Got One Through
Lee Seo-jin's words from the broadcast kept echoing in his head: "If Kim Hu-seong can't find a breakthrough, things are going to get really tough for him from here on out." It was a brutally spot-on observation. Now that the opponents had analyzed him and come up with a counter-strategy, he had to change things up too. Back when he'd hit a wall with his hitting, there had been materials prepared for him. The first of those was none other than the commentator himself, Lee Seo-jin. Even as a player, he'd been the type to survive off bad pitches by slapping them foul and legging it out with his speed. That's exactly how he'd stayed alive at the plate—fouling off messy pitches outside the strike zone, dropping them in front, and racing to first. It had been his strength all along, the reason the team used him as their leadoff hitter. But the situation had changed now. Suwon Eagles had fully dissected his game. They'd thrown bait he couldn't ignore, luring him right into it. He needed a different weapon.
So he finally checked the second name on the list. Lee Gyu-yong, now retired and training overseas on behalf of the Gocheok Turkeys. Lee Gyu-yong had been a solid table-setter, a contact hitter who cranked out clean singles when he was on. But that wasn't what a trash hitter like him could learn. The organization hadn't flagged that aspect either. His real strength was handling bad days or tough opponents with some degree of success. How? His contact skills. On days when pitchers challenged him, he'd cut, cut, cut—fouling off pitch after pitch until they got fed up. They called him the hitter who devoured pitchers. As the count ran full, fatigue and pressure etched into the pitcher's face, leading to mistakes. He never missed them, turning them into hits, or drawing walks with his sharp eye. The hitting coaches had always told him, "Hu-seong, it's not that your contact is great—it's your cut that's good." In other words, he wasn't a pure contact guy like Lee Gyu-yong who produced good balls in play, but his fouling ability held massive potential. Of course, with his eye, all he could really do was extend at-bats. He couldn't draw walks. Just cling to the pitcher's pant leg. Yeah, that's right. For now, that's what he could do. Wear them down with fouls.
He arrived at the stadium earlier than usual, took a deep breath, and headed for personal training. Normally, he'd do light warm-ups, focus on fielding and baserunning, then hit during team practice. But not today. He needed change, and it had to start right now. He hauled out the pitching machine.
"Hoo... even if this team's a total cheapskate... at least they've got pitching machines."
Muttering to himself, he flipped the switch. Kiiiiiing! The machine whirred to life with a weird groan.
"When the hell did they even buy this thing?"
He checked the label. The parent company name... Gocheok Turkeys had cycled through three parent companies. This was the original one's name. So, 2008... wow. They really squeezed every penny out of everything. Anything better? He quickly shut it off and scouted another machine. Jackpot—the second parent's model. He swapped over.
"Yeah, this one's more recent, right?"
He set the speed to 120 km/h. Start slow with the soft stuff. Stepping into the box, he inhaled deeply.
Thwip!
The first pitch rocketed in. Tick! Foul.
...Yeah, this is it. From today on, this is the plan.
Next one the same. Thwip!Plop!Thwip!Tick! Again. Again. Again. This was the kind of hitting that got you ridiculed in the box score—foul after foul back, left, right, nothing but foul territory. He cranked it to 130.
Thwip!Tick! The ball rolled forward. Pitcher’s grounder. Damn. Fouling everything off wasn't easy. That was manga stuff. Even if it was a skill, it was for side characters or extras dragging out time against the protagonist pitcher. Yeah, not flashy. But he was desperate.
Thwip!Tick! Foul back. Good. Up to 140.
Thwip!Thwack!
...
He bumped it to 150. Now he was just trying to make contact. His hands screamed. A clean hit would've hurt less... Ha... A protagonist would've crushed it. But he wasn't that guy. No pretty singles or homers. Fine. Survival first, and he'd found a way.
Thwip!Tick! Pushed back by the velocity. His hands throbbed. But he gripped the bat again. Good... keep going... If they'd read him, he had to mess up their math. Good contact wasn't the only answer. Tire the pitcher, run the count, disrupt the pitch mix, force mistakes. Like Lee Gyu-yong. Not for hits, but to grind counts, torment them. No heroics, but he'd survive like a side character. With that resolve, he fouled off pitch after endless pitch.
As the second game kicked off, he headed to the plate with a tense expression. Named the starter again today, but deep down, anxiety lingered—he wasn't ready yet.
"Kim Hu-seong steps into the box. The home Gocheok Turkeys fans roar."
Still... can't use that yet. His skill wasn't there for it. And he wasn't sure. Was yesterday's approach really sealing him off? Full analysis and strategy? Or... coincidence? He entered the box, eyed the defense, clinging to faint hope.
Tsk. But the doubt vanished the instant he settled in. Their setup was identical to yesterday. Called it... no fluke, they were targeting him. Same lineup too. Even with pitching and outfield muscle, the 9th-place Turkeys got no respect from that arrogant order. Well... they'd gotten crushed, so no argument. Turkeys' lineup was weak right now—pitchers shaky, bats in showcase mode for trades, not full throttle. Facing the 2nd-place team like this...
He scanned the field. Outfielders stepped in a step, tightening the lines. Infielders poised at perfect range for rollers. Opposing starter: #2 Ortiz. Foreign muscle like yesterday's Ivan.
Whiiip! Pop!
Pitches similar too. More pressure today. Right down the middle, but hugging his body rather than outer half. For a lefty like him, inside meant pulling to third—suppressing that direction. No more long throws or error edges...
He let the first one go easy, confirming their intent. Then he decided. No cuts yet. Temporary fix, but... this was it.
As the pitcher went into his windup for the second pitch, he quietly shifted his front foot outside the box. Breaking his own rule first. Timed the release—surprise bunt toward third. Possible because he'd opened up outside.
Tick!Roll roll. It trickled toward third.
"Huh?"
Opponent's surprise. No look back—he sprinted full tilt to first. Eyes on the bag.
Thud! Thwack! Third baseman charged and fired, but half a beat slow on his speed.
"Safe!"
The ump's arm shot out. Yes! First success. Relief exploded in his chest. Glancing back as he returned to the bag, the pitcher scowled hard, third baseman pounded the dirt twice.
"Shit..."
Lips formed the curse clear. He tapped his helmet on first, catching his breath. Not a beauty or a rocket, but the first crack in their trap.
Good. At least I got one through.