Root Beer and Winter Camps
"Push!"
"Ughhh……."
"You can do it!"
"Haaah!"
"Nice. Nice. Good boy."
Barely granted a moment of rest, I slumped back and let out a ragged breath.
"Whew~!"
Was this how Yoon Tae-yang had felt, sweating through every session alongside me?
Marcus pushed me to my absolute limit — but always just short of actual harm — and his level of coaching was a far cry from anything an ordinary trainer could offer.
While I sat catching my breath on the bench, he handed me a bottle of water.
"Thank you."
"#$%^&"
"What?"
Marcus would strike up a conversation from time to time. I couldn't understand a word of his English, but I could tell well enough that he liked me.
He pointed at my biceps, attempting to communicate through short English words.
"Strong!"
"Ah, thank you. Thank you!"
While we were taking our break, the people from the analysis lab made their way over to us.
So not everyone at the lab is like Marcus.
The white man standing beside my uncle wore horn-rimmed glasses and had the unmistakable posture of a chronic desk-huncher — yet somehow, his appearance inspired trust.
"Hyuk."
"Yes?"
"You don't have anything planned this winter, do you?"
"Nothing besides training, no."
"Then let's continue your workouts here."
When I shot him a puzzled look, my uncle explained the whole situation.
"…So the deal is that they'll run your training sessions in exchange for sharing your physical capability data. What do you think?"
"Sounds great to me."
Free professional training — who would refuse that?
Truth be told, going through the measurements with Marcus had made something painfully clear: I'd been exercising in a slapdash, brute-force way all this time.
In the White Room, my body recovered on its own, so mindlessly heavy lifting had never posed a problem. But in reality, where every strain carried the risk of injury, I needed to treat my body with far more care.
And now I could learn Marcus's professional training program all winter long?
Of course I was going to welcome it.
"But are you okay with this, Uncle? I thought it was the middle of your busy season."
"Staying together the whole time would be difficult. I'll just shuttle back and forth between Korea and here."
"…Then I have one favor to ask."
"Hmm? What is it?"
"I want to learn English."
After spending so long buried in philosophy books, I needed something new to occupy my mind anyway.
Since I'd be training with Marcus going forward, learning the language couldn't hurt.
My uncle seemed to welcome the idea.
"Good call. You're a catcher — you'll need it to communicate with foreign pitchers down the line."
"How did you learn English, Uncle?"
"There's no royal road to language study. You just memorize until you drop and speak until you drop."
And then his expression turned sly.
"Though honestly, the best method is dating someone who speaks the local language."
"Not happening."
I shook my head firmly.
The shameless old man.
It wasn't that I had any old-fashioned aversion to romance.
It was simply that, having spent so many hours alone in the White Room — and meditating so much besides — the thought of seeking out a partner didn't hold much appeal for me yet.
Hearing my answer, my uncle broke into a surprisingly satisfied smile.
"Good attitude. The three things an athlete must guard against most are alcohol, nightlife, and women."
"Were you testing me? Either way — is there a way for me to learn English?"
"Why worry?"
My uncle shrugged as if it were nothing.
"Everyone here is your study material. You can't spend all day at the training facility anyway. Once you're back at the hotel, I'll give you some help."
"…Thank you."
"I'll arrange a tutor through the company. When I'm not around, you can study with them."
"……."
First the contract negotiations, and now this.
Maybe it was just my imagination, but my uncle seemed more admirable by the day.
Without someone who had experience caring for MLB players, results this good would have been hard to come by.
More than anything, my uncle's workload kept growing because of me, and he never once complained. I could only be grateful.
"…Thank you. Uncle."
I looked away as I said it, embarrassed by my own gratitude, and my uncle let out a big laugh and clapped me on the shoulder.
"That's my job — nothing to thank me for. If you really want to repay me, make it big someday. Land an FA deal or a posting jackpot. That's all the thanks I need."
"…I'll do my best."
On the surface it sounded like the words of a money-grubber, but I could read the consideration underneath them, and I nodded.
And so, quite suddenly, my uncle and I found ourselves running a winter camp in the United States, scrambling to extend our itinerary.
From then on, the days simply repeated themselves.
I shuttled between the hotel and the research center, splitting my time between English study and training.
One day, while memorizing vocabulary, a stray question crossed my mind.
Am I actually good at studying?
The old me fell asleep the moment I sat down at a desk — yet lately, studying had become genuinely enjoyable.
Granted, that was after the White Room.
Everything felt pleasant these days.
And since I was constantly immersed in an English-speaking environment, my conversation skills improved at a remarkable pace.
I still spoke haltingly, and my exchanges were closer to piecing together a few scattered words than actual conversation — but I could manage simple chats with Marcus without much trouble.
Of course, it wasn't enough yet, so my uncle stuck by my side at all times.
"Marcus, do you have a Major League team you root for?"
"Of course. Where do you think you are?"
"Seattle, so…… the Seattle Mariners?"
"Yes! Most people in this city pull for the Mariners."
Marcus flashed a bright, toothy grin.
He said he was a Randy Johnson fan.
"That overwhelming physique and stuff, just burying hitters under it…… anyone who works in this game can't help but love it."
Hmm…… is that so?
Having never watched MLB from that era, I couldn't relate at all.
"Come to think of it, we have a permanently retired number on our team who's a lot like you."
"Who?"
"Ichiro Suzuki."
"…Please don't say that to anyone else."
"Huh?"
"Just — don't, okay?"
Granted, that was mostly thanks to distorted media coverage, but there was a time when Ichiro had been branded a walking machine of regrettable quotes.
Comparing two Asian players just because of their shared heritage felt a bit……
We talked MLB for ages like that, until Marcus suddenly grew serious.
"You're going to challenge the MLB someday, right?"
"Well…… I don't know. Wouldn't it be too hard for me?"
Hardly the thing for a guy who'd brazenly attempted a performance-based contract to say — but as far as I was concerned, I was just an ordinary talent.
Thanks to the time I'd spent in that white space, I was ahead of my peers in experience, that was all.
There was no guarantee any of it would hold up in the big leagues.
Lately everyone around me kept building me up, and the weight of it made my shoulders stiffen. That was exactly why I needed to keep looking at myself objectively.
When I voiced these thoughts, Marcus shook his head.
"I've been working here for over ten years. How many big leaguers do you think I've seen?"
"Quite a few, I'd guess?"
"More than I can count. Some of them came up through the minors to make the show. But how many people do you think reach what you've achieved at your age?"
"Come on, now you're just buttering me up."
I waved it off — until I saw the seriousness on Marcus's face and faltered.
"You've already become the model for what data-driven baseball believers aspire to."
"…Is it really that much?"
"Your physique goes without saying. Your hitting mechanics incorporate the newest MLB trends. But what I value most is your work ethic."
"My diligence?"
"Yes. You've been training and studying English for almost a month now, haven't you?"
"I have."
"And you've never once skipped a session or grumbled about it."
Well, that's because……
For someone who'd spent countless hours in the White Room, an environment like this practically felt like freedom itself.
"And that alone is something your peers can't manage."
"……."
"I didn't bring up Ichiro for nothing. His routine — eating the same meals every single day to keep his game feel sharp — it's famous."
Marcus patted my shoulder and smiled.
"I know humility is a virtue in your culture. But sometimes confidence itself is the engine that drives improvement."
"…Well, either way, thank you for rating me so highly."
"Just don't pretend you don't know me when you make it big, alright?"
"Wouldn't dream of it."
We wrapped up the conversation with a laugh and threw ourselves back into training — and then, out of nowhere, something occurred to me.
"Marcus."
"Yeah?"
"Why do you take such good care of me?"
I wasn't even a paying client, after all.
Yet he looked after me with the kind of attentiveness one reserves for a close friend, and it genuinely puzzled me.
Marcus hesitated for a moment before answering carefully.
"One of my close friends loves American football."
"What does that have to do with anything?"
"And that guy is always saying the same thing. That baseball isn't a sport — it's a social club game for old geezers."
"……."
"I want to show him. That physical freaks like you exist in baseball too."
All this, over something that petty?
I was caught off guard by the unexpected reason — but only for a moment.
In the end, everything he did worked in my favor, so I decided to let it slide.
About a month had passed since our winter camp began.
I'd finished training as usual and was heading back to my lodgings when Marcus stopped me with a suggestion.
"Hey, Kang!"
"Yes?"
"We're throwing a house party tonight. You wanna come?"
"Hmm……."
I was about to turn him down — I had English vocab waiting at the hotel — when he added:
"Your uncle says he's coming too?"
"Uncle as well?"
I mulled it over for a moment, then changed my mind.
Talking with people counts as English study too.
There were a dozen-odd people at Marcus's house when we arrived, Simon among them.
"The settled consensus in modern sports medicine is that there's no qualitative difference between muscles. Muscle strength is proportional to cross-sectional area."
Maybe it was the beer talking — he was rattling off words like a freestyle rapper, clearly worked up.
"But Kang is different. He's producing overwhelming performance relative to his muscle mass. Sure, his bat control plays a part, but his raw strength itself is just built different."
"Okay, okay. Are we seriously talking shop at a party too?"
Marcus subdued Simon through sheer force of will, then turned to me apologetically.
"Sorry. He's always like this."
"It's fine."
"Want a beer?"
"No. I'll pass."
The memory was still vivid.
The day after I drank for the first time with my father — the day I fell into that white space.
Perhaps because that trauma ran so deep, I'd been deliberately keeping alcohol at arm's length lately.
Apparently my answer surprised him, because Marcus's eyes lit up.
"You're skipping it because it'd interfere with training? That's impressive!"
"That's not really it."
"No need to be modest. It's a great habit for an athlete."
He collected the beer without a moment's hesitation.
The house party that followed was reasonably fun.
People chatted over the buffet spread of food and drinks, and I sat beside my uncle, listening to their stories with genuine interest.
Then I took a sip from the cup in my hand, and my brow furled.
"Ugh."
"What's wrong?"
My uncle beside me asked with a puzzled look.
"This root beer tastes off?"
"Hmm?"
My uncle took a sip, and his expression soured.
"This root beer has alcohol in it. Who poured this? You okay?"
"Ah — I'm fine."
A nasty premonition flickered through me, but I brushed it off casually, not wanting my uncle to worry.
The next day, after the house party ended and I returned home and fell asleep —
the sight that greeted my open eyes was a white, endless expanse.
"…Damn it."
As I looked around in despair, letters swam into view.
You have completed the Tutorial Phase. Please select your training.
‒ Batting
‒ Blocking
‒ Caught Stealing
‒ Framing
‒ Core Training
‒ Rehabilitation Exercise