The Thief GMs and the First Signature

Kim Kwangseob, General Manager of the Hawks, had a routine: the moment he arrived at the office each morning, he checked every article related to the club.

And so, like any other day, he nursed an energy drink and went hunting for information.

The season hadn't even started yet, and the media was already kicking up dust to bait the fans' attention. The GM quietly gathered the pieces of information he actually needed.

So the Gwangju Pumas' second baseman got injured.

Unfortunately, the Hawks had no trade chip worth offering in return — but he made a note of it in his memo pad anyway. There was no telling when it might come in handy.

I see we won yesterday's game.

Kim Kwangseob was not the type to watch his own team's games one by one.

It wasn't that he suffered under some jinx like a certain famous MLB GM who claimed watching games caused losses. He simply believed that a front-office man ought to keep a certain distance from his players.

Get too attached to them, after all, and you might start missing the numbers and the statistics.

He was in the middle of processing the morning's news and the league's opening-day paperwork when his phone rang.

Kim Kwangseob checked the caller ID and picked up.

"Yes. GM Seo."

— Ah, GM Kim. How've you been? First time hearing your voice since the KBO club meeting, isn't it?

The caller was General Manager Seo of the Seoul Grizzlies — a club traditionally famous for developing position players.

"What can I do for you?"

— Nothing much. Just wondering how you're doing. I tried to buy you dinner last time, but something urgent came up, you know how it is.

After the usual pleasantries had run their course, GM Seo dragged the conversation out for a good ten more minutes before finally getting to the point.

— So, any interest in hammering out a trade?

"If you're calling first, I assume you already have something in mind."

— Ha, making me lay my cards down first, are you? Heh heh. I hear you've been having trouble at third base. Our problem is the opposite — we've got third basemen coming out of our ears. What about Noh Gi-jun?

Noh Gi-jun was the Grizzlies' third baseman with two years left before free agency. He wasn't a locked-in starter, but for a Hawks team bleeding errors on the hot corner, he was a tempting piece of inventory.

"And what chip would you want in return?"

— Hmm... I'll feel like I'm taking a loss here, but how about Kim Hyeong-jun? We've got a hole opening up in our outfield.

It was true the Grizzlies needed outfielders. Their finances had been squeezed by parent-company troubles, and a starting outfielder had just left the team via free agency.

The problem was the price.

"Kim Hyeong-jun is someone we're investing a great deal of care into developing."

— Ah, I know, I know. But he's still a rookie, isn't he? Polishing him into a finished product will take years.

GM Seo, playing the benefactor, tossed in one more name.

— I'll throw in Gu Min-seok too. In exchange, give me your second-round pick in the next draft.

‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠

Gu Min-seok was a long-relief pitcher — his ERA was nothing to brag about, but he was the kind of swingman who could take the mound in any situation.

So the rumors about the Grizzlies entering a rebuild were true after all.

"I'm sorry. Those cards don't line up for us."

— ...You'll regret this later.

"We consider that player a core resource for the future."

Under the old win-now GMs, this might have been worth a moment's thought. It was an offer to swap two semi-regulars who could help the club immediately — not established starters, but close — for a single rookie.

But Kim Kwangseob was building his team on a long horizon, and on that horizon the offer wasn't even worth considering.

Even if they're decent players, the longer their service time, the fatter their salaries. These are men whose ceilings they've already smashed their heads against.

To a GM who viewed three years from now as the true start of the win-now window, the answer was simple. He turned it down.

He hung up with GM Seo and returned to his paperwork — only for the phone to ring again.

— Ah, GM Kim! We really need to grab a meal sometime.

This time it was the GM of the Suwon Knights.

He, too, threw out an absurd proposal, which Kim Kwangseob cut down in a single stroke before ending the call.

The GM let out a long, deep sigh.

"This league is full of thieves."

Ten days had passed since the start of spring camp.

Worried that keeping us locked to the training grounds would cause problems, the manager finally granted us a day out. I had planned to stay at the dorm as usual, splitting my time between training and rest — but Jin-mo hyung and Lee Won-taek hyung dragged me into a car by both arms before I could object.

Thus we arrived at a tourist street.

"Oh? It's Park Jin-mo!"

"And Kang Hyuk and Lee Won-taek are here too!"

The moment we stepped outside the stadium grounds, people started recognizing us.

"I'm a big fan!"

"Thank you."

They must have been baseball fans who'd come to watch the spring camp games. Four or five of them approached us, hesitant and careful.

"Um... excuse me?"

"Yes?"

"Could I get an autograph?"

"An autograph?"

I faltered for a second.

"I don't actually have a signature yet... would it be all right if I just wrote my name?"

"Of course! Then I'd be your very first?"

"Yes."

"Wow. I'm framing this and passing it down through the family."

"Please don't."

One fan bounced on her toes with delight before pressing a snack into my hands as a gift.

Once the signing was done and I turned around, I found myself locking eyes with my seniors, who were all grinning like they'd just witnessed something hilarious.

"Man, superstars really are built different, huh? Everybody knows who you are."

"I did some counting, by the way. You spend about thirty seconds longer talking to the female fans."

"Popular already."

Arms crossed like they'd caught me red-handed, they snickered and needled me without mercy.

"Quit messing around. You all signed autographs too."

"You know the Hawks community is on fire right now? They're calling you the most talented player in franchise history."

"Pfft, fans getting ahead of themselves — like that's anything new? We've got Kim Hyun-woo sunbaenim, for crying out loud."

"They're saying you'd have to dig back ten years to find another rookie who hit a grand ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠slam for the Hawks."

"Ah, I want to be reborn as Kang Hyuk. What must it be like, living the life of a star?"

Amid all our bantering, Park Jin-mo hyung asked a question of his own.

"By the way, Hyuk. You don't have a signature?"

"No, sir."

"Get one made. You're going to be doing a lot of this from now on."

And then he handed down a few pieces of wisdom.

"Don't sign too many, though. Two per person, tops."

"...Let me guess. If you sign too many, your signature loses its market value? Is that the logic here?"

When I shot him a disappointed look, he waved both hands frantically.

"No, no, that's not it! KBO's gotten so popular these days that people are reselling autographs, you see? And that's just plain rude."

"Hmhm..."

Though, come to think of it — knowing Jin-mo hyung's conduct day to day, he was hardly the type to think that way. He grumbled about how little I trusted him.

"And one more thing — don't accept gifts from fans if you can help it."

"It's just a snack, though?"

"Every so often you get a malicious fan pulling a prank. One of the Dragons players ate a gift a fan sent him and missed a game with food poisoning, remember?"

I wanted to believe no one would go that far — but the moment I recalled the Marlins and a few of the league's more... enthusiastic fandoms, it made perfect sense.

I'll give this to Dad.

My diet meant I had no real plans to eat snacks anyway.

We had lunch at a restaurant and were making our way to a souvenir shop when I sank into thought in the back seat.

What would have happened if I'd never gone into the White Room?

I certainly wouldn't be receiving this overwhelming outpouring of affection. I'd probably have been sent down to the Futures team to grind out my time — just like Kim Chan-gyu, my draft classmate, who'd been informed of his demotion recently and had looked ready to cry.

Thinking of it that way made me feel a little better — like all the suffering I'd endured in the White Room was finally being recognized.

And the training intensity hasn't even been bad since the Tutorial ended.

Not that I was any less reluctant to enter the White Room, mind you.

"Here we are."

The moment we walked into the souvenir shop, a peculiar product caught my eye.

"What's this?"

"Hornet honey. It's brewed from hornets."

"Hyung-nim, I heard that stuff does wonders for men. Is that true?"

"Oh, is it?"

Jin-mo hyung's face lit up with obvious interest at Won-taek hyung's words.

"Hyung-nim. Are you... having a hard time lately?"

"Hey! Watch it, punk. I've smashed more toilets than I can count."

"That sounds like a problem in itself. Shouldn't you see a doctor?"

And so, in full swagger, Jin-mo hyung dropped the jar of hornet honey into his basket.

"You're really going to eat that?"

"Knock it off, kid! It's a gift. A gift!"

A sudden thought ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠struck me, and I turned to Won-taek hyung.

"If you eat that, does it show up on a doping test?"

"No idea. But honestly, better not to. Who knows what they've laced it with."

Was it my imagination, or did Jin-mo hyung's shoulders twitch at that exact moment?

He came to an abrupt halt and placed the honey right back on the display shelf.

"Hm? I thought you said it was a gift?"

"...No. Come to think of it, hornets are kind of creepy-crawly. You can't give someone a revolting food as a present, can you?"

For an instant, Won-taek hyung's eyes met mine.

Nah. No way.

A veteran of Jin-mo hyung's caliber couldn't possibly have overheard us.

Time flowed on, and by late February the spring camp was drawing to a close.

The picture of the starting lineup, blurry at first, was gradually coming into focus.

These days, Kang Hyuk was starting behind the plate more and more often, edging out his senior Choi Dong-hyuk for the job. As the number of games grew, his batting average slowly settled back down — but he'd begun to distinguish himself not just at the plate, but in every other facet of the game as well.

PWHANG—!

Watching Kang Hyuk run his blocking drills, Park Jin-mo shook his head.

"Hah. Unbelievable."

Kim Hyun-woo looked at him, puzzled.

"What?"

"How does anyone learn that fast? Is this what they mean by genius?"

"Kang Hyuk trains like crazy — not like the kids these days at all. He's got the talent to match."

"Who doesn't train, though? It's the speed of his improvement that's off the charts. That's the whole issue."

Having fired off his suspicious glare, Jin-mo turned to Hyun-woo and nodded, as if a piece had finally clicked into place.

"Then again, there's you, isn't there."

"What about me?"

"You learned a new pitch off a teammate and threw it in a real game the very next day."

Considering he'd done it not in the KBO but in the MLB, Kim Hyun-woo was, by his own right, a monster outside the bounds of normal measure.

Jin-mo had long since concluded that the genius breed of player was something a man simply couldn't hope to understand.

"Kid's going to make the Majors, isn't he?"

"Yeah."

The old KBO had often been dismissed as a league where players ranging from Single-A caliber to big-league quality all mixed together. But after the Olympic generation, as rival leagues surged ahead with the Velocity Revolution and precision data-driven baseball, the KBO had failed to ride the tide of the times.

And then Kang Hyuk had appeared like a comet — and his performance was more than enough to make a man hope.

Kim Hyun-woo, who'd been through the Majors himself, answered matter-of-factly.

"If he develops right, he's an elite MLB hitter. Even if he doesn't, he'll tear this league apart."

"That's a mighty high assessment."

"Might actually be underselling him."

"An elite MLB hitter, undersold?"

Kim Hyun-woo nodded.

"We're with the same agent, so I watched his high school hitting footage once."

"And?"

"Back then he was a wet-behind-the-ears kid. Honestly, I wouldn't have believed he'd go first overall in the draft."

His eyes drifted to Kang Hyuk, who was now blocking balls in the dirt with easy, practiced confidence.

"But his growth rate makes no sense. His hitting, everything else — it all defies belief."

"You don't think...?"

"Not drugs. He was tested in the States just recently."

"Heh heh. Unbelievable."

The two of them had been battery partners through many seasons with the Hawks, and there was one thing they always regretted.

Not just the championship — the fact that they'd never managed to leave behind a legacy worth the name.

"I figured I'd reach the end of my career with nothing to show for it, and then..."

"Teach him properly, then. So one day Kang Hyuk can bring home a Kiwood'Or."

"What's a Kiwood'Or?"

It was the tongue-in-cheek title Kiwoom fans handed out to the stars their club had raised with care — only to watch them blossom somewhere else.

"...There's such a thing."

Before anyone noticed, opening day was nearly upon them.