The Revival of the Knuckleball

The next day.

"What?"

Dustin, in the middle of his bullpen session, couldn't believe his own eyes.

Thud—

Was that really Kang Hyuk—the same catcher who'd been fumbling balls just yesterday—casually corralling knuckleballs as if they were nothing more than lazy tosses?

The hitting coach and pitching coach, watching the workout from the side, let their admiration burst out.

"Has Kang Hyuk ever caught a knuckleball before? Why is he so good at it?"

"I'm telling you, this kid was just born for it."

"Well, his pitch recognition is sharp. No wonder he draws so many walks."

"That's only because opposing pitchers won't challenge him! Our lineup is weak, so..."

The coaches seemed content to take it at face value, but Dustin knew better than anyone just how absurd this was.

'He's catching knuckleballs this easily?'

There were any number of intertwined reasons knuckleballers had vanished from the big leagues in recent years.

But the lack of a dedicated catcher played a huge part.

If there's no one to receive the pitch, how are you supposed to practice it at all?

Dustin himself was proof. Back in Triple-A, the catcher who caught his knuckleballs had given up on them entirely, complaining that the personal sessions were eating into his own training time.

And that was a kid who lived on his glove, not his bat.

'And this fresh-out-of-high-school runt just pulled it off.'

Only yesterday, Dustin had watched with his own eyes as Kang Hyuk flailed around helplessly.

He couldn't trust the scene in front of him now.

'...So Romero was telling the truth.'

When he'd first heard that Kang Hyuk possessed talent even the majors had never seen, Dustin had dismissed it as lip service—something said to build goodwill.

But the Kang Hyuk standing in front of him had talent beyond even that claim.

Mastering knuckleball blocking in a single day?

Hitting was one thing, but when it came to defense, calling his ability overwhelming talent wouldn't be an exaggeration at all.

'Then why is his framing still such a mess?'

As he puzzled over that, the coaches' words filtered through the interpreter and snapped him back to attention.

"By the way, who knew Dustin could throw a knuckleball?"

"It was on his original scouting report. But the front office asked him to hold off—we didn't have a catcher who could catch it."

"No catcher? What do you mean, no catcher? We've got Kang Hyuk right here."

"If Dustin works out as part of our starting rotation too..."

The coaches glanced his way, and in their eyes was an expectation that hadn't been there before.

'Right. So now I can actually throw it.'

There were conditions attached—it demanded a dedicated catcher, and the weather had to cooperate—but if he could throw it properly, no pitch in baseball was as efficient as the knuckleball.

It went easy on the shoulder, and mixed in with other offerings, it could scramble a hitter's brain completely.

Was it just his imagination, or was confidence suddenly bubbling up inside him?

'It's been a long stretch of exile and persecution.'

A cool, heavy sensation traveled up from the ball settled in his fingertips.

His past results were wiped from his mind in an instant.

All he wanted now was to prove his pitching, and soon.

Dustin looked at the young Asian catcher who had created this moment for him.

Those broad shoulders draped in muscle—they felt dependable somehow, as if they could embrace and receive any pitch thrown in existence. Or maybe that was just his mood talking.

He gazed at the gifted catcher with fond eyes.

An away game at Jamsil.

With my catcher's mask on, I walked toward home plate.

Whish—!

"Strike!"

The first pitch was ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠a fastball, as expected—a 145 km/h heater painted on the outer corner.

'Condition looks decent.'

The life on it wasn't exactly heavy, but the ball landed precisely where I set the target. It wasn't a bad start, so I sent the signal I'd prepared through the PitchCom.

[Throwing the second pitch.]

The broadcast camera showed Dustin's delivery in slow motion.

At the sight of a knuckleball appearing in the league for the first time in ages, the broadcast chat caught fire.

Contrary to predictions of a one-sided blowout, the game took on the shape of a pitchers' duel.

The Grizzlies hitters were visibly rattled by the knuckleball's sudden return, while the Hawks' hitters... couldn't touch the ball any ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠better than usual.

On the way back to the dugout after finishing the inning on defense, Yoon Jun-seo—senior, third baseman—shuddered violently, his eyes fixed on the hot corner.

"Oof, this is nerve-wracking. Hey."

"What's wrong?"

"Ground balls keep coming. Means I have to stay locked in the whole time. It's not like I'm out here fielding fungos."

Having said that, he stole a glance at my face.

"Then again, I guess it beats having to catch knuckleballs all day like you."

"It's easier than you'd think."

"That thing?"

"Yep."

"Ugh. Fine, I'll just pray opposing pitchers never learn to throw one."

"I'm serious, though..."

After all, isn't there a saying about the ten-thousand-hour rule?

No matter how talentless a person might be, catch the same ball a hundred thousand times and it becomes second nature.

Granted, the knuckleball defies all patterns, but I wasn't trying to hit it—just receiving it was well within anyone's reach.

...Probably?

'Have my sense of numbers completely broken?'

Ten million swings during the Tutorial Phase must have done it. Lately, anything in the tens of thousands felt like pocket change to me.

"What would you do if you had to face Dustin, sunbae?"

"...Not easy, I'd say. He steals the count with knuckleballs, then suddenly blows a fastball or a breaking ball past you."

"Exactly."

"Against a pitcher like that, the more you think, the worse it gets. If something looks close to hittable, you just have to swing."

Dustin was untouchable in today's game.

It wasn't simply that he'd added one pitch to his arsenal.

His entire game plan had changed.

A mid-110s km/h hard knuckleball and a 70 km/h butterfly. Layered on top: a two-seamer, a cutter, and a slider.

He was burying hitters under a avalanche of pitches designed to scramble the brain.

His raw stuff had never been great, but all those breaking balls he'd honed in a desperate bid to ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠survive in America were finally paying off.

"Hyuk-ah. Get ready."

"Yes, sir!"

Top of the sixth. Bat in hand, I headed for the on-deck circle.

Stepping into the box, I organized my thoughts.

'Foreign pitchers really do throw well.'

The pitchers facing me lately had mostly been pitching scared, nibbling and running away from the zone. But the man on the mound now was different.

As if his pride wouldn't allow anything less, he came at me with everything he had.

A few pitches had even clipped my bat, and his stuff was good enough that the barrel got shoved back on me.

'Don't overthink it.'

Jun-seo sunbae had said that about Dustin, but it held true for any pitcher.

All I could do was trust the instincts forged through endless repetitions—and swing when the pitch I'd been waiting for arrived.

"Hnngh!"

With a grunt, the pitcher fired his first pitch.

Crack—!

Crack—!

With the two fan bases riding opposite waves of hope and dread, the third pitch arrived.

Crack—!