earned run his first 11 appearances as closer, limiting foes to just six hits in 121/3 innings and striking out 17.
"I've seen him go four to six weeks and be pretty much unhittable at the major league level," said former Diamondbacks coach Dick Scott. "He'll get in a groove before the year is over where he's lights out for a month with a miniscule ERA and nobody can touch him."
Hitters have a hard time describing what it's like to face Kim, though the word "uncomfortable" pops up quite a bit. Most all agree on the first key to his success -- deception.
Kim hides the ball against right-handers with a poor man's Luis Tiant turn before whipping his underhanded offerings homeward. Hitters often fail to pick up the ball until it leaves his hand, effectively shortening the distance between the mound and home.
"Deception is the No. 1 thing," said Red Sox infielder Damian Jackson, formerly of the Padres. "If he's pitching from the windup, everything is kind of slow, then he steps back, pauses, turns his body and -- BOOM -- here it comes. It's hard to tell your eyes not to get too relaxed, even though your mind knows what's coming."
In addition to the turn, there's the delivery itself. Major league hitters are accustomed to seeing the ball come over the top or three-quarters. They're familiar with sidearm motions. But when the pitcher's knuckles practically scrape the ground, that's uncharted territory.
"When you adjust the arm angle from the region above the shoulders to down around the knees, things change drastically," said Red Sox and former Rockies outfielder Gabe Kapler. "How do you prepare for that? No one throws it in BP. You might see a guy like that once a month. BK, (Oakland's Chad) Bradford, you can count those guys on one hand."
With a conventional overhand delivery, hitters can follow the ball as the arm whips around, gaining precious hundredths of a second to ascertain pitch type. But because Kim hides the ball and then slingshots it from down low, hitters often fail to spot the ball until it leaves his hand. Or worse, just after.
Suddenly, an average fastball looks a lot harder.
"I don't care what the (radar) gun says," said Jackson. "When you're standing in the box, it looks way harder than 87 or 88 (mph). It's just whoosh and it's on top of you."
Giambi agreed.
"It's not that the ball is coming harder," he said. "It's that you're picking it up later. Over the top, you pick up the ball right out of his hand. Down here you might pick it up 10 feet out. Ten feet is a huge difference.
"By the time you start picking up his arm angle, you're behind in the count, because he throws strikes."
Once the ball leaves Kim's hand, it moves in ways even big league hitters don't expect.
Opponents call his slider a frisbee because of its ability to break down, sideways or up. His changeup dives at the ankles. His fastball needn't even touch 90 to look like 100.
Blue Jays hitting coach Mike Barnett served as Arizona's Triple A first base coach during Kim's brief stay there in 1999. He recalls Albuquerque first baseman Kevin Grijack's reaction to Kim.
"He said, 'It looked like a fastball that was going to be down and away. The next thing I knew, it shot up under my chin," Barnett recalled. "He took it. It scared him to death."
Major league hitters have similar reactions, particularly when it comes to the slider. A conventional slider breaks hard and slightly down. Kim's often rises. He's got what his coaches call an upshoot and a downshoot.
"He throws it from so low," noted Kapler. "Before it does anything else, it has to go up."
The late movement can be disconcerting, especially for the hitter who only sees it once or twice.
"I can see why they call it a frisbee," said Blue Jays outfielder Vernon Wells. "I don't think it actually rises; I think that's just an illusion. But it definitely moves sideways. I try to attack him early in the count, before I see it."
Kim is not immune to struggle. Sidearmers and submariners throw on a flat plane. An 85 mph slider that doesn't shoot up or down is also known as a batting practice fastball. And even an uncomfortable big league hitter knows what to do with those.
Just ask Scott Brosius, Derek Jeter and Tino Martinez. They each took Kim deep during the 2001 World Series, dealing Kim blown saves in Games 4 and 5.
"Anyone who has had success against BK -- like Brosius, Tino and Jeter -- they just got a pitch they were looking for and didn't miss it," Jackson said. "I don't think you're going to see a whole lot of cases like that. That's what makes him tough."
Even though he has professed a desire to start, Kim seems best suited for relief, where batters fail to find a comfort zone when confronted with his arsenal. Jeter's World Series homer came on Kim's 62nd pitch and at the end of a nine-pitch at-bat.
"The less you see him, the more effective he's going to be," Giambi said. "By the time your second or third at-bat rolls around, you've got your timing down and can start picking up where the ball is coming from."
Wherever it's coming from, there's no understating Kim's impact on the Red Sox bullpen. He has taken Boston's biggest weakness and slung, twirled, whipped and whirled it into one of the team's biggest strengths.
"It means a lot to me and the whole club to know that we've got someone of his capabilities sitting out there in the bullpen just waiting to get work," said Red Sox manager Grady Little. "You want to do everything you can to get him the opportunity to go to work."