The Man Hits a Home Run (1)
“Hey, Kang Tae-oh. Throw it already.”
Cha Seo-rin jerked her chin at me from across the way.
I scooped the ball off the ground and tossed it into her glove.
Thwack!
“Move it, would you? You’re so damn slow—must be a guy thing.”
“Sorry.”
Cha Seo-rin, fourth-year at Cheonwon University and the team’s starting catcher. Rough mouth, quick hands, and a defense so sharp it was almost annoying. In the world I came from, talent like hers would have made her a legitimate pro prospect even as a woman. Of course, in this world that was a meaningless hypothetical—women playing in the KLB was completely ordinary.
No: more precisely, male baseball players essentially didn’t exist here. Baseball in this world was a women’s sport, period. The pitcher on the mound was a woman. The batter in the box was a woman. Catching, fielding—every single position. Outside of the Olympics or World Championships, a man showing up on the sports news was rare enough to be remarkable.
Which made sense, because this was a world where the roles of men and women had been flipped.
How the hell did I end up like this?
There had been no warning. One rainy day I got into a traffic accident, and the next thing I knew I’d woken up inside the body of a twenty-one-year-old guy named Kang Tae-oh. Technically the possession had started earlier—when this body was a seventeen-year-old high-school freshman—but the point stood.
In my original world I had been nothing but a baseball player. Decent enough through high school, enough of a name in college that people at least knew who I was. I’d gotten close to a pro draft, only for my shoulder and then my wrist to blow out right before graduation. After that it was the independent leagues, bouncing around until that rainy night and the accident.
Then I opened my eyes here: a world where every sport, baseball included, belonged exclusively to women. Or rather, a world where gender roles had been swapped. Biology still left pregnancy and childbirth to women, but almost everything else ran counter to everything I knew.
After three years as a high-school baseball team manager in this absurd place, I chose Cheonwon University’s baseball program. Not as a real player, of course—just a trainee who cleaned gear and threw batting practice. Early on I’d entertained the idea of becoming the first man in the KLB, but the angles never added up. As a guy, even getting your name on a draft list would have been a waste of money. In high school I’d briefly stuck my foot in the door as “manager,” but that was as far as it went. With a roster full of actual candidates, I never even got one at-bat.
These days I told myself it was enough just to smell the dirt of a real diamond. Maybe after graduation I’d end up groundskeeping somewhere. Cheonwon was a powerhouse, after all. Get friendly with the players and maybe a connection or two would open up later.
“Tae-oh.”
A soft voice cut through my thoughts as I caught another of Seo-rin’s throws.
“Yes, Coach.”
“Fill the water bottles. The girls will want them after the fifth.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
I nodded toward Coach Yoon Ga-eul, who stood arms crossed just inside the dugout. Short hair, sharp eyes, always the same neat training suit. She’d been a national-team catcher in her playing days and had retired early at thirty-four—only three years ago—because of a bad back injury.
She was still playing when I was in my original world, so I never actually watched her.
I headed for the ice chest. Today was an internal scrimmage—starters and reserves mixed into two sides ahead of the spring league. That was why the usual ace starter and starting catcher Cha Seo-rin were on opposite teams. It wasn’t an official game, but the players’ eyes were anything but light.
Especially the woman on the mound: Baek Ha-rin, Cheonwon’s ace. Coming out of high school she had already been called the top draft prospect of her class. Tommy John surgery right before graduation had kept her out of the ’25 draft and sent her to college instead. The surgery had clearly worked; now she was a long-legged lefty with a high release point who could light up the radar at 154 km/h. In this world’s terms she was a monster.
She gripped the ball. The batter in the box sucked in a breath. I paused mid-pour, eyes drawn to the mound despite myself. Ha-rin’s fingers danced inside her glove, checked the catcher’s signs, then lifted her lead leg in a slow, deliberate kick. The moment her four-seam left her fingertips—
Pop!
The batter never even started her swing. The ball vanished into the catcher’s mitt.
“Strike!”
“Ha-rin’s stuff is insane.”
“How are you supposed to hit that?”
“She’s going number one overall, no question.”
I quietly screwed the lid back on the jug. It was a good pitch—by this world’s standards. In the world I’d left, though, high-school kids threw stuff just as nasty, and plenty of them.
So even if women dominate sports here, raw physical ability itself hasn’t flipped.
I hadn’t dug too deep into the question. The absence of male pro ballplayers was already strange enough on its own. Still, Ha-rin was clearly squeezing every last kilometer of velocity her female frame could produce. Even so, if I were standing in that box I was confident I could square her up one out of three times. The wrist angle at release, the spin trajectory—I could read them at a glance. Maybe some of the old instincts had survived the transfer.
“Kang Tae-oh.”
A voice behind me. Cha Seo-rin was walking over, peeling off her elbow guard.
“Water.”
“Here.”
I didn’t bother telling her to pour it herself. She was a high-probability draft pick herself—maybe not first-round, but almost certainly selected next year as a graduating senior. No point making an enemy.
“Every scrimmage you stare at Ha-rin’s pitches like you’re trying to memorize them.”
“Is that how it looks?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“…Just watching.”
“Just watching, my ass.”
She gave a mocking little smile and jabbed her elbow into my chest.
“Don’t tell me you actually want to take a cut at her stuff.”
A couple of nearby players snickered. Anything I said would only feed the laughter, so I stayed quiet. Seo-rin didn’t care; she stepped even closer and kept going.
“Typical guy. You get listed as a trainee instead of a manager and suddenly you think you’re a real player.”
“I never said that.”
“Bullshit. I saw you begging Coach just to put your name on the trainee roster—said you’d do all the grunt work and never ask to play.”
“……”
“Wake up. Baseball’s not for guys. A real man should be swinging a different kind of bat—the one between his legs.”
The outright sexual harassment drew more laughter from the others. By this world’s standards for men it was pretty heavy, but it didn’t bother me as much as it probably should have—maybe because it was a woman doing the harassing. Still, the casual contempt was hard to miss, so I looked away and answered evenly.
“Let me know if you need more water.”
“…Hmph.”
Clearly dissatisfied with my reaction, Seo-rin strapped her gear back on and headed out for the inning change. The scrimmage rolled on after that. Bottom of the sixth, score 5–3. Ha-rin’s White team was ahead; Blue, batting last, still had one more chance, but the game was essentially over. Ha-rin had come in from the fifth and was locking down Blue’s lineup—four-seam, slider, forkball, every pitch carrying serious heat and late life. Blue’s hitters couldn’t square anything up.
“We stop after the seventh.”
“…Yes, Coach.”
“This is Blue’s last at-bat. Focus.”
The Blue players answered without energy, faces already worn out. First up was Min Do-hee, a first-year outfielder. She was a speedster who usually came in as a pinch-runner, though her bat had apparently improved lately.
“Do-hee, just get on. Just get on base.”
“Yes!”
She flashed a bright, first-year grin and bounced toward the box. Ha-rin’s first pitch left her hand—
Crack!
“Oh.”
Do-hee’s surprise bunt rolled toward first. She was already flying.
“Run!”
“Go, Min Do-hee!”
The first baseman fielded and lunged for the bag, but Do-hee’s foot beat the throw.
“Safe!”
“Nice!”
“Damn, she is fast.”
Applause erupted from Blue’s dugout. Runner on first, nobody out. Suddenly the idea of one big swing tying the game didn’t seem impossible, and a little life returned to Blue’s bench.
“…Tch.”
Ha-rin covered her mouth with her glove, clearly annoyed. She’d expected to cruise through the bottom of the order and instead had to face one extra batter.
Next up: O Yu-ra, second-year second baseman. She tried the same bunt, but the ball rolled straight back to the pitcher. Ha-rin spun and fired to second; Do-hee’s speed still got her there safely. The relay to first nipped Yu-ra for the first out. Runner on second, one away.
“Watch and learn, Tae-oh. Big sis is gonna show you how to hit.”
“Yes.”
Cha Seo-rin stepped in and swung at a high first-pitch fastball.
Crack!
A high fly behind short. It looked like it might drop, but White’s center fielder closed fast and snagged it.
“Out!”
“Shit.”
Seo-rin bit her lip and stalked back to the dugout. I carefully avoided her eyes—no sense catching stray fire.
One out left. Blue’s ninth hitter, first baseman Han Ji-woo, was due up…
“Ah!”
Right as I thought it, Ji-woo crumpled in front of the dugout, clutching her knee. She must have slipped during a practice swing.
“You okay?!”
“Hang on—my ankle…”
She sat in front of the trainer, face twisted in pain. It didn’t look minor. Coach Yoon’s eyes narrowed.
“Pull Ji-woo.”
“Who do we pinch-hit?”
“Who’s left?”
The assistant flipped through the lineup card.
“Every position player has already been used once.”
“…Haa.”
Even in an internal scrimmage, Yoon Ga-eul hated bending the rules. Re-inserting someone she’d already taken out clearly grated on her pride. The game was almost over, though; nobody would complain if she put a starter back in. Half the dugout was already staring at her, hoping it would be them.
“Nobody at all?”
“…Not on the player list. But Tae-oh’s on the trainee list.”
The dugout air froze. I was still holding the water jug, staring blankly; I hadn’t expected my name either.
“What, Kang Tae-oh?”
“You’re putting him in the box?”
“He’s a guy.”
“Even for a scrimmage that’s…”
Seo-rin was already at the coach’s side, hand over her mouth, laughing.
“Coach, are you seriously sending Tae-oh up? Does he even know how to swing?”
“……”
“Just let me hit again. My last contact was pretty good…”
“Kang Tae-oh.”
“Yes.”
“You ever held a bat?”
Have I held a bat?
Until the day I woke up in this world, I’d held one nearly every day of my life—from elementary school through the independent leagues.
“I have.”
“Good enough. Get in there.”
The assistant looked panicked.
“Coach—”
“We do it by the book. I don’t put a player I’ve already subbed out back on the bench. I can’t put a pitcher in the box either. The only body left is Kang Tae-oh, so Kang Tae-oh hits.”
“But…”
“…And the game’s basically over anyway.”
Runner on second, but nothing short of a home run would even tie it. Even if I somehow reached, the next batter was also a sub; the inning would end either way. And on the mound stood the consensus future first overall pick of the ’27 draft.
Thump.
“Can I borrow your helmet, Seo-rin unnie?”
“You’re actually gonna hit? If you’re scared you can just tell Coach—”
“If you won’t lend it, I’ll ask someone else.”
“…Here.”
It was a women’s helmet and a little tight, but wearable. I picked a wooden bat from the ones leaning against the wall and took a practice cut.
Whoosh!
“Whoa, he actually looks like he’s gonna swing.”
“Ten thousand won says Tae-oh strikes out.”
“I’ll take the groundout for ten thousand.”
Laughter floated from the dugout as I swung, but I barely heard it. The feel of dirt under my spikes after so long. The sound of my own breathing inside the helmet. Four years since I’d possessed this body—four years to stand in a batter’s box again.
“Don’t swing too hard. You’ll blow out a wrist.”
I gave Seo-rin a noncommittal nod and settled into my stance. On the mound Baek Ha-rin rolled the ball in her hand with an incredulous look.
“You really want me to throw to him? To a guy?”
“Once he’s in the box he’s a batter, not a man.”
“…If he gets hurt trying too hard, that’s on him.”
Coach Yoon’s answer was absolute. Ha-rin gave a short laugh and set.
Two outs, runner on second.
Score 5–3. Anything short of a bomb and the game was over. Nobody expected anything from me. Against Ha-rin, even a walk would be a miracle; a base hit would make jaws drop.
And she knew it too.
Whoosh!
A high, inside heater—classic brush-back stuff meant to freeze a batter who might be scared to swing. She was conscious of the fact that I was a man and wanted me too terrified to even start the bat.
But I saw it. The ball left her hand and drifted a hand’s width toward the middle of the plate—a perfect, hanging mistake up in the zone.
My left foot planted. My right foot drove into the dirt. I tracked the ball all the way and brought the barrel through on the four-seam’s path.
CRACK!
The pure, solid sound of perfect contact froze every other noise on the field. The left fielder took two steps back, three, four… then ran out of room against the wall. The ball dropped into the empty seats beyond.
“Uh…”
Min Do-hee stood frozen on second, staring at the sky.
“Min Do-hee, what are you doing?! Run!”
“Ah—yes!”
The coach’s shout snapped her out of it; she finally started around third. In that same stunned silence my own feet began the slow trot toward first.