Welcome to Goyang Turkeys
The next morning, as soon as I opened my eyes, an odd feeling washed over me.
Ah… it's too peaceful. This isn't right.
With only a few days left before I couldn't rest anymore, I'd planned to relax fully, but my body was already itching to move. It had adapted perfectly to waking up early and training late into the night, so I had no choice but to get up.
"Haa… damn it. Let's rest a bit."
My mouth said that, but deep down, an impatient urge to do something more kept nagging at me relentlessly.
Then, out of nowhere, I recalled Coach Oh Tae-sik's words from a few days ago about becoming a five-tool player.
Hmm… Hitting, power, baserunning, defense, arm strength. That's what he said was key.
I checked each one mentally.
Hitting was improving bit by bit under the coach's guidance. I'd started getting infield singles, and even bunts were getting me on base.
Power… honestly, I gave up on that. Even if I bulked up, I'd just be an infield grounder machine, so prioritizing speed over raw strength made more sense.
Baserunning, though—I'd reinforced that properly. Sprint drills had sped up my feet, and my skills were finally shining. As a lefty hitter clocking 3.8-3.9 seconds to first, that ability had definitely leveled up.
Defense was my strong suit from the start, and I was maintaining it steadily.
That left just one thing: arm strength.
Throwing from the outfield is crucial. And even in the infield, especially at shortstop or third base, a strong arm is vital.
The core of arm strength? A cannon for a shoulder.
I quickly realized what to train next.
So how do I strengthen my shoulder? It's not just brute muscle—I've heard pitchers train theirs specifically.
Without hesitation, I grabbed my phone and called my pitcher buddy Su-creang, the closest guy I could ask.
Luckily, he picked up right away.
"Uh… why… what's up?"
"Su-creang, got a question for you."
"A question? What is it?"
"My arm's weak for throws, so I wanna train my shoulder a bit. How do pitchers handle this?"
"For shoulder training? Shadow pitching's the way to start, right?"
It felt like I'd been smacked in the head.
How did I forget something so basic?
"Ah! Right. Why'd I blank on that?"
"Why? You've been doing defense drills all day, every day—no time for throwing practice, yeah?"
Ah… true.
"Even our team's fielders do it sometimes. Best for fixing form."
Yeah… even the Daegu Eagles did that.
Su-creang's advice rang true. I nodded and replied immediately.
"Thanks for the tip. Gonna start right now."
I hung up, scanned the room, and grabbed a towel. Gripping it long like a ball, I swung my arm in pitching motions, repeating the form.
It felt awkward at first since it'd been ages, but soon tension built in my shoulder, the stimulus hitting just right.
Ah… has my form been wrecked this whole time? Not smooth at all…
In the Gocheok Turkeys' front office, the executives' meeting convened as evening fell. Everyone sat with grim expressions.
They'd finished second last season—the best in franchise history—but no one could smile.
The reason? Finances.
The president sighed deeply and kicked things off.
"Couldn't even win it all, and now we're broke. Results improved, but spending ballooned. How the hell do we handle this? The team's about to go under."
The GM cautiously raised his hand.
"President, it's tight right now… but next season, Jeong Yi-hoon posts to MLB. That'll bring in big money. We can tighten our belts till then, right?"
The president scowled at him.
"So no quick fixes for now. We'll run this season on a shoestring like last year. Players and fans might hate us, but can everyone tough it out?"
The GM nodded reluctantly.
"We can. I'm sorry to the players too. But we maxed out spring camp support, didn't we? First team to Okinawa last time, second team domestic… this year, U.S. and Taiwan. We'll prep efficiently on a tight budget for the season itself."
A heavy silence blanketed the room. They all knew how dire it was—no easy solutions. Boosting spending for a title shot had paid off on the field but blown a hole in the books.
Win-now failure hurt bad.
"Fine. Emergency management mode again this season. Operations chief, redo the budget plan and report back."
The operations chief closed his laptop and stood.
"Got it. Switching to emergency mode now. Review all items, cut unnecessary spending. Adjustments at the bare minimum—no direct hits to the players."
The president nodded.
"Nah, why? They gotta earn their keep too. Just don't touch salaries or anything fatal. Keep 'em able to play."
"…Yes, sir."
The meeting wrapped. Executives shuffled out with heavy steps.
Everyone knew: belts would tighten again, suffocating austerity ahead.
Thus, Gocheok Turkeys entered another round of emergency operations under that banner—survival mode.
From morning, I packed early and hopped in the car. Today was the day: check into the second-team dorm at Goyang Turkeys Stadium.
Rumors said the old Heroes' facility was rundown and uncomfortable, but hey, pro team-run—should have basics covered.
Whew… thank God for Grandpa's car. Otherwise, it'd be a nightmare getting here.
I pulled up grateful, but froze solid.
The building looked way worse than imagined.
"Hmm… this the place?"
Super dilapidated. What the fuck is this?
Inside was marginally better, but still. Black mold everywhere on walls and ceilings—dorm? Cracks in walls, holes punched through ceilings with rain stains.
That's a bucket? For what… ah, leaks during storms?
Doors squeaked, wouldn't close right; some frames warped, half-broken.
I stood there, face twisted in dismay.
This… a pro team facility? Even our below-average Botong High setup beats this. Pro label, but reality's a joke.
High school dorms were nicer. Head spun.
Then the door opened—the second-team manager emerged.
"Oh? Early bird already? Let me check…"
He scanned something, eyed me and papers.
"Ah! Right, you're the 11th-round pick Kim Hu-seong. Welcome to second-team dorm life. Survive here."
Words said welcome, tone screamed this'll suck.
He showed me to my room; I followed like a zombie.
Opening the door hit me with musty stench—mold, damp dust, old bedding funk.
My face crumpled.
Wallpaper faded, torn; black stains where it clung. Window cracked open, wind whistling. Floor vinyl warped, squeaking underfoot.
Wow… facilities are killer. How do you even live here?
Manager tossed casually:
"Still, this is the second-best room from the bottom."
What? Second-best from the worst?
"You were slated for the absolute shittiest, but someone dropped. Rookie dev player'll take it. You're better than them, at least."
That made it worse. If this is second-worst, what's rock bottom?
Lips bitten, I asked:
"Uh… can I sleep in my car?"
His face shifted; then he burst out laughing.
"You got a car? Insane. Shuttle the guys around then. Transport here's garbage—super inconvenient."
Clapped my shoulder, walked off.
Vision blurred. Head foggy, legs buckled—I collapsed on the bed.
Squeeeeeak—rusty springs screamed.
Moldy, humid air mixed with the bed's wail.
"Whoa, this is bad. Is this really a pro team?"