Rookie of the Year Declaration
Right after the game came interview time.
Having been named Player of the Game, I headed to the interview room.
"Please welcome a player who's been receiving an outpouring of love from Daejeon fans lately — Kang Hyuk of the Hawks!"
"Hello, everyone. I'm Kang Hyuk."
Waaaah~!
Maybe it was because we were at our home stadium, but the fans' cheers welcomed me.
"First off, you drove in five runs today including a home run with an outstanding performance. Please share a few words."
"I think it was thanks to the guidance of my coaches and seniors, and the support of our home fans, that I was able to put up good numbers."
"It's still early in the season, but you're already posting numbers good enough to be mentioned as a Rookie of the Year candidate. What would you say your secret is?"
"Hmm... I'd say I just tried not to worry too much about what other people thought, and stayed faithful to the role I could play within the environment I was given."
The White Room was part of my environment, after all.
"You did a ceremony today that's different from your usual one. Is there a reason for that?"
"Um..."
After a brief hesitation, I opened my mouth.
"I didn't plan it in advance. I thought of it on the spot after hearing the home fans cheering. A player exists because of the fans' support, after all. I wanted to show them fun moments rather than ugly ones."
I didn't name anyone directly, but it was a jab at the opposing team that had triggered the bench-clearing brawl.
What fans want is an entertaining show — not players brawling with each other.
The interview host seemed to sense this too, and hurriedly changed the subject.
"Haha, Kang Hyuk's sincerity toward the fans really comes through. Do you have a goal for this season?"
"First, to finish the season healthy, and..."
I don't think of myself as a genius.
Thanks to that white space, I was simply ahead of others in terms of experience. I'd never been particularly fast at learning things, either.
Still, it should be fine to say this much, right?
But if there was an award given only once in an entire career — and right now I was ahead of all my fellow rookies —
what reason was there to hold back?
"I'll work hard with the Rookie of the Year award as my goal."
That evening, after finishing training, I was about to head home when Hyeong-jun invited me out to dinner.
"I figured you'd be struggling with that strict diet..."
"I was going to buy you beef — is that off the table?"
"Of course that's fine."
Beef is non-negotiable.
This was technically Hyeong-jun's first season getting a real taste of first-team action too, but either way, he was still a senior with a higher salary than mine.
"Want naengmyeon too? Their mul-naengmyeon is great here."
"I try to stay away from refined carbohydrates."
So there we were, stuffing ourselves with vegetables and meat, sauce untouched, when Hyeong-jun spoke up with a sheepish look on his face.
"Thank you. Today's win was because of you."
"Aw, come on. What did I even do? All I did was tell you to do whatever ceremony you wanted."
"No, really. Looking back now, I think I'd been unconsciously shrinking without realizing it."
Apparently, since this was his first time on the first-team roster from opening day, the pressure had outweighed the excitement.
But thinking back on that over-the-top celebration made him want to get a hit no matter what.
"How's the spot where the ball hit you? You okay?"
"Ah, this is nothing. It's not my first time getting plunked — I'm fine."
When I lifted the hem of his T-shirt, a bruise had bloomed along his lat.
"Whoa. That one's going to linger for a while."
"I'd rather my body hurt than keep glancing at the bench while I sip my sports drink."
"Just drink it without worrying. It's not like you play for the Mokdong Stars."
Our club wasn't affected, but at the Mokdong Stars — whose parent company was notorious for being stingy with investment — there were grim rumors that players had to be careful even about drinking ion beverages.
"By the way, hyung-nim."
"Why 'hyung-nim'? Just call me hyung. We're both rookies in the same category."
"Hyung. Did you see it earlier?"
"See what?"
"When you got hit by the pitch — every single senior turned to look."
"Ah. Yeah, that was touching."
Part of it was surely because we'd won the game, but it was also true that the opposing team's attempt to rattle us had made the team feel all the more solid.
"Honestly, when the Hawks first drafted me, I thought I'd drawn the short straw..."
"...And now?"
"Now I'm just glad I ended up with the Hawks."
Hyeong-jun snorted, then suddenly raised a chant out of nowhere.
"Who are we?"
"The mighty Hawks!"
Amid our silly laughter, a thought struck me.
"By the way, why 'mighty'? Every other team uses that too."
"How would I know, you punk."
"So you told Kang Hyuk to work with Hyeong-jun on his hitting?"
The hitting coach nodded at Manager Eom Tae-hoon's question.
"Yes, sir. And sure enough, Hyeong-jun came away with a multi-hit game and reached base both times."
"Hmm..."
Manager Eom had previously instructed his coaching staff to look after Kim Hyeong-jun's hitting.
And now the coach was telling him he'd passed that duty off to one of the players?
The hitting coach frantically waved his hands, apparently having sensed the displeasure in the manager's gaze.
"N-no, of course I worked with him too. But with the 'coach' title hanging over him, Hyeong-jun just seemed too stiff around me, you know?"
"So?"
"Copying Kang Hyuk's swing wholesale would be impossible, but there's a lot the kid could learn from him. So I told them to have a conversation about it."
"..."
Isn't it harder to learn from a junior than from a coach? The manager thought so, but he'd learned to let it slide by now.
After all, in the last game, Hyeong-jun had recorded multiple trips on base besides the hit-by-pitch and done his job well.
"Either way, Hyeong-jun is the only outfielder whose defense holds up. He'll keep getting playing time, so keep a close eye on him."
"Understood, sir."
"For now, let's keep Hyeong-jun in the nine hole and Kang Hyuk batting second."
With the next game's lineup settled, the hitting coach had some spare time on his hands — and a litany of praise for Kang Hyuk.
"I've felt this for a while, but don't you get the sense there's something invisible about that kid?"
"Not that damn 'invisible something' again."
"I'm serious. Maybe it's because he's so composed for his age, but there's something about him that puts the players working alongside him completely at ease."
"..."
Manager Eom Tae-hoon nodded.
There really isn't a kid like that among players these days.
Everyone from Kim Hyun-woo and Park Jin-mo on down had praised Kang Hyuk's talent from the start, but what made the manager rate him so highly was his attitude.
He'd maintained his excellent numbers even after the season opened — and despite putting up those numbers, he never once showed a trace of complacency.
He was still the first to throw himself into training and the last to leave the field.
It was no exaggeration to call him a model professional.
I hope Kang Hyuk keeps producing numbers like this.
Not merely for the team's record — a player like that becoming the face of the franchise would spread a positive influence through the whole clubhouse.
For the rookies, he'd be living proof that training and effort like his lead to success; for the veterans, a bracing reminder that they could be left behind.
"Keep watching Kang Hyuk too, not just Hyeong-jun. Check whether he's feeling pressure, whether he needs anything."
"I doubt that'll be an issue, but... understood, sir."
"We'll need to win tomorrow to keep this momentum alive... The starter is Jae-hyuk, right?"
"That's correct."
"Hmm..."
Still, better to have him than nobody at all.
Having confirmed the name of his starting pitcher, Manager Eom Tae-hoon let out a deep sigh.
Game 2 against the Incheon Dragons, played at our home stadium.
Today's starter was Kwon Jae-hyuk.
Before the game began, he was loosening up with light catch and a bullpen session.
This was only my second time syncing up with him, but he was a pitcher of a rather unique breed.
"Hyung-nim."
"Yeah?"
"Don't you get nervous on days you start?"
"What can you do? Worrying won't change anything."
Pitchers, as a rule, are creatures so mentally fragile they might as well be ocean sunfish flopping at the first sign of trouble.
But this man was different.
He kept a perfectly blasé expression even at the moment he gave up a hit, which is how the fans came to call him Kwon the Bodhisattva.
It wasn't a compliment to his mental fortitude — it meant that unless you were literally a bodhisattva, there was no way you could bear to watch his games.
A rare breed of pitcher indeed.
On a Hawks staff widely praised for its starting depth, he was the only one carrying an ERA in the fives, and the fanbase was split on him.
Actually, "split" might be generous... it's more like overwhelmingly against.
He was essentially a command pitcher working in the low 140s on his fastball, mixing in a circle changeup and a curveball.
Because his velocity ran slow, on days when things didn't click he tended to surrender runs in bunches.
At one point fans joked that his strengths were harmless and his weaknesses were fatal.
Still, no manager could afford to bench him.
Even in losing efforts, he routinely ate five-plus innings, easing the strain on the bullpen — and with so few injuries, he kept the season plan from falling apart.
"Curveball coming."
"Got it."
We were in the middle of a light bullpen session when, just as I tightened up for blocking, a lazy curveball drifted toward me.
A pitch barely scraping past 100 km/h got sucked right into my mitt.
Catching a ball so slow it could untie every knot in your body, I asked him.
"Hyung-nim. Do you throw the eephus too?"
"Huh? I never throw that one in games. Practice only."
"Why not? The way I see it, it'd be perfect for wrecking a hitter's timing."
The senior scratched his head.
"Isn't it too slow, though?"
"It looks remarkably polished to me."
Back in my heavy batting-practice days in the White Room, the pitching machine would spit out eephus pitches now and then.
At batting-practice speed they looked easy enough, but precisely because the velocity was so low, the moment you committed power to the swing, the ball died harmlessly into a groundout or a pop fly.
And if you threw an eephus off your fastball timing?
There was no better pitch for stealing a hitter's timing.
"Jin-mo hyung did tell me to try it. But I'm already called a soft-tosser as it is... throwing that on top of it feels like a bit much."
So he's not completely oblivious to public opinion after all.
Having learned this one new fact about the senior, I coaxed him gently.
"Still — better numbers would be nice, wouldn't they?"
"Hmm..."
The senior nodded as if he'd heard enough.
Maybe because yesterday's game had been packed with a bench-clearing brawl and one wild ceremony after another, an even bigger crowd of viewers flooded into the live stream for Game 2 between the Hawks and the Dragons.
Top of the first inning.
The game opened with the visiting Dragons at bat.
Kwon Jae-hyuk's first pitch was a fastball.
"Strike!"
Just as expectations for the game were building, Kwon Jae-hyuk's second pitch sent the entire chat room into stunned silence.
Whoooosh—
"Strike!"
"That thing barely caught the bottom of the zone, didn't it?"
"ABS made the call. Take it up with the machine, no appeals."
An arirang ball that grazed the very bottom edge of the strike zone.
As the comments piled up in the chat, Kwon Jae-hyuk gave the hitter no breathing room and fired off the third pitch.
Whuum—!
"Swinging strike three! He's out!"
An eephus followed by a high fastball — the hitter went down on strikes in three pitches.
Watching it all unfold, Kwon Jae-hyuk flashed a bright smile.