Case Number Zero
Whirrr. Whirrr. Whirrr.
The only sound was the batting machine loading itself with balls. More than twenty people had gathered, and yet a hush lay over the place, still and awkward.
Yang Joo-il — the very man who had manufactured that silence — flushed red and broke it with a sheepish laugh.
"You saw that, right? This is why I retired. Ahh, my back won't even turn. Eyes are going dim. The elbow goes numb and keeps flying open, and the wrist has tunnel syndrome, so I can't transfer a lick of power. And the ankle, especially! You all know that was my chronic curse at the end, right? The lower half just won't stay still!"
Only then did the people around him sputter into laughter at the comic, long-winded excuse. A total loss. Yang Joo-il had stepped into the box under the exact same conditions, and he had found the home-run target a mere three times. Given that he had swung with no practice at all, even that was no small feat — but set beside Do Kang-hyun, who had drilled all twenty in a row, the result was pitiful beyond comparison.
"Man, this doesn't even make sense. I mean, sure, maybe he could hit more than me, but twenty in a row? Is that realistically possible?"
"Our god of hitting can do it!"
They were on the air, but someone shouted it anyway. It was Yeong-jun, who as of today had fallen even harder as a devotee of Do Kang-hyun. Yang Joo-il shot him a sharp glare, then nodded as if to concede.
"All right, everyone! You saw it! Yes — I'll admit this one for real! Our junior, Do Kang-hyun, is the god of hitting! Just like the video that went up, the bombing of this batting center is one hundred percent real. No edits, no tricks! I'll be honest with you. No matter how used you are to batting-center balls, if this isn't genuine talent, it is absolutely impossible."
Yang Joo-il flashed a thumbs-up at Do Kang-hyun and grinned. Then, announcing that they ought to show the kid's hitting properly just once, he shoved him back into the box. A mission followed: balls whose pitch type was randomized, to be driven wherever Yang Joo-il wanted them. Left, right, dead center — he called locations at random, and every time, no matter what pitch came in, Do Kang-hyun sent the ball exactly where it was meant to go.
"I stake the name Yang Joo-il on this: there isn't a hitter in the pros right now who can show bat control more precise than our junior's! Any pro juniors out there getting their pride scratched watching this? Call me anytime."
The last line was sincere. If some pro player's pride got rubbed raw and he called in a huff, that alone would make excellent content. The moment the broadcast cameras went dark and the tension pressing down on the batting center lifted, everyone who had stayed to watch the shoot rushed Do Kang-hyun at once.
"Whoa, this actually gives me chills!"
"Not a flicker of nerves in front of the cameras. He's just cracking the ball like a machine!"
"Mr. Kang-hyun, I have to ask — why didn't you go pro?"
"Hyung! You absolutely killed it today!"
"Please teach me a thing or two about hitting!"
"Me too! If you'll teach us, I'll relearn everything from how to hold the bat!"
"Yang Joo-il actually declaring defeat — that's legendary, right?"
Hemmed in by people talking so hard they sprayed spit, Do Kang-hyun felt a strange emotion tickling and scraping at his heart. Maybe it was the hunger to be truly recognized, finally bursting.
Maybe it was because he had dreamed of a moment like this and never reached it. His heart pounded harder than it ever did standing in the box with a bat in his hands, and sweat gathered in his palms.
"Excuse me. I'd like a word with our junior, if you wouldn't mind making a little room?"
They parted for Yang Joo-il. He thanked them, then led Do Kang-hyun outside, saying they ought to talk out there a moment. Once they were clear of the batting center, Yang drew a cigarette from his pocket.
"Smoke?"
"I don't."
"Good. I'd quit, too."
He lit it, drew the smoke deep, and let out a long stream before looking Do Kang-hyun straight in the eye.
"Junior, I know this question is rude. I just can't make sense of it. Why didn't you go pro?"
"The pros aren't so easy that hitting a few cage balls well gets you in."
"A few cage balls? Even I, the old home-run king, was flailing out there."
"That's..."
Yang Joo-il cackled at the excuse Do Kang-hyun was about to mount and gave his shoulder a couple of pats. He took two deep pulls, breathed the smoke out, and went on.
"Yeah. You're right. Cage balls and live pitching are completely different. Even so, a hitter who can square a ball up as precisely as you — even on cage balls — is hard to find in the pros. I mean that."
Of course, Yang Joo-il didn't believe that hitting cage balls well meant Do Kang-hyun was ready to walk into pro ball tomorrow. A professional pitcher's ball was different from the first tick of velocity — movement, spin, heft, a dozen things that simply did not compare.
And that wasn't all. Pro hitters didn't swing aluminum. They used wood, heavy and with far less pop, and a wood bat did not come through the zone as light as aluminum. Bat control got harder by the same measure. So no matter how thoroughly Do Kang-hyun had bombed a batting center, on a real field his present skill would drop by half — maybe far more than half.
A pro hitter couldn't make a living on the bat alone, either. You needed defense and baserunning alongside the offense, or you didn't last on a real professional stage. On that count, however highly he rated the hitting he'd seen today, he had seen nothing of the glove or the legs, and bringing up the pros was little better than a fool's talk.
And yet.
"Even so, I hate to see talent like yours go to waste. If you came up with Hae-woon, you'd be thirty..."
"Thirty-two."
At the answer, Yang Joo-il set the cigarette between his lips. A truly wasted gift, and far too old. He smoked in silence for a while, little puffs and nothing else, then let a thought slip out as if it had only just occurred to him.
"Plenty of guys switch over to designated hitter around that age."
Defense, he could give up. No — giving it up was the right call. Competing with the glove at thirty-two against juniors in their twenties, bodies still in their prime, would be stubborn folly. Baserunning, though — if he could run well enough not to get cursed out, that would do.
The thought kept shouldering its way into Yang Joo-il's head. It was nonsense by any realistic measure. Even so, he had been completely taken by the hitting Do Kang-hyun had shown, and he wanted to drag that talent out into the world.
"...You don't want to try again?"
"I..."
"Of course I know that saying this at all is crazy! I know it better than anyone. Ahh... it's nonsense, I know it is. I just can't get the feeling out of my head that it's a waste. Honestly, I don't even think there's a club that would take you. But just a tryout — that much would be all right, wouldn't it? Put it bluntly. If you played through high school, pro was the dream, wasn't it? One last challenge, so you can walk away clean, with nothing left to regret. Isn't that worth doing?"
Do Kang-hyun looked quietly into eyes that held nothing but sincerity. Yang Joo-il's words kept circling his ear. Wasn't pro your dream? Don't you want one last challenge, so you can walk away without regret? On an impulse he turned and looked back at the batting center. Had this mysterious ability been given to him just so he could strut in front of ordinary people, locked inside a place no bigger than a cramped warehouse?
No chance.
The dream had said the same.
May your dream come true.
Do Kang-hyun decided to muster one last scrap of courage.
Having made up his mind, Do Kang-hyun cleanly hurled his resignation at the company. ...Or so he might have, if thirty-two years of age hadn't served as a brake that refused to let him act that childishly. So he put in for leave.
He requested his eight remaining vacation days and two monthly off-days all at once. Section Chief Kang looked at him like he'd lost his mind, but Do Kang-hyun pretended not to notice and swallowed it. Fortunately, the image of steady diligence he'd built was enough for the department head to sign off without a fuss.
"Kang-hyun, you've got some nerve. Going on a trip or something?"
The question came from a coworker two years his senior, a man who had joined the company with him. Against the chance of future embarrassment, Do Kang-hyun couldn't bring himself to say he was preparing for a professional tryout. Starting the next day, he began training for the tryout that would be arranged before long.
"My— my stamina... haah!"
He had gained Spider Sense and Armored Cannon, but neither of them raised his base fitness. Heroes in the movies came out the other side stronger in everything — stamina, strength, speed, endurance — true superhumans.
Unfortunately, Do Kang-hyun had been given no such bonus features. From before dawn, he ran. Back in his school days he had run to build a base, and nothing was safer or more certain than that. For the first time since high school he pushed until the nausea climbed his throat, then sprawled on the riverbank and gasped.
"My stamina really is garbage."
His lungs felt ready to burst. Muscle seemed to be rising through his thighs and everywhere else, and the inside of his mouth burned dry — and yet, somehow, his mood was lighter than it had been in ages. He rested just long enough to catch his breath, then hauled himself up with a groan and kept running all morning.
After the morning miles he slept two hours to recover, ate lunch, and started up a mountain. What mattered right now wasn't technique. It was stamina and nothing else, and hiking was a regular on that menu.
After dinner he went to the batting center to hit, then started playing catch, concentrating on dragging back out the memories soaked into his body. On the fourth day since he had requested leave and seriously begun building himself, the call he had been waiting for came from Yang Joo-il.
"Our Kang-hyun! How've you been? You've got time today, right? There's someone coming by the batting center this afternoon to see you. He'll be a help. The man's got a difficult streak, but he's a good person, so meet him once."
At six in the evening, just as Yang Joo-il had said, a man looking for Do Kang-hyun stepped into the batting center. Tall and clean-lined, easily past six feet, with a frame on the thin side and a face that looked high-strung — he seemed like a man with a rather prickly character. In jeans and a black oversized long coat, he swept his gaze once across the center, picked Do Kang-hyun out at a glance, and came over.
"Do Kang-hyun?"
"Yes."
"Jang Woo-seok."
Do Kang-hyun accepted the card he held out. The ground was as pitch-black as the coat he was wearing, and the white letters sat on it with a cold, rigid precision.
As Do Kang-hyun stared at the rather unusual card, Jang Woo-seok elaborated.
"Tactical Authority Baseball Strategy. A little unfamiliar, isn't it? Simply put, you can think of me as a tactician who builds strategy inside the baseball world."
"It's... something."
It sounded excessively grandiose, but Do Kang-hyun didn't bother saying so aloud. His sense of courtesy still sat meekly in its place; he was not about to open a first meeting with you're weird. Jang Woo-seok spoke as if he understood completely, with the air of a man long used to this reaction.
"Personally, I don't believe baseball ought to happen only inside the regulations."
"Pardon?"
"KBO rules? Player registration? Free-agent eligibility? None of it is necessary. Regulations aren't law. They're a puzzle for finding loopholes."
"..."
He really is weird. Do Kang-hyun couldn't tell what kind of nonsense Jang Woo-seok was spinning, or why Yang Joo-il had said a man like this would be any help to him.
"For instance, you are the one who best fits the T.A. strategy I pursue. Thirty-two years old? What does a thing like that matter? Starting later than other people doesn't mean you lack a player's qualifications. It's simply hard to step onto the board they've already laid out. And I believe a true agent's role is to stand players like you on the field — legally — inside the board they've set."
"That can't be easy, can it?"
"That's right. It's difficult enough that ordinary people give up. But I am not ordinary. The strategy system I built, T.A., is also a methodology for slipping through the mesh of the regulations."
What was all this T.A., T.A.? The more Do Kang-hyun heard, the more his comprehension fell behind, until his head spun.
"In that sense, you are the existence best suited to the system I pursue. Case Number Zero."
"...So what you're saying, in the end, is that I'm the first?"
"Exactly! And the insight, too! Do Kang-hyun, you are perfect!"
Do Kang-hyun went for his phone first. He was going to have to take this up with Yang Joo-il.