A Man Hits a Home Run (1)
"Hey, Kang Tae-oh. Hurry up and throw it already."
Across from me, Cha Seo-rin jerked her chin. I scooped the ball up off the ground and fired it into her glove.
— Whap!
"Move a little faster, would you? Is it because you're a man? You're so damn sluggish it's pathetic."
"I'm sorry."
Cha Seo-rin — fourth-year at Chaewon University and the team's starting catcher. A woman with a mouth rough as gravel, hands quick as a whip, and defense so good it was genuinely irritating. In the world I used to live in, she'd have been talented enough that nobody would have blinked at her gunning for a professional call-up, woman or not. Not that the comparison meant anything here, where a woman playing in the KLB was the most ordinary thing in the world.
No — to put it precisely, this was a world where "male baseball player" wasn't really a thing that existed. Baseball here belonged to women, and women alone. Women on the mound, women in the batter's box, women catching, women fielding. Even at the top of the sports news, unless it was Olympics or World Championship season, a man turning up in the sports pages at all was a rarity.
And little wonder — the world I stood in was one with the roles of men and women turned upside down.
How on earth did it come to this?
There'd been no sign, no warning, nothing. I got into a traffic accident on a rainy day, and overnight I woke up inside this twenty-one-year-old man named Kang Tae-oh. ...Though the possession itself went back further than that — I'd arrived in his body at seventeen, in his first year of high school.
In my original world, I'd been a guy who did nothing but play baseball. Through high school I could hit with the best of them, and even at university I was a prospect whose name people at least recognized. Luck had carried me to the very edge of a pro call-up — and then, with graduation right around the corner, my shoulder blew out, and my wrist followed it down. Undrafted after that, I scraped by in the independent leagues, until the accident came, one rainy night. When I opened my eyes again, it was this world. A world where every sport, baseball included, was women's exclusive property.
"Gender roles reversed" was probably the most accurate way to describe it. The biological basics — pregnancy, childbirth — still seemed to belong to women, but beyond that, nearly everything about how the sexes were divided ran contrary to everything I knew.
And so, having possessed into this absurd world, what I chose after finishing three years as a high school baseball club manager was this: the Chaewon University baseball team. Not as a real player, obviously — as a practice player, good for nothing but sorting equipment and lobbing batting-practice balls.
At first I'd toyed with the idea of somehow forcing my way into the KLB as a male player, but I could never see a realistic path. For one thing, the moment you were a man, even submitting your name for the rookie draft was just money set on fire.
I'd dipped a toe into a high school baseball club once, under the banner of "manager," but that was as far as it went. I'd hoped I might get lucky and have a single at-bat come my way on a squad drowning in bench talent. It never happened.
And having come to this, I'd reached the point where just smelling the grass of a real field felt like enough. Maybe once I graduated I could find work in ballpark maintenance or something of the sort. Chaewon University's program was a storied one, after all. If I got close to the players, then someday, when an opportunity appeared, those connections might reach somewhere.
"Tae-oh."
The voice came from behind me while I was receiving Cha Seo-rin's throws — soft, but unmistakable.
"Yes, Coach."
"Top off the water. The girls will want a drink after the fifth."
"Yes, ma'am."
I nodded my answer toward Coach Yoon Gaeul, arms crossed, watching from the back of the dugout. Short-cropped hair, sharp eyes, the same immaculate training attire as always. A national team catcher in her playing days, if I remembered right — and with only three years since her retirement, she was just thirty-four now, which made hers a very early exit. Word was a bad back had forced her hand.
She was already playing before I possessed into this world, so I never saw her in her prime.
With my answer given, I headed for the ice chest. Today was the day of the university's intra-squad scrimmage — a practice game mixing starters and reserves ahead of the spring league. Which meant the ace starter and the starting catcher, Cha Seo-rin, had been split onto opposite teams.
Official or not, there was nothing light in the players' eyes.
Least of all the woman standing on the mound — Baek Ha-rin, the ace of Chaewon University's baseball team.
She'd been branded the biggest prize of the rookie draft way back in high school. Tommy John surgery right before graduation cost her a spot in the '25 draft and sent her to university instead — but the operation had clearly taken. Now she was unleashing 154 km/h four-seamers off those long legs and that high release point.
By this world's standards, a monster of a pitcher.
When she took the ball into her grip, the batter in the box swallowed hard, and even I, pouring water into the jug, felt my eyes drift to the mound before I knew it. Baek Ha-rin flexed her fingers inside her glove, checked the catcher's sign, and began her slow, deliberate leg lift. And the instant that driving four-seam ripped off her fingertips—
— Pop!
The batter never came close to swinging. Baek Ha-rin's pitch simply vanished into the catcher's mitt.
"Strike!"
"Ha-rin's stuff is unreal, like always."
"How is anyone supposed to hit that?"
"Keep this up and she's going first overall. For real."
I closed the lid of the water jug without a word. It was genuinely good pitching — by this world's standards, anyway. ...It's just that in the world I came from, plenty of pitchers were throwing far crazier stuff than that, even at the high school level.
So even with women holding the edge in sports, the physical ceilings themselves hadn't changed.
I couldn't say for certain, and I'd never dug deep enough to find out. Honestly, if I were going to nitpick what was strange, the strangest thing by my lights was that professional baseball had no men in it at all.
Either way, one thing was certain: Baek Ha-rin was squeezing out the maximum velocity a woman's body could produce. And pitching at that caliber? If I stood in the box against it, I was confident I'd square it up once in every three tries. I could half-read the wrist angle at release, the track of the ball out of her hand. Maybe some of the feel from before the possession was still living in me.
"Kang Tae-oh."
A voice at my back, right as I finished the thought. Cha Seo-rin was walking over, loosening the straps of her elbow guard.
"Water."
"Here."
The paper cups were sitting right there, so I saw no need to tell her to help herself. Cha Seo-rin was a student with a very real shot at a pro call-up, after all. She wasn't an early-entry case, but with graduation next year her odds of entering the draft were high — nothing to gain from getting on her bad side.
"Every time we have one of these scrimmages, you stare at Ha-rin's pitching harder and harder."
"Does it look that way?"
"Yep. Why?"
"...Just does."
"'Just does,' my ass."
With a smirk threaded through her smile, her elbow jabbed at my chest.
"Don't tell me you're dreaming about taking one swing at Ha-rin's pitching?"
A few of the players nearby snickered at that. Whatever I said would only come back as mockery, so I didn't bother answering — but Cha Seo-rin paid that no mind at all, closing the distance and rambling on.
"Men, I swear. You came in as a practice player, not a manager, and suddenly you think you're one of the players."
"I never said any such thing."
"Like hell you didn't. 'Please put my name on the practice roster, Coach — I'll be fine with just chores and no playing time.' I watched the whole groveling performance."
"......"
"Wake up. What's a man doing playing baseball? A man's supposed to be swinging the bat down below, not one of those."
Laughter spilled from the mouths around us at Cha Seo-rin's flat-out sexual harassment. For the men of this world, the joke probably ran a few degrees too hot — though honestly, it didn't bother me nearly as much as it should have. Something about it being a woman dishing it at a man, maybe.
Still, the bald-faced condescension wasn't exactly lost on me either, so I deflected, eyes sliding away.
"Let me know if you need more water."
"...Hmph."
Clearly unsatisfied with my answer, Cha Seo-rin strapped her catcher's gear back on and marched out for the change of innings.
The scrimmage rolled along quickly after that. It was 5–3 as of the bottom of the sixth. The White team, Baek Ha-rin's team, held the lead, and while the Blue team, batting last, still had their final swing of the game coming, the result was all but decided.
Baek Ha-rin had come in during the fifth and was walling off the Blue lineup cold. Four-seam, slider, even a forkball — the velocity was there, and every pitch carried real weight behind it, so the Blue batters couldn't manufacture a single decent swing.
"We play through the seventh, then we're done."
"...Yes, ma'am."
"Blue team — last at-bat. Focus up."
The Blue players answered Coach Yoon Gaeul without an ounce of energy in them. Every face in that dugout looked wrung out.
Leading it off: first-year outfielder Min Do-hee. Quick enough to be the regular pinch runner, though word was her bat had been coming around lately too.
"Do-hee, just get on base. That's all we need. Just get on."
"Got it!"
With that snappy first-year reply, she bounded toward the plate, a wide grin splitting her face. The moment Baek Ha-rin's first pitch streaked toward the mitt—
— Tink!
"Oh."
Min Do-hee's surprise bunt sent the ball rolling toward first.
"Run!"
"Go, Do-hee, go!"
The first baseman scooped it and lunged for the bag — Min Do-hee got there first. Safe.
"Safe!"
"Nice!"
"Kid really is fast."
Applause broke out in the Blue dugout. Runner on first, nobody out — and with the thought that one big swing could tie this thing, a flicker of life ran through the bench too.
"...Tsk."
Baek Ha-rin, for her part, hid her mouth behind her glove, irritation written all over her face. She'd probably figured a lineup of reserves and bottom-of-the-order bats would fold quietly, and now the annoyance of having to face one batter too many was showing.
So the next one up was third-year second baseman Oh Yu-ra.
"Safe!"
"Out!"
Oh Yu-ra tried the same bunt-for-a-hit gambit Min Do-hee had, but the ball spun straight back at the pitcher. Baek Ha-rin fired to second — Min Do-hee's foot hit the bag first, safe there. The relay throw to first caught only Yu-ra. One out, runner on second.
"Watch closely, Tae-oh. Your sunbae is about to show you how a ball gets hit."
"Yes, sunbae."
Cha Seo-rin stepped in and swung at the first-pitch fastball, up in the zone.
— Crack!
The ball climbed high behind the shortstop. It looked like no-man's land, but the White team's center fielder tore in and hauled it down.
"Out!"
"Ah — shit."
Cha Seo-rin came back to the dugout chewing on her lip. Sensing that poking her now would only send sparks my way, I kept my eyes discreetly elsewhere.
One out left to get. And the next batter due up was the Blue team's number nine, first baseman Han Ji-woo—
"Ow!"
The cry cut my thought short. In front of the dugout, Han Ji-woo had gone down clutching her knee — her foot, by the look of it, sliding out from under her mid-practice-swing.
"Are you okay?!"
"Hold on — my ankle...."
She crumpled in front of the trainer, her face twisted with pain. One look said this was no minor injury, and Coach Yoon Gaeul's eyes narrowed to slits.
"Pull Ji-woo."
"Who do we send up as the pinch hitter?"
"Who's even left?"
The assistant coach thumbed through the score sheet. "Not a single position player who hasn't already been subbed. They've all come in once."
"...Hah."
Scrimmage or not, Coach Yoon Gaeul had no love for bending the rules, and shoving a player she'd already taken out back into the game clearly stung her pride. But with the contest all but finished, nobody would say a word about sending a starter back up for Han Ji-woo's at-bat — every player in that dugout was shooting her expectant looks, praying the at-bat would fall to them.
"There's truly no one?"
"...No one on the player roster. Though Tae-oh is on the practice list."
The dugout's air stopped dead. I hadn't expected my name in anyone's mouth either, so I stood there holding the water jug, staring blankly over.
"What, Kang Tae-oh?"
"We're putting him in the box?"
"He's a man?"
"Even for a scrimmage, that's...."
Word that I might possibly step to the plate had reached Cha Seo-rin, who had somehow materialized beside the Coach, laughing behind her hand.
"Coach, are you seriously putting Tae-oh up there? Do you even know if the boy can hit?"
"......"
"Don't do it. Just let me bat again — my contact earlier was decent enough...."
"Kang Tae-oh."
"Yes, Coach."
"You ever held a bat?"
Had I ever held one?
Until the day I possessed into this world, I'd held little else. Since elementary school — all the way to the end, bouncing between independent leagues.
"I have."
"Good enough. Then get in there."
The assistant coach faltered. "Coach—"
"We do this by the book. I don't put a player I've already subbed out back on the field, and I can't exactly send a pitcher to the plate. The only body left is Kang Tae-oh — so Kang Tae-oh bats."
"But—"
"...It's a lost game anyway."
There was a runner on second, granted — but short of a home run, they couldn't even scratch out the tie. Even if I got lucky and reached base, the batter due up next was a substitute too, so one way or another the inning would almost certainly end. And waiting on the mound was Baek Ha-rin, the runaway favorite to go first overall in the '27 draft.
— Tap.
"May I borrow your helmet, sunbae?"
"What, you're actually going to swing? If you're scared, I can go tell the Coach you'd rather not...."
"If you won't lend it, I'll ask someone else."
"...Here."
It was a woman's helmet, so it sat a touch snug — but it would do. For the bat, I picked one from the row of wooden bats leaning against the wall.
— Whoosh!
"Huh. Looks like he's actually going to swing."
"Ten bucks on a strikeout for Kang Tae-oh."
"Then I've got ten on a groundout."
Laughter rolled out of the dugout at the sight of me swinging a bat, but it barely registered. The grit under my feet, standing in the box for the first time in forever. The sound of my own breathing echoing inside the helmet. It had taken more than four years in this world to stand in a batter's box again.
"Don't swing out of your shoes. You'll blow a wrist."
At Cha Seo-rin's voice by my ear, I gave a vague nod and settled into my stance. Up on the mound, Baek Ha-rin rolled the ball around in her palm, wearing a look of pure disbelief.
"You seriously want me to throw it? To a man?"
"Once he's standing in that box, he's not a man. He's a batter."
"...If he pushes too hard and gets hurt, that's not on me."
At Coach Yoon Gaeul's iron reply, Baek Ha-rin let a short laugh escape and closed her fingers around the ball.
Two outs, runner on second.
The score sat at 5–3. If there was to be a tie at all, this was a moment that demanded one big swing. Not that anyone expected it, with me stepping in. Facing Baek Ha-rin, a walk would count as a miracle, and an actual base hit would probably knock the whole dugout off its feet. ...And I'd have bet Baek Ha-rin saw it exactly the same way.
— Fwoosh!
The ball came screaming in high and tight — a textbook brushback, built for one purpose: putting the fear into a batter. No doubt she was reminding me what I was. Making sure I wouldn't even think about swinging.
But my eyes saw it. The ball leaving Baek Ha-rin's hand would run a good span back over the plate. Which meant — a perfect mistake, hanging up and over the middle.
— Thud.
The moment my front foot planted, my back leg tore into the dirt behind me. Eyes locked on the ball until the very last instant, I let the barrel trail through the zone, tracing the pitch's path, and swung.
— CRACK!
The instant that unmistakable ring of a dead-centered barrel rang out, every sound on the field simply died. The left fielder gave chase in retreat — two steps back, three, four — until the wall cut off what remained of her ground, and my drive dropped beyond it, down among the empty stands.
"Uh...."
Min Do-hee, the runner on second, stood planted on the bag, staring hollow-eyed into the air.
"Do-hee! What are you standing around for — run!"
"Oh — right!"
At the coach's belated shout she snapped out of it and broke for third. And in that ringing silence, my own feet began, slowly, to round first base.