184 km/h

The fifty-million-won broadcast camera momentarily lost track of the ball's position — it was flying that fast. The ball cleared the fence and hammered straight into the spectator seats.

Kang Hyuk rounded the bases at a leisurely stroll. Watching him, the caster's voice jumped in surprise.

In one corner of the outfield stands.

"What do you think?"

"Hmm?"

At the middle-aged man's question, the old man — who had been fixed on the stadium screen — flinched slightly. Savoring the afterglow of the home run he'd just witnessed, he had kept his eyes half-closed, lips smacking thoughtfully. Now he gave a small nod.

"Well. It's not bad."

The middle-aged man smiled. He worked for the KBO and prided himself on knowing the old man's temperament better than anyone. From the mouth of a man famous for being ruthlessly harsh in evaluating players, "not bad" was as good as thunderous praise. Anyone who'd followed Korean baseball for years would have done a double take at the sight of that face reacting this way.

Because the old man was none other than former manager Choi Byung-chul — who had only recently announced his retirement.

Holding the reins of KBO clubs and the national team, he'd left behind one weighty milestone after another, and he was known as a master of rebuilding struggling franchises. He favored young players to the point of earning the nickname "Lolita," but that was precisely why people called his eye for talent exceptional. And was he weak in short-series battles? Hardly — his international tournament record alone spoke for itself. Across his entire career, there was not a single entry you could call a failure.

There's no one better suited for this.

The KBO, riding a historic wave of attendance lately, had one nagging worry. It wasn't about the box office — it was that the number of fans doubting the league's actual level kept growing.

Critical comments like these, scattered freely across every thread — that was the fans' perception of the KBO. And into that very moment had stepped Kang Hyuk and the rest of the golden generation. The kids they called the "Beijing Kids" had handed the people at the KBO something they hadn't felt in a long time: hope.

Next year brings the Doha Asian Games and the 2030 WBC, after all.

And the venue couldn't have been more fitting. The Asian Games, held once again in the very place they called the Doha Disaster of 2006.

Could you already see it? The article title was practically writing itself.

For the Asian Games, the clubs that need to resolve their prospects' military service exemptions will actively cooperate with player call-ups. And if that squad delivers a strong showing, the generational handover flowing naturally into the WBC will take care of itself.

And if the good results carried over into international play as well, it would pour even more fuel on a league already drawing sellout crowds. Which was exactly why no one was better suited for the job than the old man sitting in front of him. Sure, the man was eccentric and brutally blunt with the media, so his relationship with the association wasn't exactly warm. But his career proved it: when it came to evaluating young talent and motivating players in short tournaments, there was simply no manager like him.

And if the results disappoint... we just cut off the tail. That's all.

No doubt Manager Choi sensed the association's thinking, which was why he was deliberating so carefully. This was the moment to dangle a carrot.

"It's not just 'not bad,' sir. Posting is still a long way off, and yet Major League scouts are already circling Kang Hyuk — more than just one or two of them. Requests for outfield seats are pouring in as we speak."

"Mmm..."

The middle-aged man counted off on his fingers as he pressed on.

"And what about the pitcher on the mound right now, Yoon Tae-yang? Throwing 155 as a starter, and as a rookie his ceiling is practically limitless. Beyond him, there's Han Jiseong of the Kingdoms, Bae Ji-wan of the Mokdong Stars, Lee Dae-han of Changwon. Next season is stacked wall-to-wall with generational talents — the kind who could lead Korean baseball's next era."

"Then why are you trying to hand that job to a retired old man?"

"Because if not you, Manager, then who would we possibly ask? There's no one better suited."

"Tch. Honestly..."

Former Manager Choi clicked his tongue at the naked flattery — then, catching sight of Kang Hyuk on the field, his face went slack all over again.

His blood must be boiling.

He was hesitating only out of face, having just declared his retirement. The man's love of young prospects was legendary. The odds were high that he was already deep into his if it were me, here's how I'd use them deliberations.

"There's still time before international play, sir. Take all the time you need to think it over."

"...I'll consider it."

"I'll be hoping for a positive answer. I'll take my leave, then."

The old man's eyes never left Kang Hyuk, even as the younger man rose from his seat and bowed. In former Manager Choi's gaze, honey was practically dripping.

Powered by Kang Hyuk's solo shot, the Hawks had taken a one-run lead. Yoon Tae-yang surrendered more damage in the innings that followed and left the mound after the fifth having been charged with two earned runs. The home fans rose to give him a standing ovation.

And so the game seemed to be gliding smoothly toward a Hawks victory — until Kim Hyun-woo gave up back-to-back hits and it slid into uncertainty.

Crack!

"Get Woo-jin up."

He'd decided this game had to be won at all costs. With the woodpile stacked high, the manager was committing to total war. The first man out of the bullpen was the middle reliever — the one and only Bases-Loaded Pervert, Cha Woo-jin.

Whoosh—

"Ball four. Runner to first."

His body hadn't fully loosened up. With his release point nowhere to be found, Cha Woo-jin handed out a walk, and the visiting fans stamped their feet in frustration. Just as the broadcast camera caught Kim Hyun-woo's rigid face—

Crack.

A sound like a ball being squared-up rang through the stadium.

"AZA-ZA!"

Cha Woo-jin came roaring toward home plate.

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"That's how it's done! Did you see that? You manufacture the crisis for the crowd, then deliver the catharsis—"

"Senior. Back when you were standing on the mound — your legs were shaking like a leaf."

"...I did legs yesterday."

"Oh, really? Yesterday Anderson and I were in the weight room the whole time. Never saw you once."

"...Just let it go, would you? Yeah?"

Fortunately, the Hawks held their 2:0 lead. They say opportunity follows crisis, don't they? In the top of the seventh, the Hawks' heart of the order came up — starting with the number-two hitter, Seo Ji-hoon.

Seo Ji-hoon stepped into the box with a stiff face. Yoon Tae-yang had struck him out every time before.

He needs to do well here.

He was in the middle of overhauling his swing, and if the results didn't come, it could easily spiral into a crisis of confidence.

But my worry turned out to be for nothing.

CRACK—!

As if to prove what all that training had bought him, Seo Ji-hoon drove a extra-base hit clean over the right fielder's outstretched glove.

"UWAAAAAH—!"

He screamed, as if to spit out every ounce of frustration he'd swallowed until now. Watching him, the color drained from the Marines' bullpen pitchers' faces. They'd be coming in with a runner in scoring position, staring down a gauntlet of power bats — Anderson, then Park Jin-mo.

Whoosh—

"Ball."

Their composure had cracked, and the command went with it. The moment the count reached 2-0 — the most hitter-friendly count in baseball — I tightened my grip on the bat.

Whoosh—

CRACK—!

After that, Anderson worked a walk and Jin-mo hyung punched a single through, and I crossed home plate. The player of the game, chosen that day, was me.