The Cycle, 25 Years in the Making

Anderson of the Atlanta Braves' scouting team shook his head from his seat in the stands.

"James is going to have a rough one today."

As a crosschecker covering the international regions, his job was to re-evaluate and verify the reports submitted by the scouts under him. At his boss's cold assessment, the scout beside him pulled an awkward face.

"He's usually not this bad. He's just getting shelled today, for some reason."

"For a ground-ball pitcher, his damage control leaves a lot to be desired."

Even MLB pitchers have their ups and downs. What mattered was how a pitcher managed a game on the days when nothing came easy. And ground-ball pitchers, who were prone to surrendering lucky hits on a regular basis, needed to be that much more skilled at navigating trouble — or so Anderson's philosophy went.

The scout, who had been monitoring James's starts on a rolling basis, held out his hand in mild ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠defense.

"Granted, he's been disappointing today. But you can't say the opposing hitters aren't simply hitting well."

"Fair point. Who's that kid, anyway? I don't remember him from the report."

"Kang Hyuk. A high school draftee rookie, a little over two months into his debut."

‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠

"That's a rookie?"

Anderson doubted his own eyes. The physique on display in the stands was the kind you expected from MLB's famously monstrous power hitters — a frame packed edge to edge with muscle. A sight rarely found in players with so little service time. Adding fat was one thing; bulking up on actual muscle took years of relentless work.

"He's clearly good. Doesn't chase junk, so his pitch recognition looks solid, and don't even get me started on the power."

"He cleared an OPS of 1.100 last month and took Player of the Month honors. Every scout stationed in Korea has their eyes on him right now."

"Tch… but he's a catcher, isn't he?"

MLB, as a rule, was not fond of East Asian catchers. The man they called the field general had to communicate constantly with his pitchers and staff — but Asian players spoke a different language, and too many of them leaned passive. It was a stubborn bias, but a real one.

"His ceiling's high enough, though. Converting him to the outfield or another position is always an option."

"That was my first thought too, but… word from inside the club is that his English is good. Gets along great with the foreign players, too."

"Is that right?"

His mouth began to water.

"On the 20–80 scale, what are we looking at?"

"Can't say for certain with so little track record, but I'd put his power alone above 70. Running and arm strength should clear 50 as well."

"So everything's above average?"

What stood out most was that power — a 70, the grade that meant a plus-plus tool, the kind that could carry a franchise. And an East Asian star out of Korea or Japan carried no small marketing value on top of it.

He was an irresistibly attractive card, and Anderson was still weighing the angles when reality yanked him back down.

"High school draftee, right? That's over six years until he's posted."

"Ha. That's exactly why I left him out of the report."

Give it that long, and every big-market club will be crawling all over him… signing him won't be easy at all.

As time passed, the odds were high that the big spenders would come calling for Kang Hyuk too. Anderson clicked his tongue in regret.

"Let's flag him and keep monitoring."

With the Hawks up 4–0, Romero — cruising through what had been a dominant start — ran into trouble in the bottom of the fourth. A hit batsman followed by a double, and suddenly runners stood on second and third.

I called time to the home plate umpire and walked out to the mound. One look into Romero's eyes and I relaxed. Not a trace of a wobble in them.

"Huh? You didn't have to come out here."

"I've been squatting all game. My legs are killing me."

"Really? Can't have the Player of the Month hurting. Want me to rub 'em down for you?"

"You're the starting pitcher today, so I'll let it slide."

We traded nonsense for a moment, then I got down to business.

"Got anything in mind?"

"Kang. Call it however you want."

"Why does everyone just dump the pitch mix on me…?"

Unlike early in the season, the bench had stopped sending signs altogether lately — probably a deliberate move to develop my game-calling. And honestly, the weight of it did get to me sometimes.

"Then for the out pitch — how about that one?"

"That one? Okay."

I headed back to my spot and started calling pitches with care. The first offering, a knuckle curve in the high 120s (km/h), was ruled a ball. For the second, I asked for a high fastball designed to exploit the gap in velocity.

Wheee—

WHUMP!

"Strike!"

The batter's bat sliced through empty air. One ball, one strike. For the third, I called the sweeper Romero always threw.

"Strike!"

The pitch caught the outer edge and was called a strike, and the batter could only watch it past. The textbook play here would have been to go to a different chase pitch. I mulled it over for a beat, then flashed Romero the sign.

Let's finish him.

We'd tested a sweeper thrown from a lowered arm slot before. It deviated from his normal delivery, so given time, it was bound to get picked apart by opposing analysis… but nobody had seen it yet.

Nobody's seen it. Not yet.

Romero nodded and fired with everything he had.

Wheee—

The ball came in at nearly the same speed as before, and the batter swung with full commitment. But this one started breaking earlier — sharp and sudden — and skinned past the barrel of the bat.

WHUMP.

"Strike three! Out!"

He must have been pretty pleased with the finishing blow he'd just uncorked — Romero, still buzzing, grabbed my face in both hands.

"Damn it, Kang Hyuk!"

"Yes?"

"Forget Marcus and the rest of them. I like YOU!"

"…"

"From today on, you're our pitching coach!"

My eyes darted to the actual pitching coach before I could stop them. That remark could easily have bruised someone's pride. But the coach was watching the two of us with a warm, indulgent smile.

Did the English just fly past him?

Or maybe he was of the school that believed results made all things forgivable?

Crack!

I ripped a base hit in my next trip to the plate. It failed to turn into a run — but with history sitting right in front of me, the stands only burned hotter.

Could I actually do this?

Until now, I hadn't paid the cycle much mind. Four hits in a single game was an brutally hard thing to do in the first place. But with only a double standing between me and the record, the thoughts came flooding in.

I'll get at least two more turns at bat, right?

Our lineup had turned over quickly today, so five plate appearances were probably coming.

Wait. Am I actually a genius?

The instant that smug little thought surfaced, I slapped both my cheeks. It hadn't even been that long since I'd resolved to train in silence, unshaken by anything — and here I was, wobbling already.

To chase the clutter out of my head, I found a quiet corner and worked on my swing. My seniors watched me do it, whispering about me as they walked off.

"What's gotten into him all of a sudden?"

"The record's right there in front of him. Must be nerve-wracking."

"Kid really is young, huh. The same guy who bangs homers out every day, getting nervous. Now I've seen everything."

"That's because you've never been close to something like this, Senior."

That was when Kim Hyun-woo, listening nearby, chimed in.

"Jinmo almost had one himself. Was a triple short, actually. Only reason he doesn't have it is he doubled, tried to leg out third, and got tagged."

"Oh! Now I remember. He tried some leg-bent sliding from a distance that made no sense and got gunned down. It was gloriously ugly."

"…Well, maybe he should've practiced sliding first."

"Honestly, a triple's asking a lot of the Shit-Wagon."

"Hey. You're a Shit-Wagon too!"

"Excuse me. Among pitchers, I'm comfortably top ten percent."

The sight of my seniors bickering back and forth squeezed a laugh out of me before I could stop it. My nerves melted away in the process. And just as I was stepping out of the dugout for my upcoming at-bat, the Manager called me over.

"Hyuk."

"Yes, Manager."

"Don't tense up. Just do what ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠you've been doing."

"Understood!"

"It's fine even if you make an out. If the chance comes, go for it."

"Thank you, sir."

The score had stretched to 6–1. He was saying there was no need to play small-ball anymore.

[Kang Hyuk steps into the batter's box.]

[After his triple, home run, and single in his previous trips, only a double stands between him and the cycle.]

Standing at the plate, I scanned the cheering section. Signs celebrating a cycle were everywhere I looked.

"Whoof~"

I breathed out to loosen up and turned my eyes to the pitcher. Having come this far, he wasn't going to hand me a free pass. I stepped in with one simple commitment: anything in ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the zone, I was swinging at.

[The road fans' cheers are louder than they've been all night. The pitcher toes the rubber. Kang Hyuk sets his stance — and he swings at the first pitch?!]

[A liner slicing into left-center! The left fielder has to cover that!]

[Kang Hyuk rounds first — and he's running!]

It's going to be close.

On any other day, I'd have stopped at first. But with the Manager's blessing hanging over me, I didn't hesitate. I charged for second.

[The left fielder gathers it and fires to second — and the play is…?!]

Shhaaap!

I hit second base in a leg-bent slide and looked up at the umpire. He studied me for a long beat — then flung both arms wide.

"Safe!"