Opening Day

Three days before Opening Day.

I went through my usual batting practice. Outside the cage, the hitting coach stood watching me with an intensity that bordered on uncomfortable.

Taang—!

"Good."

Taang—!

"That's it."

Taaang—!

"How on earth is your swing this natural?"

The hitting coach kept firing off exclamations, enough to make anyone within earshot embarrassed on his behalf. He was a rather unusual type of coach.

Coaches generally prize their authority, and most of them consider it beneath their dignity to learn from a player. But on the very first day of spring camp, after watching me train, he had walked straight up and asked:

"Who did you learn your hitting from? What's your master's name? Could I study under them too?"

"……"

It wasn't exactly like I could mention the White Room. So I brought up the name of Drive Baseball instead — and the moment the coach learned the facility was in the United States, his shoulders sagged in disappointment.

Still, he apparently couldn't bring himself to give up on learning, because from then on he made a habit of staring holes through me at every batting session.

That day, as I finished practice and stepped out of the cage—

"Hyuk."

"Yes?"

"Come here a second."

He glanced around, then beckoned me to lean in close.

"This isn't set in stone yet, but……"

"What is it?"

"The batting order's getting adjusted for Opening Day."

"Am I included in that?"

"Of course. Who else would be in it?"

I had been starting more often lately, sure, but spring camp and Opening Day were two entirely different matters. I'd assumed I might come off the bench — apparently, though, I'd made the starting lineup.

"Honestly, having you buried in the bottom of the order is a waste of talent. It's not like this team is overflowing with guys who can drive the ball."

"Haha……"

"Do you get nervous with big crowds at the park? Hard to say, since you've never played in one."

"I don't think that'll be an issue."

Not that I'd ever stood in front of a sold-out stadium before. But maybe because I'd spent so long training inside the White Room, when I locked into a contest, all I ever saw was the mound and the ball.

The hitting coach ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠nodded along to my answer.

"Figures. It's ordinary Muggles who fret over that kind of thing. Would a prodigy even give it a second thought?"

"That's not it."

Something I'd noticed for a while now — this man had a tendency to rate me far too highly. Granted, my near-.500 performance in spring camp had surprised even me.

"Hyuk, one thing I've been curious about."

"What would that be, sir?"

"The way you hit — it always feels like you're straining to make something happen."

"Hmmm……"

"Calling you just a bad-ball hitter doesn't quite cover it. Your pitch recognition is too good for that."

The words hit dead center, and for a moment I flinched. Apparently, the habit I'd picked up back in the White Room — hacking at pitches any way I could just to push the numbers higher — had stuck with me.

And in the hitting coach's eyes, it seemed to read as something else entirely.

"Is it that you don't trust your teammates?"

"Oh, come on. Of course not."

"No, really. If I were you, I might feel the same. You probably don't see much worth looking at out there."

It's not like I'm Ronaldo. But the coach had apparently already filed me away as a player operating on some entirely different level.

"It won't be a problem for now. But if you keep forcing yourself to hit like this, it'll start bleeding into your swing — your pitch recognition could waver too. I know the guys around you don't exactly inspire confidence, but just try a little more team baseball……"

"I'm telling you, that's really not it."

It seemed like it would take time to clear up the hitting coach's misunderstanding.

The originally anointed Opening Day starter had been Kim Hyun-woo. But he was already pushing into his late thirties, and in the name of managing his workload, he'd handed over the No. 1 starter's slot. The Hawks went with Romero, who had adapted to the team faster than anyone, as their Opening Day starter.

Peong—!

"Romero. Your ball's looking sharp today."

"Yeah? Good enough for a perfect game?"

"Then I get that Rolex, right?"

"Okay. No-hit, no-run. Let's go."

I'd once lifted weights alongside him and heard about his past. The reason he'd chosen Korea was that he'd hit his ceiling in the majors.

So every time he brought up the perfect game between innings, it wasn't out of disrespect for the KBO — it was closer to a form of self-hypnosis.

A starting pitcher is a lonely job, one where confidence translates directly into results.

So I humored him with the right nods, then shared what I had on the opposing hitters.

"The danger zone in the Knights' lineup is their core of three, four, and five. Those guys can end an at-bat with one swing."

"Mm. Maybe I'll dangle some bait pitches and toy with them?"

"That sounds like the right call. I'll manage the pitch mix from the bench like before — if there's a pitch you want, signal me anytime."

We loosened up in the bullpen, and as I walked into the dugout, an enormous crowd came into view. Fans of both teams packed the home seats and the visitor's section alike.

The newly founded Suwon Knights were a franchise so starved of crowds that they'd earned the mocking nickname of the "Bust Alliance" — a pun on box-office failure and crushing defeat. But Opening Day was different.

"I heard baseball was the most popular sport in Korea, but I didn't expect it to be this big."

Romero's voice beside me brought me back to my senses. Looking out over that sea of spectators, it finally hit me — this is where it all begins — and my heart swelled with something new.

"Play ball!"

We batted first.

I'd been slotted fifth in the order for this one. The manager had agonized between the three-hole and the five-hole, then settled on fifth — since this would be my first time ever playing in front of a crowd.

Would the inning even last long enough to reach my at-bat?

As if determined not to disappoint that hope in reverse, the Hawks' table-setters went down in order, one-two-three.

In the inning so hollowly wiped away, Romero muttered to himself.

"You really didn't need to be this considerate of me."

Barely had the heat from his bullpen work left his shoulder before we were walking out to home plate.

After a few warm-up pitches, the first batter of the game stepped into the box.

"Oh? So you're Kang Hyuk?"

"Good to meet you."

"Heard you were flying around in spring camp. Go easy on me, punk. Push that hard from the start and you'll gas out in no time."

The leadoff hitter was a player named Oh Si-hyun — a classic table-setter with solid contact skills and a good eye for reaching base.

According to Jin-mo, he talked nearly as much as Won-taek did, and that was by design: to rattle the catcher ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠and shake loose whatever information he could.

So everyone has their own weapon for surviving out here.

That flicker of respect lasted only a moment.

"Big crowd today, huh? Can't speak for road games, but it's been a while since we had a full house at home."

"……"

"First time in front of a crowd this size, isn't it? In situations like this, it actually wakes you up to give up a leadoff single right away."

Faced with a batter whose mouth never stopped moving, I fired off the pitch sign in a hurry.

Beong—!

"Strike!"

A heavy fastball boring in on his hands left the batter visibly rattled.

"What the— who the hell brought a guy like this?"

"Good arm, right?"

"Tell him to take it easy. This isn't the majors."

"I'll pass that along."

I called for another fastball in on the hands. "A classic leadoff hitter" sounds like a compliment at first, but flip it around and it means a low slugging percentage. Against this type, it was better to keep things simple than overcomplicate the duel.

"Strike!"

As it happened, Romero's stuff was on today, too — this one painted the inside corner, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠jam-tight, just like the last.

Oh Si-hyun hastily requested time.

"Whoa, hold on! Tell him to slow it down. All these fans came out — shouldn't we give them a show?"

"I'd love to, but Romero's in a hurry."

Having dropped the foreign player's name with perfect naturalness, I called for a sweeper on pitch three. After those consecutive inside fastballs, the batter had already retreated a half-step back in the box.

Whiing—

On a trajectory that looked, at first glance, like it was carving into the zone, the batter swung — and the ball drifted out over the outer half.

"Strike three! Out!"

The batter trudged back to the dugout shaking his head.

"Hah. This game's not going to be easy."

Having received the ball from Romero, I gave him a thumbs-up.

"Your stuff's really good today."

"No-hitter time, then."

He nodded as though it were the most obvious thing in the world.

…Maybe it wasn't self-hypnosis at all. Maybe the man was dead serious.

After the three-pitch strikeout, the Hawks' battery made quick work of the next two hitters as well.

Top of the second inning.

Leading off for our team was our cleanup hitter, Adam.

Training beside him, one thing had become clear: the raw power was the genuine article.

But how do I put this……

He'd been placed in the four-hole for his extra-base power — and yet, oddly enough, he went weak with runners in scoring position. With the bases empty he could square the ball up just fine, but the moment someone stood on first, he'd swing clean through it.

Tak—!

The very instant that thought crossed my mind, Adam slapped a base hit into the outfield.

Figures……

Presumably with no runners aboard, the pressure lifted and his natural swing came out.

And so we arrived at first and third — no, first base, nobody out.

Stepping into the box, I thought back to the hitting coach's advice from a few days earlier.

'Trust the team, and bat……'

Honestly, I didn't see any particular need to follow the hitting coach's advice. I simply swung on faith in my own instincts.

That said — right now, it was nobody out with a runner on first. Rather than a swing for the fences, moving the runner over with even a single was the smarter play.

I glanced toward the bench. No bunt sign. I decided to take the first pitch.

Peong—!

"Strike!"

Pitch one was a high fastball riding right on the border of the zone.

"Strike!"

Pitch two, a slider nicking the outer edge.

'Well, look at that?'

I studied the opposing pitcher's face. It brimmed with the certainty that his stuff simply could not be touched.

Was it my imagination, or did a familiar face overlap with that expression?

'He reminds me of Yoon Tae-yang, somehow.'

Probably the glasses. Whenever Yoon Tae-yang took the mound, he'd wear that look — as if, for that one moment, he were untouchable.

This pitcher must have armed himself with much the same mental armor.

Maybe it was the sudden memory of Yoon Tae-yang — but a fierce urge to win welled up in me.

'Still, stay composed about it.'

Down 0-and-2, I was in a disadvantaged count. I resolved to foul off everything I could, cutting pitches away until the one I wanted finally arrived.

Tik—

"Foul."

Tik—

Peong—!

"Ball."

Tik—!

"Foul!"

Back in my White Room training days, coaxing the bat onto the ball by any means necessary had simply been my daily routine — so making contact itself was hardly a challenge.

'This might actually be kind of fun.'

A part of me tingled with nerves, terrified the at-bat might die on a popup or a ground ball — but that very tension only sharpened the thrill.

'By the way — is the opposing pitcher doing okay?'

His face, so brimming with confidence at the start, was slowly flushing red. Or was that just my imagination?