The Manager's Eyebrows Twitch
Winter, and the season was over.
Even with no games being played, fans kept a restless eye on their beloved clubs. This stretch of the calendar—known in baseball circles as the Stove League—could make or break a season, depending on how well a team used it to rebuild.
And the Daejeon Hawks' online community was buzzing with anxiety.
More than a month passed in dead silence from the front office, and worried murmurs began to ripple through the Hawks' fanbase. Then, as if to prove the worry unfounded, the news finally broke.
The front office had offered a deal worthy of the franchise's star and living symbol. The fans, who had endured the long dark years living on nothing but hope in Kim Hyun-woo's pitching despite the club's endless losing, naturally welcomed the news with open arms.
The good news didn't stop there. Barely a week after Kim Hyun-woo's re-signing, the Hawks pulled off a surprise acquisition.
Thanks to an unplanned extension of my training, it had been a month and a half since I last set foot on Korean soil. I headed home.
Perhaps because it had been so long since we'd last seen each other, my parents greeted me with faces full of warmth.
"Aigoo, Hyuk-ah. Have you been eating well?"
"Of course, Mom."
Very Korean of her, asking after my meals instead of anything else. I'd bulked up enormously over the past few months, but apparently even that didn't look like enough to my mother.
"Honey. Look at him. I swear he's been eating better than we do."
"Will you hush."
"Yes, dear..."
Naturally, my father—the one who'd pointed it out—was swiftly silenced.
"Oh, right. Mom. There was something I wanted to ask you."
I shared the meal plan Marcus had given me.
"This is what I'll be eating from now on."
"This counts as food?"
"Yep."
Everyone says dieting is the hard part. I honestly couldn't see it. Chicken breast, prepared right, has this satisfying chewiness and a surprising burst of juice. Brown rice sweetens the more you chew it.
There are so many friends out there who haven't eaten at all... This is a rich man's problem.
For someone who'd experienced going without food for months in that white expanse, eating at all was something to be grateful for.
According to Marcus and Simon, my body was currently holding ideal muscle composition. But a full season would burn through calories at a ferocious rate, and with no fat reserves to draw on, my muscles would start breaking down first—which was why they'd recommended splitting my intake across six meals a day.
My father, who'd been studying the meal plan, asked me a question.
"Seong-ho told me you did well at the research center."
"It was a great experience. Completely different from the training I did at school."
"Like it's just schools who want in. I hear even MLB players have to take a number and wait their turn to get in there."
"I got lucky."
My father nodded slowly.
"Just don't get complacent. When do you leave for spring camp?"
"Two weeks from now. It'll be held in Okinawa."
"You'll need to perform well out there."
"Don't worry."
Until recently, I hadn't been entirely sure of myself. My body had transformed overnight, and there was no guarantee the batting form I'd rebuilt in the White Room would actually work against live pitching.
But the research center had put its stamp of approval on my physical condition, and by every measurable metric, the evaluations were glowing. For the first time, a real measure of confidence was taking root.
"You'll keep my appearances on the broadcast a secret, right?"
My father, who had yet to publicly acknowledge on air that we were father and son, nodded at my words.
"Of course. It's a Hawks-biased broadcast, but you never know when a boomerang might come back around. No need to say anything before I have to."
"Do whatever you're comfortable with, Dad."
"Speaking of which, there is one thing I want to ask you..."
"What is it?"
"When you get to spring camp and meet Park Jin-mo... could you get him to sign your uniform?"
At that, my mother, who'd been quietly listening, cut in.
"You're really saying that to a boy leaving for training camp?"
"No, no, that's not it. It's about building rapport, you know, killing two birds with one stone..."
"Aigoo, you."
Taking a swat on the back from my mother while sneaking a wink out of one eye at me—my father was, it seemed, an irredeemable baseball fan before he was anything else.
So this is where it really begins.
I'd arrived at spring camp by way of the team bus and a long flight. Seeing on TV-only players up close like this, the reality that I was now a professional finally sank in. I prided myself on keeping an even keel emotionally, but standing here, I couldn't stop the slight tremor running through me.
Playing the part of the wide-eyed rookie, I snapped my jaw into a disciplined mask and surveyed my surroundings. The established starters lounged in an air of easy authority, trading banter with the teammates they already knew, while the younger players stood frozen stiff in tight little clusters.
The atmosphere finally broke when the manager stepped in front of the assembled players.
"I don't know how things were done before. But as long as I'm here, there is no such thing as a guaranteed starting job. Every player on this roster will be judged on ability alone."
"This spring camp is the training that sets that baseline. So give me everything you've got."
I'd heard his entire coaching résumé consisted of second-team stints, but the manager behind those sunglasses radiated pure charisma.
Though, come to think of it—while the hitting coaches clustered at the manager's side, the pitching coaches stood a deliberate distance away. Was that just my imagination?
As I tilted my head, someone slipped quietly up beside me and spoke.
"Kang Hyuk."
"Hm?"
"Long time no see?"
The guy muttering under his breath while glancing around was Kim Chan-gyu—my draft classmate, taken by the Hawks in the second round this year.
We'd actually faced each other once in the high school league at the Phoenix National Tournament. He was a bit inconsistent, and overshadowed by the big three pitching prospects, but as I recalled, he threw a good fastball in the high 140s. We'd only crossed paths a few times in competition, yet here he was, chatting me up with all the easy familiarity of an old friend.
"What's this about draft classmates sticking together? Times like this are exactly when we ought to band together."
"Won't the veterans look at us sideways for it?"
"We're a battery, you and me. We're just getting our rhythm in sync early."
As the youngest players on the roster, the classmate line was naturally the easiest to talk to. Chan-gyu apparently loved the sound of his own voice, too—without my asking a thing, he rattled off everything he knew about the club.
"You know the manager and the bench coach don't get along, right?"
"Why not?"
"Bench coach has been coaching longer. Way more senior. But the manager leapfrogged him for the top job, so word is he's got a whole pile of grudges about it."
"And how exactly do you know all this?"
"There are ways to know things."
We were still murmuring back and forth when I felt a presence nearby.
"Hyuk-ah. Been a while."
"Oh—sunbaenim!"
It was Kim Hyun-woo, the same senior I'd met back at school. He clapped me on the shoulder, smiling.
"I hear you trained hard in the States this time."
"Yes, sir. My uncle helped set it up..."
"There are big expectations riding on you. Don't tighten up. Just keep doing what you've been doing, and a good opportunity will come soon enough."
"Thank you, sunbaenim."
"Anything you need, you come to me."
The moment the senior moved on, Chan-gyu, who'd been eavesdropping the whole time, nearly fell over himself.
"You KNOW Kim Hyun-woo sunbaenim? Personally?"
"We're with the same agency. He helped me with training last time, too."
"Whoa. Introduce me sometime, okay?"
"If the chance comes up."
While I was loosening up and shooting the breeze with Chan-gyu, the order came down: pitchers and position players would train separately. I joined the catchers' group, where two players were already waiting.
The one casually bouncing one leg, face utterly bored, was Park Jin-mo—the Hawks' starting catcher. In contrast, the younger player with the boyish face, wound tight as a spring, was the backup catcher, Choi Dong-hyuk.
Dong-hyuk had decent defensive tools and hit well enough in the Futures League, but for some reason, the moment he stepped onto the first-team stage his bat turned to water—a reputation that had earned him a notoriety all his own.
So I have to push past these two, don't I?
My goal for this camp was simple: catch the coaches' eyes, and stay with the first team. I steeled myself.
The battery coach approached us.
"Let's start with short-hop drills."
"Yes, sir."
"Yessir~"
As we suited up in our catcher's gear, the manager himself wandered over from across the field. A former catcher, apparently—the man had a clear interest in this corner of the field.
Park Jin-mo greeted him.
"Skipper. Can I sit this one out?"
"Absolutely not."
"Aigoo. My knee's acting up."
"You punk, running your mouth... Want me to show you what real pain looks like?"
The manager playfully kicked at the backside of the senior, who was pointedly rubbing his lower back.
"Ow! Sir, I'm wearing full gear over here!"
It played out like a comedy sketch, and I had to fight down a laugh. The KBO was a small world—everyone knew everyone.
The manager's voice was noticeably warmer as the atmosphere loosened.
"Jin-mo. You're up first."
"Yessir~"
"Slack off and you'll be shipped to Seosan before you can blink."
"You know my nature, Skipper."
And so Jin-mo sunbae began the drill, all lazy swagger. His body clearly wasn't in mid-season form yet, but the grizzled veteran showed rock-steady blocking all the same, his experience doing the talking.
"Next, Dong-hyuk."
"Yes, sir!"
Up stepped Choi Dong-hyuk, last season's backup catcher. He looked nervous—letting a few balls slip past him at first—before pulling himself together and starting to haul them in.
"Next up... Kang Hyuk, was it?"
"Yes, sir!"
"The front office speaks highly of you."
"Haha..."
Apparently he'd heard about my performance negotiations, because the manager adjusted his sunglasses.
"Yikes."
The ground was in poor condition, and the balls were kicking off it every which way. Even for me, fresh off weeks of mitt work for caught-stealing practice, this was no easy drill. I hardened my gaze and threw everything into not letting a single ball escape.
Not that it spared me the coaches' critiques.
Thud—
"Your knees have to move with it. Wrist-only blocking is why you're slow."
"Got it!"
Thwack—
"When you block, drop the ball in front of your body. A ball that ricochets far away means nothing."
"Yes, sir."
Training under everyone's appraisal was no small ordeal. As I churned through the endless barrage of incoming balls, a strange thought suddenly struck me.
Wait... am I the only one out here this long?
It wasn't just my imagination. From a distance, the murmured conversation between the coaches drifted over.
"Didn't care for him at first, but he picks things up fast, doesn't he?"
"Mm. Learning ability's solid. Good reaction speed, too."
The manager, who'd observed the short-hop drills and then sat in on the blocking work for a long stretch, finally checked his watch.
"We've got about fifteen minutes until the pitchers finish warming up. Let's finish with caught-stealing drills."
"Aw, come on, Skipper. We don't even have pitchers to throw the balls—running pop time drills on top of that is a bit much..."
Park Jin-mo grumbled, but the manager gave no ground.
"Then pack your bags and head to Seosan."
"I was just about to say how much fun that sounds."
And so we ran caught-stealing drills, receiving balls lobbed by the pitching machine.
When my turn came, my body moved on its own, flowing through the motions I'd drilled a hundred thousand times in the White Room.
Tup—
"Hm?"
And watching it all from behind his sunglasses, the manager—Eom Tae-hoon—felt both eyebrows twitch at the same time.