Why Can't I See Mine?
"Haa... Why can't I see my own?"
On my way home after a grueling day of training, I grumbled at my reflection in the full-length mirror outside a clothing store. I'd barely made it into pro baseball as the Daejeon Eagles' 10th-round draft pick, but I'd never even crossed the threshold into the first team. After wandering the second team post-debut and serving my military duty, I still couldn't crack the first team—and now, not even the second.
In high school, I was just an average player, but luck smiled on me when my school won the championship, landing me in the pros. The Eagles, short on catchers, picked me last and slapped the "pro baseball player" label on me. But calling myself a baseball player felt like a stretch—I'd never played a single first-team game.
The coaches said my plate discipline and pitch-calling were solid; I just needed to work a bit harder. But my weak shoulder wrecked my caught-stealing percentage, and my hitting sense lagged behind my eye, leaving my second-team average in the .100s. Hell, even I wouldn't promote a guy like me to the first team.
My dismal skills killed any shot at the Sangmu team, so I enlisted as a regular grunt. But I trained hard even in the army. I knew my flaws: weak shoulder, poor hitting sense. Luckily, I had a supportive platoon leader who let me keep at it—shoulder strengthening drills and swing practice. I went at it like a madman because I wanted to succeed.
My army buddies and juniors called me the training monster. Rain or snow, I never skipped conditioning. I'd even drag my battered body out at night to swing the bat during rifle drills...
Everyone who knew me said the same thing.
"You'll definitely make it."
"I've never seen anyone work as hard as you. You'll shine for sure."
"I'll cheer you on. Sign something for me when you hit it big."
People who saw my effort rooted for me.
...What bullshit.
I thought I'd succeed once I got back to society. Effort never betrays you, right? But after discharge, those words rang hollow—my grind betrayed me harder than ever. Now I couldn't even hold a spot in the second team. New 20-year-old catchers were outplaying me. At 25, I'd been relegated to bullpen catcher.
A bullpen catcher catches for starters to keep their arms loose during games, warms up relievers and closers before they enter, then cleans the field and organizes gear afterward. Some teams use staff for it, but with a second-team reject like me around, it became my niche.
Mid-season, training time was scarce, but Mondays like today let me go all day. When coaches saw me at it, they looked at me with the saddest pity. I knew that look: my talent was pathetic compared to my effort.
But I had one special gift. I could see baseball players' talents—through status windows.
It started in middle school on the baseball team. One day, staring hard at someone made a window pop up, showing their current and potential stats, ending with personal notes. As a kid, I thought everyone saw them. Turns out, no.
After my friend called me crazy, I never told my parents or anyone. Status windows were rare in middle school, familiarized in high school, and common for pros now. They only appeared for those with real talent, it seemed.
Staring at my reflection, a thought flickered—but I shook my head. If that was true... No. Don't go there.
I turned and headed home. Then my phone buzzed.
— Han Seon-ah —
"Ah! Shit, forgot."
I hit accept fast.
"Hey! Lee Jin-ho! You trying to die?! Where are you?!"
"Ah... sorry. Heading home..."
"You... idiot... Get your ass here now..."
Her voice dripped with seething rage over the line. We'd planned dinner after training, but I'd spaced and left first.
Seon-ah had been my childhood friend since middle school. She was thrilled when I went pro, and when I joined the Eagles, she volunteered as a cheerleader here. Tall, stunning face, killer figure—she was a big name in cheerleading.
No games on Mondays, but she had extra practice and wanted to eat after. I'd gotten lost in training and bailed.
I spun around and sprinted back to the stadium. She'd probably waited over 30 minutes, saw everyone gone, and called—knowing I was always last out.
My nonstop conditioning paid off; I covered the distance without tiring.
At the stadium, there she was. Her angry face softened into a laugh at my sweat-drenched arrival.
"Ah... sorry... really... I blanked..."
"Jeez, look at you sweating. I could've waited. Why'd you run like that?"
She pulled a handkerchief from her bag and wiped my face. Our closeness brought her lips into view—those pretty orange lips. My breath caught.
"Hey... I can do it. Gimme."
"Nah, almost done. Hold still."
Ignoring me, she finished up.
"Starving. Let's go."
It was nearly seven; she must be famished. Practice meant dancing, burning tons of calories. Her quick mood flip from phone rage was a relief.
"What're we eating?"
Her anger spiked again.
"You... didn't even pick...? Jin-ho. It's me. Han Seon-ah. I said dinner, and you didn't decide...?"
Her voice graded from calm to fury. No wonder—her popularity was skyrocketing. Even ballplayers and celebs hit on her. Forgetting the menu was a death sentence.
"St... stir-fried octopus?"
"Oh? Yeah! Sounds good!"
I knew her tastes; that cheat code reset her rage to zero. She beamed, grabbed my arm, and we headed to our usual spot nearby.
Her chatter and laughter pulled a rare smile from me.
"There. Smile more. You look so much better. Wipe that shadow off your handsome face."
At 187cm, chiseled build, face like a celeb—that's me, Lee Jin-ho. People who knew my talent void asked why waste the physique on baseball. Model? Actor? But after 10+ years since middle school, quitting wasn't an option. Not yet. Some vague hope my effort would bloom into talent lingered.
They said I'd rival Park Chan-ho or Park Ji-sung in fame if I could play. Felt like a backhanded dig.
"You... think I'm handsome?"
"Duh. Fact. Ugh, I was so pissed earlier, but seeing you run over melted it away."
"Puhahaha!"
Her words cracked me up. That's Seon-ah—always energizing me from the sidelines. Compared to her, I felt too shabby to confess.
Maybe that's part of why I pushed so hard.
"Brat. Big sis made you laugh. Hurry up... my stomach's eating my spine."
With her groan, we picked up the pace.
Yeah... Someday, I'll confess properly... proudly...
Looking at her chattering beside me, I vowed it again.