For the last twelve months, we have witnessed Ohtani the Terminator at the plate. The stolen bases, the tape-measure home runs, the MVP trophy. Yet, there has been a phantom limb to his game. The absence of one hundred miles per hour from the right side feels like a symphony missing its drums. The Dodgers didn’t just sign a designated hitter. They signed a force of nature. But nature is cruel, and Tommy John scars run deep. The organization has preached patience. They have whispered about 2025. But patience is a luxury Ohtani has never afforded himself.

To watch him play is to watch a man at war with gravity. The psychological shift of returning to two-way status is the most dramatic storyline entering this summer. The National League has been put on notice: Ohtani is ramping up. The flat-ground throws are increasing in intensity. The mound is calling his name. And if the arm responds, the premise of the Cy Young race transforms from a statistical debate into a cultural event.

Why does he need to chase the Cy Young this season? Because the narrative demands a climax. Last year, he was the wounded king. This year, he must be the conqueror. The Dodgers built a superteam, but superteams are forgotten. Dynasties are remembered through mythic individuals. A Cy Young Award for Ohtani does more than add a trophy to a shelf; it legitimizes the two-way experiment as a sustainable blueprint, not a freak accident.

Imagine the late summer nights at Chavez Ravine. The tension of a 3-2 count, not in the batter’s box, but on the mound. Ohtani glaring in at Mookie Betts during an intrasquad scrimmage—this is the intensity he brings. When he pitches, the stadium feels different. It feels urgent. It feels violent. The swing-and-miss stuff is still there, locked in a cage of scar tissue. When that door opens, the National League is in trouble.

There is a cruel arithmetic at play. The voters of the Cy Young Award are notoriously stingy. They love volume. They love dominance. They rarely give it to a pitcher who misses time. But Ohtani is not a pitcher. He is the pitcher. The calculus changes when a man hits 40 home runs and posts a sub-3.00 ERA. The media storm alone would force the narrative. He doesn’t need to lead the league in strikeouts. He needs to lead the league in moments.

The elephant in the room is workload management. Dave Roberts will sweat every start. The analytic department will hold their breath with every slider. But Ohtani has made it clear: he didn’t come to Los Angeles to be managed. He came to be unleashed. The beauty of his pursuit is the risk. Every start could be his last start. That fragility turns a Tuesday night game in Miami into a playoff atmosphere.

Look at the current landscape. The pitching elites—Strider, Gallen, Cole—are machines. But they are one-dimensional. Ohtani offers a psychological warfare that breaks opponents before the first pitch is thrown. The batter knows that if they walk him, they still have to face him on the mound. That pressure creates errors. It creates sweeps. It creates championships. This is why the Cy Young matters. It is the stamp of approval that says the human body can do this.

Spring reports are glowing, but they are always glowing. The true test comes in the fire of a July night, sweat dripping, arm barking, fastball ticking up to 98. If Ohtani can sustain that velocity while mashing .300, the MVP debate ends in August. But the Cy Young debate will rage until October. To win both in the same season, especially after major surgery, would be the single greatest athletic achievement in the history of team sports.

He needs to go for it because the alternative is regret. A safe Ohtani is a waste of oxygen. The Dodgers paid for the unicorn, not the horse. The Cy Young represents the final frontier of his superstition. He has proven he can beat you with wood. Now, he must prove he can bury you with leather and stitches. The hitters are scared. The league is watching. And deep in the Los Angeles clubhouse, a storm is uncoiling its ligaments.

The narrative is already written. We are just living in it. The only thing standing between Ohtani and immortality is the health of his ulnar collateral ligament. It is a terrifying gamble. But greatness has never asked for permission. It takes the ball in the ninth inning. It throws the splitter in the dirt. It stares down history and dares it to blink. Shohei Ohtani needs the Cy Young. Not for the plaque. But to remind the world that he is still the most dangerous weapon baseball has ever seen.

The first pitch of his season is coming. And when it lands in the catcher’s glove, the chase officially begins.