Strikeout and Locker Room Fire
"Speak up... a little."
Innings ticked by until the top of the third, when I stepped up to the plate as the leadoff hitter.
The Eulji Crows' starter today was their number three, Cha Gyu-seok. Just hearing the name told you everything you needed to know about the guy. Among domestic pitchers, he was a rare breed who kept both his control and velocity consistently above a certain level, tormenting hitters all season with his steady pitching.
I slowly spun the bat in my hands and took a deep breath. Alright, no forcing it today. But once I was actually in the box, those thoughts started fading fast.
The infielders had crept in just a touch. Word's already spread. Fast. I smirked inwardly and gripped the bat tighter.
The catcher's sign went in, and Cha Gyu-seok eased into his windup.
Shweeek—Plop!
A big-breaking curve came in. Ball.
"Strike!"
What? That's a strike? I tilted my head slightly and reset my stance.
"Got a problem?"
The opposing catcher's voice drifted over.
"Nah. Guess the zone's a little generous today."
Fine by me. I'd see them up to two strikes anyway.
Before the second pitch, I tried to read Cha Gyu-seok's tempo. His left foot dropped a hair quicker, and his hand position lagged back a bit more than before. Fastball?
Shiiiiek!
Definitely a fastball. A heavy one that drilled low and inside.
Thwack!
I couldn't time it up and swung through.
"Strike two!"
A warning bell rang in my head. Okay, this guy's no joke. Curve for one strike, fastball for the next. Big drop on the curve, real pop on the heater.
Sip.Not easy.
The third pitch came in. Similar setup! Fastball!I can hit it.
My body reacted first. Hips firing quick, bat whipping toward the incoming fastball.
Ting!
A sharp vibration shot through my fingertips. But something felt off. It wasn't squared up—it was jammed a little.
The ball rocketed off toward the third-base foul line.
A bit late. His velocity was stronger than I'd figured. I thought I had the timing...
From the visiting stands, voices called my name.
"Hu-seong! One big one!"
"You're good! Great timing!"
People already knew my name? Whew... I checked my body again. The hangover lingered, still dragging me down, but I bucked up. Let's do this.
Shiiiiek!
Another fastball whistled in. Thud!
Foul. A buzz vibrated into my fingertips. Hurts...
Haa... The next pitch came.
Thud! Curve this time! But I pulled it again, rolling foul down the first-base line.
My body just wasn't cooperating...
"Hoo... hoo..."
I took deep breaths and reset.
The next pitch, and the one after—same story. Fouling them off, over and over. His fastball had too much life; barely spoiling them was my limit.
I gave a wry internal smile, but with every pitch, Cha Gyu-seok's expression hardened. His lips twitched faintly, irritation flickering in his eyes.
But I was hurting too. I'm a speed guy. The second I made contact, I'd bolt for first—unless it was a clear foul, this loop kept repeating.
Hit. Drop the bat. Sprint to first, stop. Jog back. Pick up the bat. Reset.
Do that enough times, and it wears you down. Sure, he was throwing a ton of pitches too...
But the repetition drained my stamina visibly. Damn hangover. How's it still kicking my ass this hard?
My hands trembled on the bat, sweat trickling inside the helmet. I swallowed a sigh and stepped back in.
By the eighth pitch, Cha Gyu-seok's face was openly sour. The catcher signed, and he shook his head. She threw a sign he hadn't liked before, and finally he nodded, stepping on the rubber.
Cha Gyu-seok exhaled and prepped his final pitch.
Shieeek—
Different. I'd been sitting fastball and curve, but his delivery shifted subtly. The ball flew like a fastball, matching my timing—but then it died, veering off path.
I collapsed my stance, chasing it with the bat.
Whoosh!Plop!
"Strike three! You're out!"
Got me. The spin was weird. Not a true tumbler changeup—instead, it slid horizontally away. My swing was loaded for vertical drop, but his pitch didn't drop as much, just faded outside.
After ten pitches, I struck out. Head down, I trudged slowly back to the dugout.
"Not bad. You hung tough."
Son Tae-ho clapped my shoulder approvingly and headed to the on-deck circle.
But not everyone was so kind.
"Hey, Kim Hu-seong!"
I turned. It was senior Im Jae-min, arms crossed, smirking mockingly.
"Get it together, man. What the hell was that? Nobody's using a guy who swings like you."
Yoo Seong-jae chimed in from behind.
"Yeah, great job~ Really killing the team vibe. What's a leadoff supposed to do? Get on base! If you're gonna be cocky, at least produce. Sigh."
I couldn't say a word. My mouth went dry, strength draining from my fingers.
"Ah... sorry."
"Do it right for once... yeah? How long do we gotta baby you?"
"And don't swing so hard out of spite. Got it?"
"Yes. I understand."
Ha... fuck. Stress boiled up to my scalp. Already pissed from the K, and now this shit... Tch. Pro ball's like this.Sucks.
We lost today. My line: 0-for-4. Disaster. My average, hovering near 1.000, got sliced in half overnight. The team's mood was in the gutter.
I packed my gear in the dugout and headed to the locker room. The air hung heavy with that familiar post-loss gloom.
As I sorted my bag, the door slammed open. Son Tae-ho and Lee Sang-hyeon stormed in together.
"Hey! Everyone, listen up!"
Son Tae-ho's face was stone-cold.
Bam!
"You assholes!"
He kicked a chair flying; it crashed over, and everyone flinched.
"I said listen up."
"You all trying to die? Get your heads in the game? Focus!"
Lee Sang-hyeon piled on.
"This a team? I get the performance-based system, the individualism—fine. But our squad's even more fucked than I thought."
Son Tae-ho glared at the fielders.
"Hey! Kim Hu-seong!"
Oh... me. Screwed.Already getting reamed. Fair enough—after the booze and fish he bought, I got hammered and bombed. Wait, but he bought the drinks and pushed me to chug...
Ah, hazing ritual? Gonna lose it...Just play it cool.
"Yes! Sorry, senior."
Son Tae-ho sighed, shook his head, then spoke again.
"No, that's not it. You know what you should actually be sorry for?"
"Sorry for sucking today."
My voice came out small.
But he shook his head harder.
"No, idiot—not that."
He bellowed.
"What'd I tell you? If any dumbasses give you grief, speak up."
Huh?
Son Tae-ho didn't give me time to respond. He scanned the room, zeroing in on left fielder Yoo Seong-jae and third baseman Im Jae-min.
"You two wanna die? Team's already half-strength with injuries—we need every guy who can produce, and you're crushing the rookie's spirit? Nuts?"
Oh! That's it.
"No, it's not..."
"Not at all."
Bullshit. They're crazy.
Good. I'd gone out for food and drinks with Son Tae-ho—not the sauna, but close enough.
"Backup scrubs about to get bumped when the injured guys return, so you can't see straight? Picking on the hot rookie? If you're losing ground on talent, train harder. I've overlooked your slacking and bullshit, but why this?"
Yoo Seong-jae clamped his mouth shut, head down. Im Jae-min flushed red, avoiding eye contact.
"I don't get it, that's why I'm asking. Speak up, you punks."