This Damn Cheapskate Team
Shiiiik! Pop! But things still weren't going my way. Kim Kyung-min's control never came back. There was no way to reach for the high pitches, so I just had to watch them sail by. Swinging at those ridiculous balls would've been too much. After six straight pitches in the battle, the ump finally called the walk. As I trudged to first, I clicked my tongue inwardly. No way... A pitcher—even from the bullpen—couldn't throw a single strike near the zone in six pitches? Is he nuts? Grumbling to myself, I reached the bag.
Damn... what a mess. At this rate, I figured I might as well rack up steals quick. I immediately got ready to go. The opposing pitcher was a sidearmer—not too tough to time. And I'd already confirmed his control was shaky, so I could just bolt right away. Hmm. But if they were smart, they might throw a pickoff. Had to keep that in mind. I eyed the pitcher. After those six balls, his face looked rough. No room to even think about pickoffs...? So I decided not to hesitate. I'd go on the first pitch.
I tensed up, waiting for his set position, the moment his upper body stiffened. The second his left leg twitched, I was off.
> Runner stealing!
> Shiiiik!
Surprisingly, Kim Kyung-min suddenly regained his control against our second baseman, Gu Min-seok. Pop! The fastball nailed the strike zone dead-on. The catcher popped up and fired to second—a sharp throw. But my hand slid into the bag just ahead of the ball.
“Safe!”
The ump's early safe call rang out, and I sat on the base, panting. Inside, I thought it was closer than I'd like. I'd completely stolen the pitcher's timing, but it was razor-thin. A split-second later, and it would've been out. Still, success was success.
> Kim Hu-seong pulls off another steal, closing the gap to first place down to just four now.
> Exactly. I said before that he'd snatch the stolen base crown, and it looks like he'll take it before the season ends.
From second, I glanced at the opposing shortstop Song Jae-hyun and second baseman Song Dae-je. Exhaustion was written all over their faces. They'd been on edge in the sweltering heat for too long. Seeing that, the corner of my mouth twitched up.
Nice. This could carry over to tomorrow and the day after. If I can just wear them out a little more...
“So that's what he was thinking?”
Kim Young-ho, the first-team manager, watched Kim Hu-seong intently from the dugout. His gaze bordered on astonishment. Kim Young-ho was a coach steeped in Major League-style baseball. He trusted Statcast, aimed for minimal managerial interference, prioritized data-driven smart choices, and built lineups, developed players, and managed them accordingly.
His preferred lineup had always featured a strong No. 2 hitter. High-average, fast-footed Kim Han-seong at leadoff, the team's best hitter Jeong Yi-hun at No. 2, and long/mid-power Son Tae-ho at No. 3. Stack the strong bats up front, MLB-style. It had worked, landing them second place last season.
But this year, the lineup hadn't followed suit. Jeong Yi-hun, tweaking his swing for a Major League shot, slumped hard. Others faltered with slumps or injuries. The biggest wildcard? Rookie Kim Hu-seong.
By the numbers, he was disastrous. Ground ball rate over 90%, hitting stats screamed unusable. Yet Kim Hu-seong covered it all differently. Overwhelming defense and speed forced his case, and his grounders with runners on made him unavoidable at leadoff. So they shifted from MLB power to a classic order—not ideal, but necessary compromise.
Playmaking whiz Gu Min-seok rose to No. 2, speedy contact guy Kim Han-seong to No. 3, and distance threat Son Tae-ho at cleanup. Classic lineup complete.
Kim Young-ho rarely called plays anyway. He trusted players to handle it. And somehow, Kim Hu-seong thrived in ways stats couldn't capture. Hitting was awful, but pitches per plate appearance were sky-high, with weirdly low walks and strikeouts. BB/K was murky, tough to quantify. Rare bird.
Of course, it clashed with Kim Young-ho's data and theories. One side screamed, “He's not that bad!” The other: “OPS and wRC+ say trash hitter—why use him?” Had to go classic: eyes and flow over numbers.
And today, Kim Young-ho got it. Gu Min-seok had said it once: “Hard to follow Hu-seong.” “He doesn't talk, just hijacks the game...” “But it works, so...”
Today, Kim Hu-seong's plays felt extra aggressive. Glancing at the tired infield, it clicked.
“I see... He's getting desperate, huh?”
He understood why. Kim Hu-seong faced constant defensive shifts. Intense infield pressure, team-wide to neutralize him. His counter? Tire out their fielders too.
“Hmm... Then we'll move as a team.”
Kim Young-ho nodded quietly and issued a rare order.
“Chief coach.”
“Yes.”
“Tell the hitters from now on: stand in, watch pitches long.”
“Pardon? Everyone?”
“Yeah. Drag it out before stepping in. Got it?”
> Strike three! Game over!
Closer Jo Seon-jae fanned the last batter, sealing the win. Final: 3-2. Tight to the end, but victory. As the catcher raised his mitt on the strike three call, cheers erupted from the dugout. I finally exhaled long.
Today had dragged on forever. Everyone celebrated, vibe upbeat. Interviews, showers, home— that's all I wanted. Then the team manager called me.
“Kim Hu-seong. A word?”
His tone singled me out, stirring unease.
“Sure. What's up?”
I approached casually.
“Uh... something important came up.”
Important? What...?
“Yeah, go ahead.”
“That... drink chug after your big play? Looked great. Good job.”
Huh? Oh, right! I tilted my head.
Praise? He explained.
“The beverage supplier called. Loved the cool chug post-heroics. Sending 1.5 times the usual stock.”
I reacted honestly.
“Whoa, really? That's awesome.”
Damn! No more rationing that crap? Mood lifting—
But his face stayed stone.
“But...”
The first-team manager continued.
“Your hits and homers are low. Chugging breaks the beverage rule, you know?”
My mind blanked. Outwardly silent, inwardly: No way... Nah? Not over this, right? C'mon... I earned it today... And the heat was brutal... I stared, smile gone.
“One-week drink ban.”
He stated it flatly.
...Did I hear wrong? I froze. Face probably screamed disbelief. He paused, eyed me, waved a hand.
“But!”
But?
“That chug scored goodwill—more supply. Down to one day. Clear?”
I nodded on reflex.
“Yes, sir. Got it. Thanks.”
Lips said that; mind spat: ...Sigh, this damn cheapskate team.