The Bet (4)

In the sixth inning, Ahn Young-hyun took the mound like he was reclaiming his spot as a starter, showing off terrifying stuff and shutting down the Dinosaurs without giving up a single hit. The Eagles had always been seen as a team short on pitching, but ever since I became manager and dug up our hidden talents, we'd turned into a squad with a dominant rotation. Especially our middle relievers and closer—they could lock down the back end even if the starter crumbled. On a day like today, with the starter going five solid innings, we had a surefire trio to handle the sixth, seventh, and eighth.

But the Dinosaurs stuck with Lee Hak-jae for the sixth. He'd wobbled a bit in the first but only gave up one run, then steadied his nerves and pitched well after that. Even as manager, I wouldn't have pulled him either. With just 80 pitches, most skippers would figure he had one more inning in the tank.

As I watched Lee Hak-jae, his status window popped up. I'd never checked an opposing player's before—hadn't thought to—but now that I focused, there it was.

Unlike with my own players, opponents didn't show detailed stats or notes. But overall ratings, stamina, and mental state were visible. What jumped out was his stamina—down to 33 after just five innings. Only 80 pitches, but that early mistake and the effort to recover had him throwing way over his pay grade. Pitch count didn't matter to me; I could see stamina directly, letting me fine-tune strategies better than anyone.

I leaned toward No Kwang-su as he headed to the plate. "The pitcher's stamina is shot, so make him throw as many as possible. If a flat one comes, smash it right away. Got it?"

"Yes, sir!"

No Kwang-su, hitless today, nodded at my precise instructions and strode in. I figured he'd follow through.

Lee Hak-jae fired away. Classic two-pitch guy—four-seam and changeup with identical motions. But whether from seeing it once or just the fatigue making it readable, No Kwang-su didn't bite. He picked smartly, working the count full in a flash. Exactly what I'd asked.

Cornered at full count, Lee Hak-jae unleashed. Aiming strike, but fatigue yanked it middle-in. Remembering my words, No Kwang-su swung with real power.

Crack!!!

The ball whistled past the pitcher, dropping in front of center. No Kwang-su pounced on the chance for a clean hit.

Lee Hak-jae scowled, but furrowed his brow deeper at the next batter. Leadoff man Lee Yong-gyun knew how to torment pitchers—he'd rattled him early with multiple looks, cracking his mental game. He'd struck him out in the third with pinpoint stuff, but now? Not at full strength. Pitch count: 86. Their bullpen was warming; they'd ride him this inning if possible. Music to our ears.

No Kwang-su on first, top of the order up—time to heat up the bats.

Lee Hak-jae threw. Lee Yong-gyun rarely swings first pitch; he works counts, drains arms. But this grooved heater middle? No way he lets it go.

Crack!!

Sharp contact, pulled foul down the right-field line.

"Whoa!!"

It trickled fair-edge, rolling out. Right fielder chased, but No Kwang-su's wheels blew past second toward third. Our third-base coach windmilled him home. Right fielder snagged it late, threw to second—but Lee Yong-gyun was already safe. We'd clawed one back after that early run. Back-to-back hits fired up the crowd.

Next, Jung Woo-geun stepped up. Lee Hak-jae's face soured—mountains beyond mountains. Pitches: 87. Their skipper showed no signs of a hook.

Our turn to swing back. Jung Woo-geun singled; Lee Yong-gyun scored again. Three straight hits, and now the bullpen buzzed.

Crack!!!

Pie's liner dropped left-center for double. Four in a row—they finally yanked him. Too late; the dam burst.

New pitcher? Kim Tae-hoon and Kang Hyun-jun greeted him rudely. Score: 5-0 in a blink. He imploded, coughing up 10 in the sixth alone. Dinosaurs done. Final: Eagles 16, Dinosaurs 0.

Watching the blowout, I realized checking opponent status ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠windows was key. More intel than any manager gets.

Players soaked in roaring cheers leaving the field. Coach Jung Cheol-min stuck by me, thumbs-up. "Man, your bullpen moves are unreal every time. How'd you know Young-gi was gassed? He said if he'd gone sixth, he'd have gotten lit up like Hak-jae."

"Just... a hunch. Seemed under pressure, y'know?"

"Haha, incredible."

Couldn't explain the system, so I bullshitted. Coach Jung, all-in on me now, ate it up. Team felt unified—manager, players, coaches firing on all cylinders. Buzz everywhere.

After that, Eagles kept rolling, surging past fifth-place Wyverns and fourth-place Twins into fourth. Five-game gap to Twins now. From last to fourth in a flash. Two games left; we locked postseason. Seven-game lead on third-place Changwon Dinosaurs meant solid fourth. Playoff baseball breathed life into everyone.

At practice, watching the guys, operations chief showed up.

"Chief! What's ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠up?"

"Ah... came to see you, Manager."

He smiled warmly. Incentives for fourth? "Owner wants you."

"The owner?" Kang Seung-yeon.

"Yeah. Let's go."

From ninth to fourth in two months—reward time? Pumped, I headed over.

Owner in the GM's office, GM in his chair. "Hey, Manager Lee! Sit."

Kang Seung-yeon stood, welcoming. Same bold, comfy vibe. I sat, shoulders squared like the winning skipper I was.

"Where're Eagles at?"

"Fourth."

"Right, fourth. Dragging dead-last to playoffs in two months? Phenomenal."

"Thanks. Players and coaches busted ass."

"Humble, huh. Taking over mid-match-fixing mess? Huge. Ninth to fourth—what's the bonus?"

To chief: "100 million won."

"100 mil? Too stingy for this guy. Make it 300."

"300 million... sir?"

"Yeah, deserves it."

I shot up, bowing thanks. 100 mil was huge; triple? Jaw-dropping. But his ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠next words? Mind-blowing.