Spring Camp (4)
Perhaps to live up to my faith in him, Lee Ji-seung stood on the mound with a resolute expression even in a bases-loaded jam. High mental strength meant he wasn't easily rattled by pressure situations. His first pitch was a four-seam fastball, diving into the batter's body. Lee Jun-ho swung, but his timing was off. Having seen Ji-seung's slider from the on-deck circle, he couldn't turn on it cleanly like in his previous at-bat, throwing off his rhythm. Still, Lee Jun-ho smirked after seeing the pitch. He'd gotten a feel for it, at least somewhat.
But he whiffed on Ji-seung's second pitch too, pulling the bat through too early. Ji-seung had thrown straight four-seam fastballs both times, following Park Won-dong's signs to the letter. Won-dong's game-calling had been solid. It caught Lee Jun-ho off guard—expecting sliders nonstop, he couldn't sync up to the heater. Lee Jun-ho's face hardened. Two empty swings had bruised his pride.
This time it'll be a breaking ball for sure. I thought that as I watched him grip his bat tighter. Right now was prime off-speed territory.
Whoosh! Thwack!! The third pitch sank low and straight into the catcher's mitt.
"Woooaaah!!"
The dugout erupted in cheers. Lee Jun-ho hadn't even checked his swing—he was called out on strikes. Practice game or not, it was Ji-seung's first K of the day. And that last one? Another four-seam. No slider, the pitch he'd been sweating till the end. In truth, Ji-seung had only shown it once so far, but its vicious drop had the batters spooked. The scoreboard clocked it at a blistering 140 km/h. Even in a scrimmage, Ji-seung was growing in real time.
Just like that, he fanned through the sixth batter on strikes too. His command sharpened as he went, and he capped the inning with a slider that seemed like it wouldn't come. Coming off the third, Ji-seung looked refreshed. He'd created the jam himself but snuffed it out with two punchouts.
Now it was our turn in the bottom of the third. No. 7 hitter Kim Su-ji and No. 8 Park Won-dong both went down on strikes and groundouts. Up next: No. 9, Kim Kang-jun, who'd botched that play earlier today. Eager to atone, Kang-jun was determined to get on base somehow. Hacker's pitches were surgically precise, nailing spots. Before he knew it, Kang-jun was down 0-2.
But that's when Kang-jun's true talent shone. Fueled by desperation to reach base, he fouled off pitch after pitch with dogged persistence. He'd chop at anything hittable, lay off the rest. From no-ball two strikes, it stretched to a full count. His elite plate vision was filtering pitches like a pro. Three fouls in the full count kept the pressure on Hacker.
By now, Hacker looked ready to get serious. His ninth pitch was a knuckleball—one even the catcher struggled to predict. No spin, just floating in. Kang-jun's bat came through.
Tik! He barely nicked the nasty one.
Kang-jun's focus was unreal. Even Hacker's stoic face flushed a bit.
Whoosh! Tik! Hacker usually sat 140s on his four-seam, but the gun lit up 151 this time. Scrimmage be damned—he was going all out, like a wounded beast with pride on the line. And there stood Kang-jun, a lone warrior with just his bat. But his eyes still burned. He fouled off the sudden elevator too.
Curves, knuckles, sliders, changeups—mixed with heavy heat. Batters' heads had to be spinning. Kang-jun endured it all on vision and contact alone. Experience-poor as a high school rook, he lacked the feel for what was coming. That'd come with time. Most pros started in elementary or middle school at latest. Rookies like Kang-jun who began in high school? Rare successes—and all pitchers, crushing with raw physicality. No hitters.
From pitcher's hand to mitt: 0.4 seconds. Eyes process and brain signals: 0.14 seconds. Batter decides in 0.26. Without reps? Near impossible. Yet Kang-jun weaponized his eye to hang in. A true see-ball-hit-ball guy, overpowering years of vets' savvy with his tools.
Crack!!! A crisp rip echoed for the first time that day. He timed Hacker's changeup perfectly and bolted. The pulled liner dropped just right of right field, rolling forever.
"Run!!! "
Cheers and shouts urged him on. A triple was in play. As if hearing us, Kang-jun didn't glance at the ball—just sprinted nonstop. The third-base coach windmilled his arms. As Kang-jun hit second, the outfield scooped and reared back. But the coach kept circling. Kang-jun didn't stop. The right fielder snagged it from the deepest corner—too far for home. Relay died at second. Kang-jun slid safe at third.
Hacker's face turned every shade of red and purple. Eleven pitches, and the kid triples? Pro that he was, he composed himself quick. But next up: Kang Hyun-jun. His rival had just legged out the team's first hit—a triple. Two outs already; if he failed, it'd be wasted. No way he'd let that happen.
Hyun-jun's focus peaked.
Status Window: Kang Hyun-jun
Mental: 'Only aiming for the four-seam.'
At least peeking at players' mindsets mid-game was a perk. And it proved spot-on. He smoked the first-pitch 150 km/h four-seam to left-center.
"Yesss!!!"
Another roar. Hyun-jun motored to second. To test pitcher-hitter matchups, we'd shuffled the lineup—1.5-team level. Thought we'd get pushed around, but we grabbed the lead first. Plenty to take from this scrimmage.
…
"Good work out there."
After the game, I approached Kim Mun-gyeong and bowed.
"What a solid team. Can't wait for the regular season. You guys earned it."
He greeted me warmly, shaking my hand. We lost 3-8. Choi Tae-won locked it down from the fourth, and our bats couldn't touch Hacker after. Bullpen time let us scrape runs, but it was over. Still, we harvested lessons aplenty. We tweaked strategies, developed players—not just rookies. Harmonized the grown ones too: lineups, defensive shifts. Happy problems for a manager. With so much talent, positioning was the puzzle.
Spring camp ran through February, then we hit Okinawa for phase two, full squad grind. More scrimmages there boosted our edge. Arizona to Okinawa, I banked memories with Seon-ah tagging along. Made time every night post-training. Her comfort through the grind and headaches kept me going. Couldn't have drilled this hard or schemed without her. Her words—"I'm the one who cheers you on"—hit home. Now, camp wrapped. Exhibition schedule incoming.