The Weight of Being Called a Genius

"Great work out there."

The moment the filming wrapped, a staff member who'd been lugging a camera around all day shuffled up to me, fidgeting nervously.

"Um… would you mind signing something?"

"Of course. Do you have paper and a pen?"

"If you wouldn't mind — right here on my uniform, please."

Maybe all that recent practice signing for fans had paid off, because even by my own standards, it looked pretty convincing.

"Thank you so much. My dad's a Hawks fan — I've cursed that team my whole life, but today, for once, I'm grateful to him."

"Haha… it was just training footage, though. Must've been boring. Please do your best with the editing."

"Are you kidding? This is a genius's training routine. The fans are going to eat it up."

And with that, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the filming crew left, all grins and laughter, leaving Romero and me alone in the practice facility — and leaving me alone with my thoughts.

A genius, huh….

Lately it was everywhere — sports articles, broadcast segments, casual conversation. The number of people calling me a genius had swelled noticeably.

Sure, I'd put up good numbers recently. That much was true. But I didn't agree with the label.

Wouldn't anyone who'd been through the White Room be able to do the same?

That question had lived in the back of my mind for as long as I could remember.

"Something on your mind?"

"Ah. Romero."

My expression must have betrayed me, because he walked over before I could collect myself. Since I couldn't exactly tell him the truth, I deflected with something vague — and he burst out laughing.

"You're not a genius? You're messing with me right, right now?"

"You know that's not what I mean."

He stared at me hard, as if searching my face for sincerity, then suddenly pinched the bridge of my nose between his fingers.

"Ooooh, you!"

"Ack! What's wrong with you?"

"You're just so damn annoying."

"Ow… you're gonna bend a nose my mother lovingly sculpted."

"Come on, let's sit on the bench for a bit."

Romero pulled an ion drink from the vending machine, settled in beside me with a wistful look, and started spinning an old story.

"Back when I was in Single-A. We had a Korean player on the team."

"Really?"

"Yeah. It was so long ago I can't even remember his name now. Haven't heard a peep about him since, so he probably quit baseball."

"Hmm."

"Anyway — if a guy makes it to the minor leagues, that means he was a top prospect in Korea too, right?"

I nodded. Any prospect a minor-league club was willing to offer a signing bonus for would, generally speaking, have been a first- or second-round talent in the KBO draft.

"If I remembered his name I could probably look him up. Anyway, here's the thing. Unlike in Korea, minor-league mornings are followed by optional training. Unless a player requests it, the coaches mostly leave you alone. And that guy — after every game, he'd go straight back to his room and not come out."

"……"

"Look, I'm sure he had his reasons. Bus trips across half the state are brutal. Strange culture, language barrier — it wears you down."

It was undeniably a rough environment. Nearly eight hours on a bus on some road-trip days.

"But how many players do you think were grinding like they should have?"

"I'd guess most guys in the minors are working hard, no?"

"They're everywhere, kid. Nobody's watching, so nobody bothers. And the club doesn't care — talented players pour in every single year. Why would anyone invest attention in one slacker?"

"……"

"Meanwhile, you — Kang Hyuk. Different circumstances, sure, but you train harder than anybody and you're never satisfied. That alone makes your talent plenty real."

When he put it that way, it actually made sense. Wasn't there a saying that the discipline to park yourself in a chair and grind was a talent in its own right, same as raw intellect?

Granted, the White Room had been hell, and complacency had crept in more than once mid-training. But I had never once put the bat down.

"Still, calling someone a genius on effort alone feels like a stretch…"

"More than anything, you have to be a genius."

"Why's that?"

"Because if you're not, what does that make me? Dust stuck to the bottom of your cleats?"

"Oh, come on. You're pitching great right now, Romero."

"At your age I was floundering in rookie ball."

"Yeah, right."

I shook my head — I knew perfectly well he'd blazed through rookie ball and Single-A faster than most. But there was no talking him out of self-deprecation today.

"Anyway… thanks for listening to my pointless worrying."

"If you're grateful, get me a win."

"I'll do my best."

"Pros talk with results."

"…I'll work on it."

Promising a result outright was hard. But effort? Effort I knew how to do.

Romero's next start came on the road, in Gwangju.

The Pumas — defending champions last season and heavy favorites again this year — were, surprisingly, floundering in the middle-to-lower ranks. Their core players had dropped like flies to injury, and the hitters' bats had gone cold.

Some Pumas fans blamed the manager for sticking with optional training, but I didn't buy it.

They're professionals. Shouldn't they know to take care of their own bodies?

Skipping conditioning just because there was no scheduled workout? From a fan's perspective, that would be nothing short of heartbreaking.

[Top of the 1st. The home team takes the field — taking the mound is James.]

[Heh. Seventeen wins last season, but the run support just hasn't been there this year.]

James threw a two-seam fastball instead of a four-seamer, a pitcher famous ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠for his filthy, boring-in movement at the end of the ball.

On top of that, he mixed in a sweeper and a cutter, and occasionally even a changeup — a repertoire good enough that major-league scouts had started paying attention.

But this season, the wins simply refused to come. And it showed from the very first inning.

Tak—

[The ball's sliced down the line! The third baseman ranges over, fires to first… safe!]

[Lee Won-taek's wheels got him there, sure, but the third baseman should've done better. The backhand grab and the transfer to throw just weren't smooth at all.]

The Pumas had once boasted an infield so airtight they were called a net defense.

But with both the second and third basemen out injured, that iron wall had crumbled — and for a pitcher like James, who lived on two-seamers and cutters designed to induce grounders, the cracks were fatal.

His expression barely changed, though only because he kept tugging his cap down, over and over, like he couldn't stand the view from the mound.

For the Hawks, it was the ideal start — the leadoff man aboard.

Batting third today, I studied the pitcher's every offering from the on-deck circle.

Tak—!

[After a nine-pitch battle, the number two hitter flies out to the infield. One out, runner on first — and here comes Kang Hyuk to the plate.]

[His average has dropped quite a bit from early in the season — pitchers have been working him carefully with pickoff attempts and soft stuff away.]

[What will he come up with this time?]

With intentional walks and pitches sweeping off the outside corner piling up lately, my timing had naturally wobbled. It was part of why my mind had been so restless these past few days.

Just trust the hours I've put in, and swing.

Genius or not — what did it matter? The time I'd poured into the White Room was real. That much no one could take from me.

More than rushing myself, the key was to keep moving forward slowly, the way I always had.

The opposing pitcher seemed ready to challenge me. He came set.

[First pitch — it drops below the zone for a ball.]

[He'll probably keep hammering the outside corner. Though he could sneak a fastball in on the hands.]

Fwiiiish—

"Strike!"

[Second pitch — a called strike right on the border.]

[The hitter needs to stay patient here, not get antsy.]

I ruled out the inside pitch entirely.

Baseball was, in the end, a game of probabilities. No hitter could barrel up every pitch he saw.

Keep it short and simple. Drive it.

James's ball had nasty late life, so if I tried to muscle it into the air, I'd likely wind up with a lazy flyout. I decided: if he came in low and off the plate away, I'd take a compact swing and put it in play.

[Third pitch — ball two. Kang Hyuk hasn't moved an inch.]

[The pitcher's got to be second-guessing himself now. He needs a strike, but what if the kid is sitting dead-red on the fastball in?]

[The signs between battery are dragging on… which pitch will they settle on?]

[Here's the pitch.]

Fwiiiish—

The instant the ball left his hand, I knew.

Fastball.

Cutter or two-seamer, I couldn't tell — but it was going to be on the outer half. That much was certain.

I loosened my grip, quieter than usual, and kept the swing short.

Ta-a-ang—!

[He got it! A line drive — it's rocketing out there… off the right-field wall!]

[Better get moving — relay play, now!]

The moment I confirmed the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠ball stayed fair of the line, I took off at full throttle.

Through the blur of sprinting turns, I hit second base — and the third-base coach was still windmilling his arm like a man possessed.

"Hup!"

The timing looked razor-thin, so I emptied every ounce I had, sprinting until he finally threw up the stop sign. The relay must have broken down somewhere in the outfield.

[The runner from first is coming home! The hitter walks into third — a stand-up triple for Kang Hyuk!]

[Heh. I say it every time I watch him, but it's hard to believe that man is a catcher.]

With Adam's sacrifice fly on top of it, the Hawks led by two before the first inning was even over.

Unlike Romero, who kept pitching out of trouble without surrendering a run, James wobbled all game long.

[Top of the 3rd. Seo Ji-hoon works a walk.]

[James needs to settle down. He's putting a runner on base every single inning.]

I was waiting in the on-deck circle when Won-taek, retired on a groundout, wandered over and passed along some valuable intel.

"I think he's rattled. His command's all over the place."

"Yeah?"

"Mm. Worth watching for."

"Got it."

[Kang Hyuk steps to the plate once again.]

[The infield needs to stay sharp, too — a shaky pitcher is only made shakier by defensive miscues behind him.]

[Kang Hyuk tripled in his last at-bat.]

I decided to open up my strike zone a little.

His command was wavering, according to my senior. And the memory of getting beaten away last at-bat had to still be lodged in the pitcher's head.

Clear mind, clear eyes. Clear mind, clear eyes.

Fwiiiish—

"Ball."

Of course I wanted a hit. But the priority was reaching base, so I kept laying off, picking my pitches with patience.

Fwiiiish—

A ball came spinning in on my favorite spot — inside, at the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠hands.

Slider?

There was no time to debate it. The motion I'd repeated ten thousand times in the White Room had already started the swing for me.

TAAANG—!

[He CRUSHED it! Pulled hard, and this time it's sailing to left… GONE! Following his triple, a two-run homer for Kang Hyuk!]

[Heh. That location was a mistake by the battery. Inside pitches to Kang Hyuk — his hard-hit rate there is pushing fifty percent. They clearly wanted it down and away, but it leaked over the plate and he annihilated it.]

[Kang Hyuk proving his raw power yet again!]

[By the way — a homer and a triple. Isn't that the two hardest legs of the cycle already done?]

[Oh? Are you saying—]

[No one has hit for the cycle yet this season!]

[Which tells you exactly how rare it is, doesn't it?]

[Heh, exactly. And here's a fun one — the last Hawks cycle dates all the way back to 2004. If Kang Hyuk does it today, he'd become the youngest player ever to hit for the cycle, at just nineteen.]

[His remaining at-bats just became must-watch television.]