Dong-gun's First Win and Young-hyun's New Weapon

As Jo Dong-hwan stepped up to the plate, not just our team but the opponents too were laser-focused on the matchup between him and Lee Dong-gun. With two outs and the bases loaded, we were only up by a single run—if we could pull ahead here, we'd basically seize control of the game.

"Lee Dong-gun, fighting!!!"

Our players and coaches started cheering on our senior.

"That hyung's stuff looks pretty sharp today, doesn't it?"

Ahn Young-hyun, cheering beside me, struck up a conversation with Song Chang-ik about Lee Dong-gun's pitches.

"Right? His velocity's up, and his command looks solid today too."

Song Chang-ik chimed in agreement.

"His command's always been good, so that's no surprise, but how'd he bump up his velocity again?"

Listening to them, I itched to say it was because of my coaching. For young players or rookies in their growth phase, velocity increases weren't uncommon, but for someone like Lee Dong-gun in his thirties, it usually dropped—and rarely climbed back up.

Thwack!

While they talked, Lee Dong-gun's pitch drilled straight into the catcher's mitt. Jo Dong-hwan couldn't react—a body-side strike.

"Whoa!!!!"

The crowd roared. The radar gun ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠clocked it at a whopping 151 km/h.

"That hyung's on fire today..."

"Gotta ask him after the game how he boosted his velocity."

Ahn Young-hyun sounded envious.

To me, Ahn Young-hyun's status window floated into view.

Ahn Young-hyun's potential was even higher than Lee Dong-gun's. And there it was in the notes. But it wasn't about boosting velocity like he wanted. I didn't know how to do that anyway—it was just what the notes said, so there wasn't much more I could offer.

I focused on the game. Another pitch dove into the body side. This time Jo Dong-hwan reacted and swung, but Lee Dong-gun's faster ball whiffed past him.

His eyes seemed to shine brighter. The next pitch went outside. It was heading right to Jo Dong-hwan's favorite spot, so he swung hard—but this one was a slider, breaking even farther out for the strikeout.

"Woooaaahhhhh!!!!"

The broadcast on the dugout screen blared with the caster and commentator's excited voices.

"Damn, hyung's insane! Gotta ask him today!!!"

Ahn Young-hyun hopped out to greet him. Dong-gun strode back confidently, high-fiving the players. I just watched quietly from the side—bullpen catchers like me weren't in the high-five line.

But then Dong-gun came over and stuck out his hand.

"What're you doing? No high-five?"

"Y-Yes... Huh??"

I fumbled, slowly raising my hand.

"Thanks for today. Hit me up anytime."

He looked genuinely grateful. And in the ninth, he pitched flawlessly. Our guys even scratched a run in the bottom of the eighth to tie it. Then in the bottom of the ninth, Kim Eun-kyung delivered the walk-off hit, gifting Lee Dong-gun his debut first-team win. Just 1⅔ innings, one run allowed—a hard-earned victory.

In the interview, tears streaming, he said:

"My first win after eight years since debuting. I wanted to quit so many times, but I love baseball. Thanks to everyone who's helped me."

Watching that, my eyes stung for no reason. I wondered what it felt like after eight years. I'd wanted to quit plenty too—baseball love kept me going. His words echoed my own heart.

I fiddled with my glove absentmindedly.

"Jin-ho!! Hurry up and clean!!!"

A sudden shout snapped me into action.

"Yes!! Right away!!!"

Right. Focus on the job at hand.

◇◇◇◆◇◇◇

After that, things stayed routine. Shuttling between first and second army as bullpen catcher, training, field cleanup.

Then one day, a player sought me out: Ahn Young-hyun.

"Jin-ho. Got a sec?"

"Sure, hyung! What's up?"

His ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠face looked off. He'd been pulled before three innings in his last start—no way he felt good.

"Mind catching a few?"

Here it comes, I thought. But I couldn't boost his velocity—what now?

He threw without a word.

Thwack!!!

Heavy ball, just like Dong-gun's—strong grip, fast spin, sinking feel.

"Stuff looks great today, hyung. Real heavy."

"Yeah?"

He brushed off the praise, hesitating like he wasn't sure how to broach it. After a couple more:

"Uh... you know Dong-gun hyung, right?"

"Yeah?"

"Heard you checked out his delivery."

Called it.

"Yeah. Told him shifting his release point forward ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠might help."

"And his velocity jumped after?"

"Not sure it's because of me, but yeah, it did. Command sharpened too."

"Man... Velocity up and better command? That's rare."

He sounded genuinely impressed, then paused, looking conflicted—embarrassed to ask a junior like me about baseball.

"Uh... could you take a look at mine?"

"Of course. But..."

"I know, I know. Not asking for a velocity boost or anything. Just say whatever—if there's anything to tweak."

He joked to ease the awkwardness, not wanting to pressure me.

I settled in; he warmed up and threw. Basic fastball hit the low 140s.

"Body loose now? Let's see the real stuff."

"Yep!"

Properly warmed, he fired. Radar: 146 km/h. Follow-ups topped at 148, averaging 147. Fastball was flawless—no wild ones, solid command.

Then I remembered the slider note in his status window.

"Hyung, mind throwing a slider?"

"Slider? Sure."

He adjusted grip and unleashed a late-130s slider breaking sharply outside. Solid pitch.

But catching it, I pondered: Should I suggest the knuckle slider?

I hesitated returning the ball. He waited, then:

"What? Something wrong?"

"N-No..."

I tossed it back quick.

"Speak up if anything comes to mind."

"Really?"

I stood and walked over. I'd learned the knuckle slider grip online from his status window.

"Know what a knuckle slider is, hyung?"

"Knuckle slider? Heard of it—kinda between slider and curve?"

"Ever thrown one?"

"Nah, never tried."

"Here..."

I took the ball, gripped it, and showed him.

"This is the grip. Wanna try?"

"Like this??"

He fiddled with it, unfamiliar.

"Throw it like your regular slider?"

"Yeah. I'll catch."

I jogged back, set up. He winded up and let it fly. It hummed fast, then dropped hard right before the hitting zone. Not huge curve drop, but speedy enough to fool for a fastball. Perfect late break—tough to distinguish from fastball or slider, prime whiff bait.

"Hyung! This is killer!"

I rushed over, checked the camcorder. He gawked at the footage—sharp drop at the zone.

"Whoa... this ball exists?"

"Pretty good, right?"

"Good? It's insane. Let's throw more."

"Got it."

A few tosses in, he was hooked. Soon, he switched grips seamlessly in his motion—horizontal slider or vertical drop on command. A new weapon was huge for a pitcher. Same delivery, wildly different break: side slice or dive. For whatever reason, the knuckler fit him better than ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠his horizontal slider.

As he threw, his status window updated.

Just from adding the new pitch, his rating jumped 10 points—nearly matching his potential. I marveled again at my ability.