Why Do You Hit So Badly?
Why the hell can't I hit? Sigh… Keep at it.
The moment I stepped on first base, I immediately dropped into a low stance and started extending my lead bit by bit. But the opponents responded brilliantly. The first baseman hugged the bag right away, and I could feel the catcher's eyes on me. Pitcher Ortiz looked like he was gearing up for a pickoff move without hesitation, but in reality, he just casually glanced my way before turning back to the plate.
Whoa… so tense, so stiff. I couldn't help but admire it inwardly. This team had zero intention of letting me run wild. But I couldn't crumble here. If anything, the pressure fired me up even more.
Their catcher's not that great.So there's a chance. With those aggressive thoughts fueling me, I planned to widen my lead gradually—when movement stirred in their dugout. The moment they saw me timing my lead from the bench, a sign went up.
A bunt? Instead of gambling on a steal, they were sending me to second. I steadied my breathing right away and narrowed my stance a touch to avoid getting greedy.
Hong Yu-chan in the box thrust his bat out the instant the pitch came. The ball rolled out low—not too high, but in that tricky spot tough for the defense to handle. While their catcher and pitcher hesitated for a split second, I was already off, arriving at second way more comfortably than expected.
One out, runner on second.
The second I planted myself on the base, a fire deep in my chest told me this was too tame to end here. I wanted to prove how much this team was wary of me—and that I could break through it. I took a breath and glanced toward third.
Steal? Still risky.
Then I eyed the pitcher. I caught a glimpse of his hand.
Hmm… Next pitch… probably an off-speed. It was a hard instinct to explain. I was reading his shoulder twitch, his breathing rhythm, the subtle hand flick. Widening my lead toward third, I tugged at my collar—a team signal to the hitter for an off-speed coming.
Cleanup hitter Kim Han-seong shot me a quick look. His eyes said he got it.
Good. Show 'em.
Shhhheeeeck! Opposing pitcher Otis fired. My hunch on the off-speed was spot-on, but the trajectory was the problem. It dropped way deeper than I thought, and though Kim Han-seong swung, he fouled it off.
Tick!
Still, the ball trickled perfectly toward first, letting me blaze full throttle to third safely. But it wasn't a hit, so no run scored.
On third, a pang of regret hit me briefly, but the play was done. All I could do was look forward to my next at-bat. Right then, our four-hole man, senior Son Tae-ho, strode to the plate with the confidence of the team's power bat.
I hoped in my head for just a single.
Thwack! A clean rip echoed. Son Tae-ho followed the ball tentatively, jogging to first.
"The ball's carrying… but it's tracked down at the warning track."
Damn. Their outfielder snagged it cleanly in front of the fence, ending the inning. I let out a deep internal sigh as I jogged back to the dugout.
The team vibe wasn't bad, but everyone felt the same about that sequence.
"Man… Ortiz is dealing today."
No idea who said it first—it just flowed naturally. His fastball and breaking stuff both had bite, but his finisher was insanely polished.
Then Kim Han-seong sidled over.
"Hey, Hu-seong. Caught your sign. My bad on the swing. Sucks… But seriously, you see it? How do you read 'em like that?"
I flushed a bit but shook my head with a grin.
"Nah, not everything… Just a feel for it. Like a sense."
"A sense?"
"Yeah. Kinda like a gamble, honestly. But I haven't been wrong yet."
Kim Han-seong eyed me for a sec, then nodded.
"Hey… if it's worked so far, that's talent, man. What're you talking about."
Just then, Son Tae-ho ducked into the dugout and caught us.
"What? Talking signs again?"
Kim Han-seong teased back.
"Hu-seong says he reads pitch types by instinct?"
Son Tae-ho snorted a laugh.
"If you can see it, great. Plenty can't. You nailed it again, right?"
"Yeah."
I ducked my head humbly, but inside, I swelled with pride. Having seniors acknowledge this made me want to grind even harder.
Son Tae-ho clapped my shoulder.
"Alright, instinct talk later. Gear up for D."
"Got it!"
I grabbed my glove and hopped up. The missed scoring chance stung a little, but the game was long. Next time, I'd shake 'em for sure. Rolling my shoulders loose, I headed to my position.
Bottom of the ninth. Score: 3-1. The mood had sunk, sighs of defeat rippling from the stands.
From the dugout, manager Kim Young-ho scowled darkly and beckoned the chief coach. His voice was low, but the frustration was palpable.
"They're basically running their 1.5 squad… and we're out here near full strength, can't even score properly…."
The chief coach, expecting it, replied evenly.
"You know it, Director. Our pitching got outmatched. They're a powerhouse, and we caught their 3-4-5 starters. They threw their 1-2…."
Kim Young-ho stared bitterly at the ground.
"Tomorrow they go with their 3, so maybe we have a shot?"
the chief coach ventured cautiously.
But Kim Young-ho shook his head.
"Nah. Ours is the 5. Not easy. Honestly, tomorrow looks bleak too."
He pondered, then muttered low.
"…In that case, we need a different approach tomorrow."
Those words lodged in my ear.
Different approach…? It flashed that I might get scratched from tomorrow's lineup. Nothing set, but my gut said so.
What can I do, then?
Meanwhile, the final batter, eighth-slot Ha Jin-woo, whiffed.
"Strike three!"
The ump's right arm shot up, and the game ended quietly. We lost 3-1.
As players packed up and trickled out post-game, I stayed glued to the dugout. Everyone else prepped to head home in the clubhouse.
Tomorrow, probably no starting nod. Or if I do, quick hook.
The thought killed any urge to just go home. So I approached the first-team manager quietly.
"Uh… mind if I stick around for some extra work?"
He eyed me wearily but nodded.
"What? You've trained plenty."
"Yeah, but… I figured something out. Feels right to do it now."
"Alright. Just don't get hurt."
"Will do."
With permission, I set up solo drills. No fancy gear needed—just a pitching machine.
I gripped the bat, stepped to the box, and steadied my breath.
Yeah, this is it. This is what I need.
I wheeled out the old machine. Something felt off earlier—this was it.
Pitching machines don't fly true, especially the relics. Low accuracy mimicked various pitchers and pitches perfectly for fouling off balls—ideal for me.
I hit the button. The machine roared, spitting balls: fast, dipping sometimes, jamming inside others.
I focused, swinging at each. Some sprayed back or foul wide.
Tough… A few dove in unavoidably.
But I didn't stop. Not till that satisfying sense returned.
Then, unease crept in.
Someone's watching.
A coach? Staff? A heavy gaze weighed on my back.
Finish the balls first, then check. No complaints, so probably staff.
I emptied the hopper, watching the last ball scatter. Slowly, I turned.
And froze.
Staring was cheerleader Seo Ha-yoon. Arms crossed, face full of dissatisfaction, glaring right at me.
"Why… why do you hit so… so badly…?"
...That's not it…