The Tell in the Set
Having retired the side in order, Kwon Jae-hyuk came down off the mound wearing a face brighter than I'd ever seen on him.
So the old man could make a face like that, huh.
He always wore the detached expression of a man floating above worldly concerns. Today was different.
"How's that? Works better than you expected, right?"
"Honestly—why can't those hitters touch it?"
"When a pitch shows up that isn't in their plan, a hitter's mind just goes white. And the longer you sit there watching a ball float up like a balloon, the more tension creeps into the bat."
"Is that right?"
Jae-hyuk swung his shoulder around in big, loose circles, as if he were ready to make the Eephus his out pitch on the spot.
"Retiring hitters with a pitch that takes zero effort. Delicious."
"Still, go easy on it for the rest of today's game. Their hitters will be on to it now."
"If Hyuk says so, then so be it."
Its real value lay in the element of surprise. The Eephus could never be thrown at a high rate.
But having it lodged in the opposing hitters' heads for today's game alone was effect enough.
Back in the dugout, the boys greeted us warmly. Jin-mo clapped Jae-hyuk on the shoulder.
"I told you ages ago to throw it. That Arirang ball."
"Hyung, you tell every single person you meet to add a new pitch."
"When did I ever do that?"
"Last week you picked up some slider grip from who-knows-where, shoved it in every pitcher's face, and made the whole staff try it. You think equipping a new pitch is easy?"
"Ahem......"
Jin-mo coughed, clearly caught out. Apparently the grievances had been piling up for a while, because Jae-hyuk kept the lecture going for a good stretch.
"But look at Kang Hyuk here. He watches carefully, and only when something truly looks promising does he speak up. Clean recommendation, just like that."
"Kang is serious about his craft, that's true."
Even Romero, following along through the interpreter, chimed in—leaving me standing right there with nothing to say for myself.
"Come on, I didn't even teach him the grip. All I said was that his bullpen sessions looked good......"
"Baseball's always been a game where the good ones are good. You can spot a natural at a glance."
Somewhere along the way, I'd apparently become an authority on pitching too. Cornered, Jin-mo scrambled to change the subject.
"How many innings you think you've got in you today?"
"Normally five would be my ceiling, but Hyuk ate a whole inning for me today. Six innings, three earned, maybe?"
"A quality start? Then we owe you four runs, don't we? You heard him, boys?"
Before I knew it, the bottom of the first. Our turn to hit.
Jae-hyuk raised his fist toward the hitters at the plate.
"Fail to score four or more and you're all reporting to me after the game?"
"Give up four or more and you're the one running bullpens today?"
"......My apologies."
With the seniors' teasing softening the dugout air, I headed for the on-deck circle—I was batting second again today.
Today's opposing starter was Jeong Boseok.
He'd pitched out of the bullpen last season and was apparently converting to the rotation this year. Topping out at 150 km/h and averaging 145, he carried a reputation as a back-of-the-rotation talent—on the days his command locked in, that is.
And today, of all days, his command was skittering all over the zone. Won-taek, leading off, came back to the dugout having struck out.
I walked over to the man still shaking his head.
"How's the stuff?"
"Great extension, great deception. The ball feels faster than it looks. Not gonna be easy today, I'm telling you."
"Mm."
I thanked him and started toward the plate. As my eyes swept the field, something odd caught them.
Hm?
Wary, it seemed, of my recent numbers and yesterday's extra-base hits, the outfielders had taken up position deep. The infielders were playing back a good distance too.
"Hmm."
I fell into thought for a moment.
Unlike Won-taek, who'd been ordered to see as many pitches as possible, the coaches had given me free rein to hit however I pleased. Not that the green light was a reward for my numbers—it was fair to read it as load management. Pile demands on an inexperienced rookie and you risk breaking the very rhythm you want to protect.
They probably won't give me anything good to hit.
Yesterday, their pitchers had hammered the border of the zone against me, pitch after pitch. Likely orders from the bench. Today would be no different.
Shall I give it a try?
It was a far cry from a planned play. But after checking where the opposing fielders were set, I adjusted my grip on the bat—just slightly.
Watching the broadcast from home, Kang Min-jun let out a whoop.
"That's it! That's it!"
Pride radiated off Min-jun as he watched his son's recent surge.
"Hyuk's baseball IQ really is something when you watch him closely. No idea who he takes after, though."
"Okay, okay. Kang Hyuk-nim it is. Anyway, thank goodness Kang Hyuk-nim came to the Hawks."
He'd somehow ended up attaching honorifics to his own son, but the smile would not leave Min-jun's face.
"Phew."
Safe on first, I let out a breath of relief.
Since the Manager wasn't fond of small ball, bunt signs were a rare sight on our team. And if a rookie had gone rogue on a surprise bunt and gotten thrown out—how exactly was I supposed to look the people in that dugout in the eye afterward?
Results are what matter.
The process mattered too, of course. But baseball, in the end, proves itself through results.
The first-base coach, handing me my sliding glove, gave my shoulder a pat.
"Don't overdo it. You'll get hurt doing that."
"Understood."
The moment I took my lead, the pitcher fired a pickoff attempt, as if venting his frustration over the bunt.
"Safe!"
But I hadn't attempted a single stolen base since Opening Day, so the defense lost interest almost immediately. I brushed the dust from my uniform, held a measured lead, and studied the pitcher.
Hm?
Watching that first pitch, I doubted my own eyes for a moment. Unlike his pickoff motion, his posture was different when he came set to deliver.
A trap hidden in the rhythm of his motion?
To be certain, I needed to watch a little longer. The opposing pitcher held the same posture on the following pitches as well.
From the set: the glove went up first, then a high leg lift.
Now that could be worth something.
The window was tiny—but a difference between a pitcher's pickoff form and his delivery home is enormous from the vantage of a would-be base stealer.
I signaled the base coach: can I run?
The Manager responded by rubbing his nose several times.
Don't run unless you're certain?
Which meant if I was certain, I was cleared to go.
One. Two......
When the third pitch showed the same rhythm, I stretched my lead half a step further. Then came the fourth.
Tap—!
After the three-hole hitter flied out, I came home on Adam's base hit.
With that run, the Hawks took a 1–0 lead. Back in the dugout, the guys welcomed me with knocks on my helmet.
"Good work out there."
"Youth really is a beautiful thing."
"Three more to go."
"Aren't you pushing yourself a little hard?"
At the coach's worried question, the last one, I scratched my head.
"Well... I think I found a kuse?"
"For real?"
"What is it?"
The players swarmed in. Even the Manager, curious despite himself, snuck glances our way while pretending to adjust his sunglasses.
"When their pitcher delivers, the glove goes up first, then the leg. It's completely different from his pickoff motion—perfect for timing a jump."
"Oh, seriously? Gotta check the tape on that one."
These days, with delivery tweaks handled on video, pitchers carrying tells like that had become rare. Still, it's humans doing the work—so early in the season, a few bad habits always manage to surface.
"Then I'm getting on base somehow today, no matter what."
"You, hyung-nim? They'd gun you down with a full second to spare."
The players bit back their laughter as Jae-hyuk ribbed Jin-mo.
"It's not that bad."
"That hyung's 'Dump Truck' arm is so famous it got exported to the Japanese baseball forums."
"......Then all of you get on base however you can. I'll find my own way home."
That day, with small ball worthy of a Japanese national team, we rattled the opposing pitcher to pieces. The shaken starter was yanked before long, we beat up on the long reliever brought in to mop up, and we clinched the winning series. The home fans showered the Hawks—victors by lopsided margins two games running—with unreserved cheers.