A Festival in the Dugout
After the opening game, the biggest talk of the town was Romero's interview.
Named Player of the Game, Romero sat down with an interpreter at his side to share his thoughts on the win — and before long, the conversation turned to Kang Hyuk.
"Congratulations, Romero. Over seven innings today you struck out nine batters and were named Player of the Game. How are you feeling?"
"I'm genuinely happy. More than just picking up the win as a pitcher, it means a lot that I was able to contribute to the team's victory."
"The fans will love hearing that. If you had to name the secret behind such a strong outing today, what would it be?"
"The organization has done a great deal to help my family settle in. The manager and my teammates have been incredibly considerate, too. And above all, I have to thank Kang Hyuk for the way we worked together out there."
"Speaking of the players — did you grow especially close with anyone during spring camp?"
"I spend a lot of my time with Kang Hyuk. We're a battery, after all, and I'm able to communicate with him directly."
"With Kang Hyuk?"
The interviewer's face registered open surprise at the news that Kang Hyuk spoke English well.
"What do the two of you usually talk about?"
"Mostly training. He carries himself with a maturity you'd never expect from someone who only just became an adult this year. He has a tremendous work ethic, and his training volume is enormous."
Once the subject shifted to Kang Hyuk, Romero beamed and kept the comments flowing so quickly that even the interpreter struggled to keep up.
"And just recently, he tested his Big Three lifts and hit 700 kilograms. You don't see athletes like that even in the big leagues."
"A 700-kilogram total?"
The female interviewer clearly had no way to gauge how remarkable that was — her reaction never got past a puzzled tilt of the head. But that one line of the interview set the internet ablaze.
After Romero's interview, whenever I was working out in the weight room, players would drift by to watch.
"Whoa. 270 on the squat like it's nothing?"
"Maybe I should give it a try."
"Don't. You throw your back out, who's covering outfield?"
"Fair. That level is straight-up talent territory."
They stared at me with wide, fascinated eyes, like visitors at a zoo watching some rare animal. Just as the attention started to feel suffocating, the man who came to my rescue was senior Jin-woo.
"This isn't a zoo! If you're not here to work out, clear out!"
"Aw, come on. And here I was enjoying the show."
The players vanished in an instant. So they hadn't come to train after all — they'd genuinely come to gawk at me.
"Thank you, hyung."
"Oh, don't mention it. I owed you one from yesterday anyway."
Ever since his outing the day before, Jin-woo had grown noticeably warmer toward me.
"Honestly, if it hadn't been for you, I was planning to just walk off the mound."
"I trust you, that's all."
"Look at this guy, buttering me up."
He slung an arm around my shoulder and asked in a low voice.
"Straight answer. When you punched out that batter with the bases loaded — didn't that feel electric?"
"…Couldn't you have just ended it easily instead?"
"A real closer is someone who can trust his own stuff even with the game on the line."
He struck the pose for a moment, all bravado — then before long, he confessed the truth.
"…Honestly, the second even one runner gets on, I start overthinking everything."
"That's fair."
For a left-hander it might be different, but for a right-handed pitcher, having even a single runner on first is inherently uncomfortable — the pickoff lane is right there.
"But when the bases are loaded, all you have to worry about is the hitter, right?"
"…Still, next time, please trust me. My caught-stealing rate isn't exactly bad, you know."
"All right, next time I will."
He was smiling as he turned to leave, and something about it struck me as odd.
"Weren't you here to work out? Come train with me."
"Nah, I was just passing by."
"You pitched yesterday, though. You should at least do your post-outing maintenance—"
"Oh. I just remembered something I need to do. Catch you later!"
He hurried out of the weight room. Was I imagining it, or did it feel a lot like he was avoiding me?
Having opened the season with a win, the Hawks then proceeded to lose game after game with almost supernatural consistency.
It was a horror show, plain and simple.
Every game was quintessentially, catastrophically Hawks.
Our number two starter, the foreign pitcher, was yanked after just four innings, and the bullpen that followed served up home runs like it was batting practice. The next day, senior Hyun-woo turned in six innings of two-run ball, only to take the loss anyway because the offense was starved. Sprinkle in the infield's occasional defensive miscues, and I could picture my father screaming at the broadcast feed without even being home to see it.
Personally, I posted an on-base percentage close to .500 and put together a respectable stretch, but with the batters around me falling silent, none of it translated into runs.
Even team baseball only works if the team holds you up……
After getting punched out on strikes in the final game, I resolved to ease off the Yong-kyu Play. Foul off too many pitches chasing a long at-bat, and your swing mechanics start to fall apart.
In the end, the lineup has to back you up……
Baseball is a team game with a hard ceiling on what any one player can do alone. Why else would they call it the Umbrella Effect?
Like the Yankees' vaunted lineup of Juan Soto, Aaron Judge, and Stanton — I couldn't help wishing there were someone who could really hit batting in front of me or behind me.
So the evening after we dropped the series, while I was going through my usual batting practice, senior Kim Hyeong-jun came looking for me.
"Kang Hyuk."
"Yes?"
"Could you… teach me hitting?"
"I'm sorry — what?"
For a second I was sure I'd misheard. A third-year rookie asking a guy who'd graduated high school last year to coach his hitting?
Granted, he'd slumped over his last three games, but Kim Hyeong-jun was a highly regarded prospect — a player who'd even made the Futures League All-Star team.
I chose my words carefully, angling toward a refusal.
"That's really something you should ask the hitting coach—"
"I already did. He told me I should learn from you."
"Excuse me?"
Of course I knew the hitting coach liked my swing mechanics. But still.
Isn't that literally his job?
If this was how it was going to be, they should have just hired me as the hitting coach. I made a mental note to bring that up seriously later, and turned my attention to the senior standing in front of me.
Truthfully, I wasn't thrilled. Advising a senior with more years in the league than me was no small thing — and beyond that, my expertise wasn't professional knowledge so much as a body of lessons beaten into me, night after night, inside the White Room. I hardly qualified to counsel anyone.
And the season's already started. Overhauling a swing now makes no sense anyway.
Hyeong-jun had proved himself in the Futures League — his fundamentals weren't the problem.
"From what I can see, senior, this looks less like a mechanical issue and more like something psychological."
"…Yeah. I was afraid of that."
They call baseball a mental sport for a reason — psychological strain erodes a player's performance more often than anyone admits. This was almost certainly his first taste of the first-team stage. The nerves alone were probably strangling his natural swing.
"Just relax and play your game. You tore up the minors on your way up, didn't you? And there's no one competing with you for the spot, so the opportunities will keep coming."
"Mmm. I understand it in my head. But the second I step into a game, it all goes out the window."
"A lot of the senior players each have their own way of managing their mindset, actually. What do you usually do after training?"
"Me? I watch football. Soccer, I mean."
"Oh — soccer?"
The best hobby would have been watching and analyzing baseball, but since that's literally the job, plenty of players unwound with other sports instead.
"And what do you do?"
"I lift, or I meditate."
"Ugh."
He made a face of pure disgust.
"No wonder you're good at baseball. Something's wrong with you."
"I honestly don't find it that hard."
So instead of dispensing hitting advice, we fell into easy talk — and somewhere along the way, the conversation landed on the team's celebration rituals.
"Let's be honest with each other. What do you actually think of our team celebration?"
"The team celebration? I think it's fine?"
These days, KBO clubs frequently made team celebrations mandatory for the fans' viewing pleasure. For the Hawks, skipping your celebration after a base hit meant buying coffee for every player on the roster and the front office to boot. Since our mascot was a bird, the ritual itself was usually just pressing your hands together to make wings.
Hyeong-jun's face scrunched up in evident displeasure.
"Doesn't it feel a little… rustic? And so static."
"Well, the mascot is a bird. Do you have a personal celebration you'd rather do?"
"Not that I'm set on anything, but if we're talking dynamic, there's always the Sui celebration…"
"…Senior. Were you a Ronaldo fan?"
He bristled instantly at my question.
"A Ronaldo fan?! There's a perfectly respectful term for it — Ronaldo junior!"
And only then did I remember — his profile photo in the team group chat was Cristiano Ronaldo too.
Stung by the slight against his idol, he unleashed a torrent of words.
"You need to respect Ronaldo. He has lifted five Ballon d'Ors and countless trophies, led Portugal to a European Championship, stands as the all-time top scorer in Champions League history…"
I learned later that this man was such an incurable Ronaldo devotee that he'd performed the Sui celebration even at the Futures League All-Star Game.
Watching him recite Ronaldo's records with no sign of stopping, I made a calming gesture with both hands.
"Okay, okay. I get it."
"…So doing the Sui as a personal celebration is out of the question?"
"Obviously."
Smack a hit or a home run off a pitcher and then do the Sui in his face? You'd earn a bench-clearing brawl or a fastball to the ribs, and you'd have no one to blame.
Apparently this was no joke to him. Sullen, he kept muttering to himself.
"Aw. And I really wanted to……"
So I offered a simple compromise.
"Then do it inside the dugout. As long as you're not embarrassed doing it in front of your teammates."
"…That much should be fine, right?"
He broke into a bright grin, as if the mere thought of it delighted him, and I shook my head.
He's not embarrassed at all, is he?
Honestly, the team celebration suddenly looked like the safer bet. But athletes have a way of fixating on the smallest things — Nadal, one of tennis's all-time greats, supposedly runs through dozens of little rituals before every single shot. If something bothered him enough to obsess over it like this, better to give it a proper outlet.
The next day's game. The incoming series was a home matchup against the Incheon Dragons.
"Hyuk."
"Yes?"
"You're hitting second starting today."
Good news from the manager before first pitch. I'd been penciled into the five-hole until now — apparently he'd decided I'd adjusted to first-team pitching well enough.
And so the game began.
I reached on a walk in the first inning, only to be stranded as usual. Sitting on the bench during the break, Hyeong-jun struck up a conversation.
"This game's gonna be fun. Right?"
"Sure…"
Batting ninth, he watched the game with an expression brimming with anticipation — a far cry from his usual cowed demeanor. I had a feeling that had something to do with an eagerly awaited Sui celebration. Maybe it was my imagination.
But perhaps because of that positive energy—
Taang—!
Top of the third. Leading off the inning, he lined a single into left-center.
"Nice!"
"There we go. Let's ride it!"
The dugout promptly turned into a festival. Then senior Won-taek worked a walk right behind him, and the opposing pitcher turned to stare at me with a face gone completely rigid.
Scoreless, nobody out, runners on first and second. From a pitcher's standpoint, a single out count would have felt precious.
I resolved to simply work the count with patience.
Whish—
First pitch: a ball off the outside corner.
Second: a two-seamer clipping the bottom of the zone.
Then the third pitch. The pitcher, who'd been shaking his head over and over with a face full of hesitation, finally nodded with the look of a man who'd made up his mind—
Wearing your decision on your face like that is going to cost you from here on out.
I decided to swing.
TAAANG—!
"Kang Hyuk's drive sails to right! To right — and it's gone!"
"Heh heh. He clears the Monster Wall without breaking a sweat."
"A pulled home run announces Kang Hyuk's first homer at his home park — and he sends a fireworks salute up to the home crowd!"
"Truly a player born with natural power. The future is bright for this young man."
A three-run blast that soared effortlessly over the right-field Monster Wall. I tidied up the table that had been so graciously set for me and rounded the bases at a leisurely pace.
When I touched home, senior Won-taek and Hyeong-jun were there to greet me. And on my way into the dugout, I spotted Hyeong-jun hovering, hesitant.
"Senior."
"Hm?"
"Do the thing. That thing."
After a brief pause, he stopped dead in front of the dugout and abruptly launched into his celebration.
"SIUUUUUU~!"
The dugout, naturally, erupted into waves of laughter.
"PUHAHA. What was that?!"
"Is that Hyeong-jun celebrating his base hit?"
"This is gonna cause a stir, I swear."
"Hey. Hit a single and come back anytime. I'll watch that all day long."
Buoyed by a reaction far warmer than he'd expected, Kim Hyeong-jun beamed from ear to ear.