I Came to End This War (3)
She had steeled herself to a degree, and this was the very outcome she had intended and hoped for—yet the moment it became real, tension seized Pi Anta all the same.
General Manager.
Having once been part of a professional organization, she knew all too well the weight that title carried.
And that man was not summoning Pi Anta to his office in Daejeon. He was coming to Seoul, where she was.
It was a silent message: We will show you, through our actions, just how important you are to us.
But there was no need to be nervous.
Going in with complete arrogance would be a problem—yet going in with thorough deference would not match their expectations either.
A first-class player carried a first-class presence.
If they were extending such extraordinary courtesy, then she needed to show that she was a vessel worthy of that treatment. That was how the equation balanced.
Having dried her hair, Pi Anta grabbed her phone and stepped out into the living room. Her mother preparing food, and her father watching TV with a sulky face after a round of scolding, came into view.
"Mother, Father."
Thinking about how happy they would be made her feel a little proud.
"I just got a call. It seems I need to go attend an important meeting."
Judging by their expressions, she did not need to explain where.
"I'm sorry, but the meal you prepared…"
"No, it's fine. You should go."
"Anta! Does this mean you're finally getting a Goraniz uniform?!"
At her father's fussing, her mother waved a spatula through the air, muttering that he was at it again and trying to restrain him—but as a hardcore Goraniz fan, the thought of his daughter joining the team he rooted for made it impossible for him to calm down.
Knowing full well what it meant to have a team you rooted for, Pi Anta decided that this time she would play along with her father's excitement.
"I'll bring home a billion won today."
The meeting place was a Korean beef course specialty restaurant in central Seoul. Given that this was an important meeting with a club's leader, they had booked a private room so as not to attract too many eyes.
And yet, considering Pi Anta's emphasis on protein intake, they had deliberately avoided Korean table d'hôte or high-end Chinese cuisine—a thoughtful touch that showed through.
On the subway ride to the meeting place, the closer she got to her stop, the more uneasy Pi Anta felt, repeatedly checking her appearance.
"Was this maybe a bit much?"
It was not that something was stained. The problem was the outfit itself.
For a meeting with a general manager, what Pi Anta had worn was none other than the uniform from her high school days.
In this world, high school baseball tournaments were not elite athletic competitions structured as inter-school rivalries, but rather a format where individuals formed teams to build up contest-like credentials. As a result, the Pi Anta of that time—who had not been very skilled—had barely gotten to wear the uniform.
But the uniform was not particularly clean. Since playing baseball well in the game required actually developing real baseball skills, she had given her all in places no one could see.
She was wearing this outfit partly because she did not have a proper suit to wear—but also because she believed this uniform best expressed her identity.
[This stop is…. The doors will open on the….]
With the announcement, the subway doors opened, and Pi Anta climbed the stairs to the surface.
The meeting place was not far from the station, so fortunately it was easy to find. A four-story building with a hanok feel, complete with parking, projected both a clean impression and an upscale atmosphere—perfect for an occasion like this.
Stepping inside, a neatly dressed female staff member waiting at the counter bowed and asked her,
"Welcome. Do you have a reservation?"
"Yes. Under Han Yerin."
It was not a prepared line. She simply did not know the general manager's name, so on a hunch she used the only name she knew—the scout team leader's.
"Yes, a two o'clock reservation. Right this way."
Bullseye.
Following the staff member's guidance, Pi Anta headed to Room 6.
Room 6. Five plus one is six.
The jersey number she had used before becoming a woman was 51. Coincidentally, even the room number pleased her.
The Goraniz front office had not arrived yet. Coming early with the thought of waiting for them had paid off.
But for such an important meeting, the front office coming up from Daejeon was not very late. Less than ten minutes after Pi Anta had looked around the restaurant, the door opened with a staff member's guidance. Even that was a full ten minutes earlier than the original appointment time.
The middle-aged man standing at the door had a lean, solid build that belied his age. Whether the product of consistent exercise and self-management, the suit he wore displayed a refined charm even in its neatness.
A simple solid-color suit, hair combed neatly back, and a clean-shaven mouth free of even a trace of stubble—every detail revealed just how thorough a man he was.
"Ah, Miss Pi Anta."
"Hello. It's a pleasure to meet you."
When the man extended his hand, Pi Anta bowed lightly at the waist, supporting her elbow with her left hand as she shook his.
Glancing behind him, she saw a familiar face. Han Yerin, the Goraniz team leader who had met with Pi Anta before.
She, too, wore a complex smile mixing anticipation and tension, given how much she expected from this meeting.
As the two sat across from her, Pi Anta took her seat as well. While the staff set out the side dishes, the general manager spoke first.
"I'm glad we could meet like this."
"Thank you for coming such a long way. I should have been the one to go."
"Not at all. A player has her personal routine. To minimize any disruption, it only makes sense that we come to her."
The initial atmosphere was amicable. Naturally so—both sides wanted a contract, so the likelihood of things turning sour was low. Moreover, as a first-year pro, her salary would simply be the minimum without much negotiation.
The key was the signing bonus.
But the most important and sensitive topics always came later. For now, they would savor the meat before them and enjoy a comfortable time.
"This place's beef is excellent quality, but what I particularly like is that they provide individual grills."
Pi Anta certainly liked that point as well. At a table where a signing bonus in the hundreds of millions was on the line, if someone had to roll up their sleeves and sweat over a shared grill cooking meat for everyone, it would be a rather undignified farce.
But there was another reason the general manager liked this kind of restaurant.
"You don't wait for someone else to do it for you. You take responsibility for your own portion. If you don't move yourself, you eat nothing."
"Isn't that a truly excellent approach?"
Pi Anta, who had been grilling meat, briefly looked up at the general manager at those words.
On the general manager's personal grill, the meat was cooking just right—exactly to his taste.
"Miss Pi Anta. I'm someone who believes professional baseball has no need for seniority."
"Ah, seniority."
"Why should we give preferential treatment to a player whose skills are declining, just because they're older?"
"So you're saying that even a young player, if their skills are outstanding, should receive a high salary?"
"Of course."
Pi Anta discreetly checked Han Yerin's reaction. She met Pi Anta's eyes and quietly nodded.
Meaning he was not lying just to curry favor.
Pi Anta checked the meat cooking on the grill once more, then continued.
"I agree that professionals should prove themselves through skill. But wouldn't the existing players push back against that?"
It sounded nice to say "skill first," but it was a policy that was hard to actually implement—because the existing players who were supposed to receive those salaries would oppose it.
But the general manager smiled as if it were no big deal and removed some meat from the grill.
"Of course, if we start with massive cuts, the pushback will be considerable."
The meat the general manager picked up was perfectly grilled, dripping appetizingly with juices. He lightly dipped it in salt and chewed thoughtfully, a smile spreading across his face as he savored it.
"Mm, delicious."
Meat grilled entirely through his own ability. Without skill, he would have had to eat meat charred black or still raw and half-cooked.
The future the general manager envisioned was the same.
"First, you give them the meat. What shape it comes out in is left up to the players."
In other words—pay incentives commensurate with good performance, and cut pay for poor performance. A very simple and brutal policy.
But this, too, was a method players would not easily agree to.
"So ultimately, you're saying you'll execute contracts loaded with options? Players always want to increase their guaranteed money."
"Oh, Miss Pi Anta. You speak like a player with a wealth of professional experience. I must say I'm honestly surprised by how accurate that observation is."
At those words, Pi Anta felt a jolt. But since the general manager did not seem particularly bothered by it, she decided to brush it off with a reasonable cover.
"I've been interested in players since I was young, not just baseball. I know a fair bit, though it's limited."
"Well, the scale of Stove League contracts has always been an interesting topic for fans."
The general manager continued as he placed new meat on the grill. Sizzle—the appealing sound rang out once more, and Pi Anta pulled her flipped meat from the grill.
Slightly burned.
"Miss Pi Anta. Let's talk about our contract now."
The important conversation was finally getting to the main point.
"Do you think I came all this way simply because your skills are outstanding? I came because I judged there was something to gain by going this far—and because I became convinced that going this far was necessary."
Pi Anta kept her eyes on the general manager even as she covered her mouth and chewed her meat.
Just as she was interested in the signing bonus, the general manager also had something he wanted to gain through this plan.
"I hope that signing you won't be a mere roster reinforcement, but the starting point for completely transforming the Goraniz's very constitution."
"What would you like me to do?"
She asked the question, but the answer was obvious.
What moved professionals—and what held the greatest meaning for them—was, of course, money.
The important thing was that depending on how that money was paid, various messages were embedded.
"Team Leader Han. What was the highest signing bonus in Korean professional baseball?"
At the general manager's question, Yerin, who had been chewing meat, hurriedly covered her mouth, swallowed, and answered.
"Ah, yes. Player 'Eokpal' Choi Jin-woo's two billion won."
Hearing that, Pi Anta recalled looking up his name. Dropping two billion won on a signing bonus was practically insane, but considering that player had been a reliable number-two starter for the Hustlers for several years now, it could be seen as a worthwhile investment for the club in the end.
But what if Eokpal had taken the signing bonus and then flamed out?
Was there anyone who had not considered that possibility?
"Miss Pi Anta, let's do this."
When the general manager gave a look to Yerin sitting beside him, she pulled a contract from her briefcase—one sealed in an approval case—and held it out to Pi Anta.
As Pi Anta calmly read through it, her eyes stopped at one point.
"There's a blank space?"
"Yes. That's for you to fill in, Miss Pi Anta."
"What should I fill it with?"
"A goal commensurate with the signing bonus."
Originally, professional baseball signing bonuses were paid in two installments as a rule. The larger the signing bonus, the more advantageous this was for tax purposes, so Pi Anta—who had been approaching free agency—knew that much.
But the unusual thing about this contract was that depending on the option Pi Anta chose, the installment amount could jump dramatically—or disappear entirely.
The amounts specified in that contract were:
"If you fail to achieve the goal: three hundred million won."
"If you achieve the goal: an additional one point eight billion paid after the season ends, for a total of two point one billion."
A scale that exceeded Eokpal's record high by exactly one hundred million won.
An extreme high-risk, high-return contract where the signing bonus could jump sevenfold.
Pi Anta took that goal and pondered for a moment.
She had to consider whether to do it at all, but also what goal to propose.
What kind of goal would leave an impact so great that inflating the signing bonus seven times would not feel wasteful at all—while still being achievable?
The newly placed meat was cooking nicely, and the general manager's earlier meat, flipped late, was slightly burned.
While Pi Anta deliberated, her meat also began to burn slightly.
But when she flipped it, it was cooked to a level that was precarious yet perfectly edible.
Meat grilled solely through her own ability.
Looking at her meat, Pi Anta answered.
"Rookie of the Year."
"And…"