Unexpected Heyday
“Man… the weather’s a killer today.”
I checked the weather at Hwang Do-yoon’s words. Daegu’s temperature today… 33 degrees? Holy crap… we’re toast. Just the number alone made my breath hitch in the suffocating heat. And it wasn’t hyperbole to call it a steamer. Even from the dugout, the sweltering air wrapped around my body like a blanket.
But today, my gut was an even bigger issue than the heat. It wasn’t outright pain from overeating—just bloated, with gas constantly rising. Yesterday’s binge had me shuttling to the bathroom, but the real killer was the burps hitting every ten minutes. So I sat quietly in a spot away from the other players. No way did I want them catching me belching.
The silver lining? My body didn’t feel sluggish. Just mildly off inside. Ironically, each burp brought a brief wave of relief, so here I was, weirdly hoping for more to settle things down. A ridiculous spot to be in.
Time ticked by, and the game kicked off. Away game, so I led off in the top of the first.
The opposing pitcher was Michael, the Daegu Eagles’ second starter, a foreigner. His face on the mound was grim. The choking heat. Yeah, you’re hurting too, huh? Korea’s signature humid swelter had the import looking wrecked.
— Kim Hu-seong, the leadoff hitter, steps up to the plate.
— With this scorching weather, both players look thrilled. Grimacing and glaring from the top of the first.
Broadcaster Lee Seo-jin delivered it with a light tone from his air-conditioned booth, leaving the caster choking back laughs instead of calling the play.
Feeling off today… Plan A it is. No forcing it early—take a couple pitches, gauge Michael’s stuff.
First pitch came in. Slid outside the zone. I let it go.
Second was low and got called a strike. Passed again.
One and one. Right on plan. Even better, really—he’d have to throw at least one more to get to two strikes.
Michael checked the sign, then fired the third. A straight fastball right down the pipe.
“Strike!”
Perfect. Time to battle.
With two strikes showing, I geared up.
Whiff!
I swung on reflex. Just needed a cut. But right then, a burp I’d been holding surged up.
Urk!
My breath hitched. Thwack! The ball popped weakly off the bat, floating up.
I knew it instantly. It drifted lazily toward the mound; Michael gloved it without breaking stride.
— Ball’s dropping to the pitcher! Michael nabs the leadoff guy on a pitcher’s fly. Great start.
* * *
The Turkeys went down 1-2-3 in the first. Bottom half, I trudged back into the brutal air for shortstop.
Whoa… hot. Brutal.
The infield dirt baked under the sun radiated heat; just standing there choked you.
Weirdly—no, brutally—balls kept coming my way.
Thud!
— Grounder to the pull side… rolling toward short. Damn…
Thud!
— Pulls it again. Kim Hu-seong charges and snags it!
— Crushed it. Kim diving! Pops up, fires to first… out!
Turkeys retired the side 1-2-3 again. Every roller came my way. And it kept happening.
Through the second and third bottom halves, every out but one strikeout went through me.
Early defense felt dicey. Gut still unsettled, body sluggish from the binge or the heat. Grabbing and throwing, I fretted: a beat slow? Shaky throw?
But innings wore on, digestion kicked in. Feet moved first, body reacted smooth. A few burps popped out mid-play, easing things each time.
Finishing the third, heading to the dugout—
Gurgle rumble rumble.
Uh-oh? Gut-wrenching pain hit. This is… bathroom emergency!
Top of the fourth leadoff—me. Needed to prep for the plate, but crisis first. Glove in hand, I bolted to the locker room, straight to the stall.
Blasted it all out at once. Ten seconds. Short? Long? Diarrhea-liquid bliss. Wiped, flushed—then unleashed a monster burp, nearly ten seconds long.
Burrrrrrrp.
…Huh?
Whoa!? Gut felt pristine. Bloat vanished like a lie; stomach empty and light.
Hold up. Condition suddenly peak?
Body light, fully recovered. Grinning faintly, I exited.
“Kim Hu-seong! What the hell? Get ready!”
“Sorry! Quick bathroom break!”
Son Tae-ho scowled, but my post-bliss glow got an eyeroll. As I passed, a whiff of aftermath wrinkled his nose.
‘Oops…?’
“You… nah. Rough in the field?”
He figured field urgency.
“Defense? Yeah, dicey at first. But good now.”
“Fine then. Hustle—everyone’s waiting.”
“Got it.”
Quick prep, helmet and bat in hand, to the plate.
“Sorry, did I hold us up?”
“Nah, barely. Five seconds?”
“Ah, gotcha.”
“Let’s go.” I’d apologized to the ump first—no big delay, just a blip.
Phew… Back in the box.
Michael was dialed: nine straight outs from the first through third. Mound swagger full of ease.
But I felt different. Emptied the issue—bat glued to hands, power in my legs.
Good. Time to drag you to hell.
* * *
Battle dragged. Plan A: milk two pitches. Both strikes this time. Locked in.
Plink! Thud! Tick!
— Fouls again! Kim Hu-seong’s locked in.
— Michael got him easy top of the first, smug as hell. Probably heard the scouting report: feeds this guy pitches. But that smirk’s gone.
Five, six pitches blurred by. Seventh now. Hands tingled—focus sharpened.
Eighth brewing, Michael’s face shifted. Like, ‘Ah, this guy. Screwed up picking him.’
Daegu catcher Kim Yong-seop glanced over. “Damn, you cut like a beast. What’s it take to get you?”
Half-joke, half-serious mind game.
I opened to reply—but another burp rose. Swallowed it silent.
He smirked. “Oho, psych war too? Ballsy rookie. Or just clueless?”
Pressure play. But post-burp? Fully locked.
Suddenly, everything sharpened. Happens sometimes in long at-bats: a fielder slips.
Outfielder? Meh. But infielder lax… prey.
Split-second: third baseman slouched. From tense ready pose to casual, inching off the bag.
Still two strikes. Ballsy move here.
Whiff!
— Pitcher delivers.
Choked up, poked it toward third. Sprinted full tilt to first.
— Kim Hu-seong! Surprise bunt!
Perfect—rolled dead right at him. Body surged forward, light as air.
Third lunged, barehanded to first. Solid play. But…
— Safe! Kim Hu-seong’s blazing!
Caster on the safe call. Lee Seo-jin gaped.
— Kim just clocked 3.7 to first? That’s… faster than my prime!