I Became a Pro Player
In the cramped conference room, a single contract lay on the worn wooden table. On the white paper were the bold words "Gocheok Turkeys Player Contract." And below that, my name, Kim Hu-seong, was written clearly.
Sitting across from me was the Gocheok Turkeys operations team leader, dressed in a neat suit, holding a pen in one hand.
"Kim Hu-seong. Rookie salary of 30 million won, and signing bonus of 30 million won based on 11th-round standards."
His appearance was tidy, but his eyes looked somehow weary, and his tone was dry and matter-of-fact.
"The signing bonus is close to the minimum, but that's not unique to us—it's standard across all teams for the 11th round. Still, this is where your pro career begins. From year two onward, your salary can go up as much as you earn it."
Hmm... He wasn't wrong. I nodded slightly at the operations team leader's words. I'd known the numbers, but hearing them right in front of me made it feel real. This is a real pro contract.
"30 million won in salary. It might seem low, but it's not low at all compared to society at large. Not many places pay new grads that much."
The operations team leader slid the documents toward me and continued calmly.
Uh... yeah, I guess? My sense of money wasn't fully developed yet, but I nodded as if I understood.
"But... as a pro player, you should be making nine figures, right, Hu-seong?"
Nine figures... Thump. My heart pounded at the sudden shift in his tone.
"Baseball players have a lot of expenses, so 30 million might feel tight."
True enough.
"But it's plenty for a rookie first year to find gear that suits you and build your skills. Prep well, and you'll earn more next time."
"You think that's possible?"
"Yes. And Gocheok Turkeys runs a thorough performance-based system. How you do this season determines your treatment next. Even rookies—if you perform well this year, we give out nine-figure deals for the next. That's us."
Whoa... so then...
"I think our Kim Hu-seong here can exceed that. But watch out on the flip side. This is pro ball, so when we drafted eleven new guys this year, eleven from our roster had to go. You don't want to be one of them next year, right?"
At that moment, Kim Hu-seong tensed up sharply.
"Yes... I know. I'd like to be negotiating a contract with you again next season."
The operations team leader grinned at that.
"Good. So do your best. We give rookies chances fast here. As much as you work! As much as you produce! We'll call you up quick. You can do it, right?"
"Yes!"
"Alright, shall we handle the rest?"
I picked up the pen next to the signature line and carefully read the document. But then, something odd caught my eye.
"Uh... Team leader?"
"Yes? What's up?"
"For a performance-based system, don't they usually have detailed options? Like games played, batting average... that kind of stuff? But nothing's listed here."
A brief silence. I could sense the team leader gritting his teeth for a moment.
Huh? But he soon chuckled softly at my words.
"Well, see..."
The operations team leader leaned back slightly, crossing his arms.
"No team has more options than ours. For real. But rookies don't get them written into the contract yet. That said, it's not like there's no performance system."
Then he shrugged at Kim Hu-seong.
"You'll feel it to your bones later—once you're doing well. Or even before. You'll see how it applies right now."
Ah... so rookies just get nothing, huh. Makes sense. What performance-based system for an 11th-rounder? It's survive or get cut.
"Got it."
"Okay, let's wrap up the rest? Just sign and we're done."
Kim Hu-seong paused for a second, then picked up the pen and signed the document.
"Understood. My pro career starts right here, right now. I'll do my best."
The operations team leader took the contract and nodded.
"Good. Our Hu-seong. Just don't forget what you said yourself. Your pro life starts right here at Gocheok Turkeys. Haha."
October 16, 2022, Gocheok Dome.
The rookies' first training was underway. The scoreboard lights were off, and inside the vast dome, the players' curious voices echoed.
"Man, the facilities are seriously top-notch even on a second look."
"Holy crap, check out that weight room. It's insane."
The Gocheok Turkeys rookies kept craning their necks at the stadium facilities. I was no exception.
Facilities unimaginable on a high school field: organized training areas, indoor bullpens with automated water systems. Impressive no matter how many times you saw them.
But the awe ended there.
"Alright, everyone gather up. Light warm-up first."
At the trainer's words, the rookies snapped to and stretched. Detailed stretching instructions followed, and soon the 2군 coaches appeared, clipboards with fitness test sheets in hand. The rookies split into groups for step drills, muscular endurance, sprints, long-distance runs—basic fitness tests.
Huff... huff...
"This is hell..."
"We... haven't even done half..."
Sweat poured down our foreheads. Some guys nearby coughed and reached for water; I was panting hard too, catching my breath.
After the final rounds, a voice cut across the gym.
"Everyone done? All rookies, follow me."
A guy who looked like a 1군 player called out to us. The air turned tense instantly.
"Think the seniors are making us do rookie hazing?"
Including me, the rookies gathered slowly, looking scared. The Gocheok Turkeys rookies hesitated before moving cautiously.
"Nice to meet you. I'm Lee Sang-hyeon, 1군 outfielder for the Turkeys."
Lee Sang-hyeon eyed the players.
"Good work on the fitness tests. You know this isn't the end, right? The real stuff starts now."
The rookies nodded, faces stiff with tension. But his next words were unexpected.
"I didn't call you here to scare you off or anything bad... Just some stuff you need to know ahead of time."
Lee Sang-hyeon rolled his shoulders as if loosening his throat, then put weight into his next words.
"Our ballpark facilities—what do you think?"
"They look great!"
"Yeah! The facilities are awesome. But... there's the flip side."
Flip side? What's he getting at...
"Our team isn't owned by a big corporation. We just have a naming sponsor."
Ah...
"In other words, we're broke."
This is getting uneasy. The vibe was turning super negative. Why drop this now?
No one had expected a 1군 regular to straight-up say "we got no money," so everyone stared blankly. Or... maybe it's a joke?
There were all sorts of jokes about the Turkeys. Can't drink beverages freely, team dinners at all-you-can-eat spots, even ordering pizza separately for foreign players at Korean buffets.
But a starter openly saying it? I was dumbfounded. Nah, doesn't feel like a joke. That senior looks dead serious.
Lee Sang-hyeon, a real 1군 starter, watched our reactions before continuing. He uncrossed his arms and pointed around.
"You all checked out Gocheok Stadium, right? Looks great. Dome, comfy indoors, automated facilities, weight room, training center—all top-tier."
The rookies nodded faintly. True—we'd been wowed after just hours here.
"But we're not backed by a fat corp. Yet the facilities are great. What does that mean? It all costs money. Maintenance, management, electricity, water—everything. To save, the team skimps on whatever. That's the vibe. Simple: every cup of water you use, every light switch, every PT session—conserve it all."
Ah...
"They cut costs elsewhere. You'll learn soon enough—they do every damn thing to save. But here, that's the rule."
Silence fell heavy this time. No joke, no prank—just raw truth.
"Showering? Don't overdo it. Run hot water too long, you get chewed out. Beverages? Skip 'em. Stick to purifier water if you can. Sometimes they say even that's too much—drink tap."
What? A pro team like this?
"This real...?"
Someone muttered beside me; I was still half-disbelieving. In high school, I'd thought pro meant everything sorted. Reality was a slap.
"Of course, if you're pissed, options exist. Pay out of pocket. Or perform so damn well they say 'don't touch this guy'—then use whatever."
Lee Sang-hyeon said it flatly, but it hit like a bone-deep warning. Reality crashed in hard.