Watch the Fielders, Not the Pitcher
Back home, I started watching videos online to solve my own problem. There was plenty of info on Lee Gyu-yong since he'd played for the Turkeys, but nothing on Lee Seo-jin. Lee Seo-jin had bounced around pro teams like the Eulji Crows, Gwangju Pigeons, and Suwon Eagles his whole career.
I searched YouTube for keywords like "Lee Seo-jin infield hit" and "Lee Seo-jin speed," bingeing dozens of highlight reels. And as I watched, it hit me right away.
Aha, this is it. Feels just like mine.
My playing style definitely matched that vibe. Not the type to square up for extra bases, but a guy whose at-bat battle started the second the ball hit the dirt. Lee Seo-jin's grounders looked ordinary, but his feet were so damn fast that infielders panicked all the time.
Speed to first? A blistering 3.6 seconds tops. A mark I'd never touched.
Fast as hell... No wonder the fielders kept botching it.
The moment he made contact, his feet were already churning toward first. Nice form too—running stance from the jump. Even on perfect defensive timing, he slid in safe by a hair multiple times.
Same with bunts. Not just poking at it—he calculated angle and speed so the ball dropped dead right there, then exploded out of the box. What about me?
I fired up my own footage. My face popped up, game action rolling. Seeing my usual highlights framed like broadcast was weirdly off-putting.
"Ah... this feels strange."
Then Lee Seo-jin's commentator voice chimed in. He'd been breaking down the game all along.
"Kim Hu-seong's... play style is similar to mine. He can turn grounders into infield hits with those quick feet. But he's still green on experience. Take this moment, for example... Yeah, just standing there. If it were me, I'd run every time. The pitcher's shown weakness twice already."
Damn, veterans see everything.
I had no clue. Lee Seo-jin's words stabbed right into my chest. On-screen, I hesitated and did jack squat.
His commentary kept coming. "Timing's off again here. He'd have been safe for sure. And now his lead's too small—no pressure on the pitcher at all. Even if you can't go, step out farther if you can get back quick."
Every word poked at me. Not just criticism—it nailed exactly where I fell short. I had no choice but to hang on his every take whenever I came up. It hurt, but I needed to hear it.
Soon, at the plate again, he touched on my hitting too.
"Even his approach looks a bit raw. He's just eyeing the ball. Guys like this? Watch the fielders, not the pitcher. Infielders tense up when a fast runner steps in. Unless it's a top vet, you'll spot the gaps."
I stared blankly at the screen. Watch the fielders? I'd always fixated on the pitcher to track the pitch.
I immediately queued up more Lee Seo-jin clips, slowing down his old games. One bunt attempt caught my eye. In the box, his head stayed put, but his eyes flicked between third and short. Only when the pitcher went into his windup did he lock on the mound.
The bunt rolled perfectly inside the third-base line, and he bolted with explosive speed. Third caught flat-footed, scrambling forward too late—I'd already touched the bag by then.
Goosebumps. This was it. The answer I'd been chasing.
Not just hitting the ball—reading the fielders. Spotting that split-second gap. My infield hits had been pure luck. No intent behind them.
But now? I had the blueprint to manufacture them. Lee Seo-jin wasn't just fast. He weaponized it.
And so could I.
* * *
"Coach, mind if I test a few things today?"
Next morning, early at the field, I asked the base-running coach to clock me.
"Sure, why not. Plenty of time. You warmed up?"
He nodded, pulling out his stopwatch.
"Ah... one sec."
"Go on, loosen up. We've got time. Run cold and you'll pull a hamstring."
I needed hard numbers. Stretched out, I stepped into the box.
"Ready... Go!"
Bang—I stomped the dirt and exploded. Thrust forward, bag in my sights. Hit first, and...
"3.78 seconds!"
I skidded to a halt, panting, looking up.
"Again, please. A few more."
"3.77 seconds."
"3.75 seconds."
Then to second. Kept the gas on, rounded wide.
Touching second: "6.8 seconds!"
Lee Seo-jin's to second was 6.3. Bigger gap there than to first.
Base-running savvy, probably...
But the coach looked impressed. "Quick. Top of the team, easy."
"Really?"
"Yeah. Good enough to pinch-run right now. 'Course, your baserunning skills suck, so we won't... but swap in for a slowpoke? Sure."
"Ah..."
"We'll work more later in drills. Training starts."
"Got it."
* * *
The away game against the Jamsil Falcons kicked off. I started ninth, at third base.
My back burned. With me at hot corner, usual third-sacker Im Jae-min had been glaring from the clubhouse. Whatever. Heh.
After that big chewing-out before, he wouldn't say shit to my face. Just the death stare. Pissed I'm playing despite my slump, I guess.
But today? Different story. Got something new.
Top of the third, my leadoff at-bat. Pitcher gripped up, set. I skipped him—scanned the infield instead.
Third deepish, short pulled central. First at standard depth.
Brain crunched it. Third's forward—poke it between him and short? If third whiffs, I'm alive.
Windup—I zeroed the pitcher.
Whiiif—
First pitch, fastball. I extended the bat just so.
-Suicide squeeze!
Ball rolled between third and short! Quicker than expected—I squared hard, low bounce toward the line.
"Bunt!"
Infield froze a beat, then charged. Third reacted, but the roller was too hot—tipped his glove fringe, short chased.
Me? Already rolling.
"First!"
Short snagged, fired. Too late. I touched, slowed—the throw sailed in.
"Safe!"
"Kim Hu-seong! Kim Hu-seong!"
Roar from the stands. I caught my breath, adjusted my helmet.
One thought: It worked.
Daydream to reality. Eye the fielders, read the gaps, bunt on their timing. Straight out of Lee Seo-jin's playbook.
Calmed my buzz, took first. Not done yet.
Kim Han-seong up, top of the order. Pitcher tensed.
I widened my lead easy, rattled 'em. First-baseman tracked me, pitcher eyed pickoffs.
Good.
No steal smarts yet—pressure the mound, get back sharp. Tested one extra step; pitcher flinched—I bolted back, timing it.
Bigger lead = real tension. Another fake pickoff, first glued to the bag.
Oho... there it is.
Now I saw it. Pitcher stood still, but he was shaking.