Romero's Best Stuff
Top of the seventh inning.
I was replaced by Park Jin-mo.
As I headed into the dugout, the manager gave my shoulder a pat.
“Good work out there.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Apart from a pitcher's error in the top of the sixth that let a ball sail over the batter's head, there hadn't been a single noticeable miscue, so this was nowhere near a reprimand for sloppy play.
'Honestly, even if Grandpa himself had come down, he couldn't have caught that one.'
Factor in the home run in my first at-bat, and it was fair to call my debut a success.
If I had any regrets, it was that my shoulder had carried too much tension after that first homer — and the strikeout that followed as a result. Maybe that was all.
Still, a line of 1-for-3 with a home run and a walk was more than enough to make my case to the coaching staff.
So there I was, sitting on the bench watching the intrasquad game wind down, and the moment it ended, I went looking for Romero.
“Hey. Romero.”
“Hmm?”
I offered my apology in English to the puzzled man.
“Sorry about the bat flip earlier. It's my first time in a first-team game, and I got carried away.”
“Ah, it's fine. I already heard that's kind of the K-culture thing.”
He forgave me like it was nothing at all.
Apparently the man who owned that monstrous sweet potato had a heart just as generous.
'It was no joke, that thing.'
And I prided myself on never losing to anyone anywhere.
On my second day of training, the manhood he'd revealed in the showers had demanded my gaze whether I liked it or not.
“By the way, do you speak English?”
“Just a little. I spent about two months in the States.”
“Whoa!”
Maybe he'd been starved for someone to talk to, because Romero lit up at the news that I could speak English.
“What took you to America?”
“A place called Drive Baseball. I stayed at their baseball center over the winter for physical testing.”
“Wait, the one in Seattle?”
“You know it?”
“Of course. That place costs a fortune!”
Back in his minor-league days, he'd been so desperate to break into the big leagues that he'd looked into training centers and labs — then given up almost immediately, thanks to the astronomical fees.
“A guy living on bread and peanut butter every single day — where was I supposed to find that kind of money?”
As he grumbled his way through the conversation, Romero asked my age and his face went slack with shock.
“You're only eighteen?”
“I'll be nineteen in international age in about four months.”
“I figured you just looked young. Turns out you actually are?”
Romero asked, genuinely puzzled:
“That's plenty young enough to take a shot at the majors. Why didn't you go straight to the States?”
“I was scared, honestly... and more than anything, nobody made me an offer.”
As much as I hated to admit it, it was no exaggeration to say most of my current ability came from the White Room.
Before, I'd been evaluated as a first-round talent — but that was strictly a conversation within Korea.
Compared to the players grinding through the minors, my tools had genuinely fallen short.
None of this was known to Romero, who clicked his tongue as if it were a waste.
“Those scouts must all have broken eyes.”
“Come on, at the time, it was the right call.”
“I guarantee you'll make it fast.”
“Haha. I'll take your word for it — thanks anyway.”
But Romero spoke to me with utter conviction.
“No, I mean it. That ball you hit out — that was my best stuff.”
“Really?”
“Yeah! And here's a secret...”
As if he were confiding something enormous, he leaned in and whispered into my ear.
“Every kid who homered off me in the minors? They all got called up to the big leagues real fast.”
“Aw, come on.”
Deciding this was classic American flattery, I waved him off with both hands.
“I'm serious!”
Romero started reeling off the names of hitters who'd taken him deep and were now playing in the big leagues.
Some of them were players even I had heard of.
“Romero... how many home runs have you given up?”
“...For a pitcher, home runs are just taxes.”
While the conversation bloomed along like this, Romero carefully opened his mouth.
“By the way, um...”
“Yeah?”
“If it's not rude to ask — could you share the training sessions you learned at Drive Baseball? ...Yeah, that's probably asking too much, huh?”
“No? I can do that.”
As it happened, back when I was in the States, I'd asked Marcus and Simon the very same question.
What would happen if the training sessions I learned at the center got shared among other players?
'What did they say back then?'
Their real weapon, they'd said, was the athlete-specific data — the training sessions were just add-ons, so they didn't mind at all.
A fittingly confident answer from the best baseball center in the business.
“They said they're planning a visit to Korea eventually. If the chance comes up, let's all meet together.”
“Oh! I'd love that, obviously.”
It had been a brief conversation, but Romero wrapped me in a hug like an old friend.
'Good. Networking complete.'
That future was still far off, but if we were going to work as a battery someday, being close couldn't hurt.
After training wrapped up, I was running a load of laundry and heading back to the dorm when I ran into a familiar face in the corridor outside my room.
“Well, if it isn't our junior, Kang Hyuk?”
“Oh — sunbae!”
Lee Won-taek, the man I'd faced in the batter's box. His eyes gleaming, he sauntered over and slung an arm around my shoulder.
“Times have really changed, huh? Lying straight to your sunbae's face.”
“Ahaha... well, I knew you hit too well, sunbae. I just wanted to win somehow...”
“Back in my day? Nobody would've dreamed of lying to a sunbae like the sky above them. Once, one of my classmates lied that he hadn't been drinking — got caught. Know what happened? The sunbaes gathered every single classmate that day and...”
True to his nickname, the Mouth of Terror, he unspooled his endless bag of stories for a long while.
What rescued me from my mounting discomfort was someone else.
“Why all the racket?”
“Ah! Sunbae!”
“Hey, Lee Won-taek. Why are you hassling my junior?”
The corridor had been loud enough that Park Jin-mo, hearing it from inside his room, had come out.
Won-taek's face lit up and he started tattling.
“No, hyung — you know what this kid did earlier?”
“What?”
“I asked him for a fastball down the middle, and he said he doesn't give leads. Lied right to my face — then smoked a four-seamer right down the middle like he was showing off.”
“In baseball, the guy who gets fooled is the idiot.”
Jin-mo clapped my shoulder as if to say well done.
“A catcher's supposed to eat hitters alive. Anybody gives you grief over that, you come tell me.”
“Come on, hyung! We've got years of history here. And you're siding with the rookie?”
“If you're going to talk nonsense, go back to your room. Catchers only beyond this point.”
“This damn catcher worship of yours... I even brought a gift, you know.”
“What is it?”
Won-taek herded us into the room and pulled beer out of his bag.
Park Jin-mo's face brightened at the sight.
“Where'd you even get this?”
“Saw it coming, so I smuggled it in with my luggage before camp.”
The manager had declared a drinking ban for the duration of camp, and the players had been grumbling about it from time to time.
“Brought snacks too.”
“Kang Hyuk, come sit over here.”
The sunbaes plopped down on the floor, faces eager at the prospect of a drink-up.
I declined carefully.
“I, um... don't drink.”
“Is that so?”
Unlike Won-taek, whose face fell, Jin-mo looked like he understood completely.
“You're heading to the weight room after this, right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Off you go, then.”
With a small bow, I turned my body toward the fitness room.
The moment Kang Hyuk was gone, the two of them sat on the floor and tipped back their beers.
“Weight training at this hour, seriously?”
“Relentless kid. Never skips a day.”
“Really?”
“And he never lets on that it's hard, either.”
“Sheesh. Unbelievable.”
Training sessions ran all morning and afternoon — and on top of that, he did individual work? Won-taek marveled, took a swig of beer, and opened his mouth.
“So what's this about, anyway?”
“About what?”
“You used to favor Choi Dong-hyuk, didn't you?”
“He's a good kid. I still like him.”
“It's just... lately it feels like you orbit around Kang Hyuk and nobody else.”
Park Jin-mo frowned at the bitter taste of the beer.
“What can I do? The talent's on a different level.”
“...Fair enough.”
Since the introduction of ABS, the KBO had been gradually demanding hitting ability from its catchers.
Of course, beyond framing there was still blocking, defensive pitch-calling, throwing out base stealers and the rest.
The defensive requirements for the position hadn't shrunk one bit.
But short of a massive gap in those skills, the opportunity was always going to flow toward the one who could hit.
“That said, you think Kang Hyuk's glove work is lacking? It isn't.”
“Then why's he hammering blocking drills so hard?”
“It's a shortcoming, sure. But at that age, they all are. It's a problem time and experience solve in the end. Without some kind of spark, though, Dong-hyuk's bat just isn't going to come around.”
“...Hmm.”
“And Kang Hyuk works like a dog on top of it all.”
Under the banner of the word talent, the two men fell silent, thinking of the countless juniors they'd watched vanish from the first-team stage.
“Won-taek.”
“Yes, hyung.”
“Honestly, it might be hard while I'm still around — but you should get yourself a championship ring before you're done, shouldn't you?”
“No idea. It's not like it happens just because I want it.”
At the lament wrapped inside the answer, Park Jin-mo shook his head.
“Call it a hunch, but this time is different.”
“...Did the fans rub off on you?”
“No, not this season. Within three years.”
Park Jin-mo laid out his reasoning, point by careful point.
“First, Hyun-woo's good for at least two or three more years. And Dong-gyu locked down a rotation spot for good last season, didn't he?”
“Right?”
“If the foreign arms pitch well, our starting rotation won't be behind anyone's.”
“...”
“The bullpen's already stacked with bodies waiting down in Seosan, so that's no concern either.”
“I mean... who knows if it'll actually come together, but sure, let's say it does.”
“Let the prospects rack up first-team experience this season, then patch in one outfielder and one first baseman next year? That's more than enough to make a real run at it.”
“Aren't you running the happiness circuit a little hard there?”
Having said his piece, Jin-mo drank in silence for a while — then dropped the bombshell.
“I told the manager.”
“Told him what?”
“That I want to sit out these exhibition games.”
“Excuse me?”
Won-taek's eyes went wide.
Sure, Jin-mo's knee meant his playing time needed managing — but asking out of games that were even being broadcast?
This was, for all practical purposes, handing over a starting job.
“You still need to play to get your timing back before the season, though.”
“How many years have I been doing this? Still babbling about timing?”
“Then who starts?”
“That's for the manager to decide.”
Looking at Jin-mo's placid expression, Won-taek's heart grew heavy.
First it had been Hyun-woo sunbae weighing retirement — and now this.
He could feel it: the era of the men who had held up the Hawks' dark age was drawing to a close.
The exhibition game against the Chiba Marines, an NPB club, being played in Okinawa.
Kang Min-jun switched on his broadcast for the first time in a while.
“It's been a while, everyone.”
OpenTheDoorOwner: Owner, open the door!
LowBloodPressureCure: There you are. My hypertension treatment... wait, low BP treatment.
SmileDealer: What plays will you grace us with this year?
WhySoRare: Why has the stream been so infrequent lately?
“Why has it been so infrequent, you ask? Because there's been no baseball to cover. Once the season starts, you'll be sick of how much you get.”
True to his long broadcasting career, he worked the audience with practiced ease — then froze when he saw the starting lineup.
“Huh? The starting catcher isn't Park Jin-mo?”
WhatsGoingOn: What? Is Park Jin-mo injured?
AgingGracefully: I mean, it wouldn't be surprising at his age.
WhoIsThisKid: Who's Kang Hyuk?
ScoutingReport: The catcher they took first overall in this year's draft.
WhereIsDonghyuk: Shouldn't the backup catcher Choi Dong-hyuk be playing instead?
SenseSomething: Somethin'... somethin' is happening.
DoomerFan: Green manager plus rookie catcher... I can smell the collapse already.
“Now, now. Don't start the doom-saying before the game's even begun.”
“Any comments disrespecting the players get temp-banned.”
Flustered by his son's debut arriving sooner than expected — but only for a moment. Min-jun pivoted the topic with lightning speed.
“I don't really follow the NPB, honestly. Are the Chiba Marines any good?”
NPBExpert: Classic Japanese-style baseball team.
GritBall: No home-run hitters, but famous for grinding out at-bats and suffocating you.
NotHooligans: Aren't their fans famous for being hooligans, though?
BirdAlliance: Japan's Busan Marines — basically the Phillies?
OffendedFan: Comparing them to the Phillies is a bit much...
“Well, either way — we don't need a win. I just hope the Hawks show us something to believe in.”
And quietly, without a word to anyone, Min-jun rooted for his son's debut stage.