Regular Season Begins (3)
Crack!Crack! The sharp, upbeat crack of the bat echoed relentlessly.
Talbot's face had drained to a ghostly white. Somehow, the batter had already gone through the lineup once. He'd managed just one out. The first inning wasn't even over, and he'd already surrendered five runs, with runners on first and third. The opposing dugout looked utterly lost on how to proceed. Especially Kim Geun-seong, the Eagles manager—his face twisted into something demonic.
Talbot took a deep breath and fired his first pitch. It was a slow curve. The ball floated high before dropping lazily into the strike zone. Even Kim Kang-jun, with his elite plate vision, hadn't seen it coming—he swung and missed for a strike.
But Kang Hyun-jun on first took off for second in a flash. Whether he'd timed the slow curve or not, his steal attempt was spot-on. We hadn't even signaled for it; he'd gone on his own instinct. Catcher Jeong Mo-beom must've judged it too late, because he didn't throw to second.
In that instant, the Eagles' dugout erupted in frenzy. They seemed outraged by the steal in a blowout first inning. A signal flashed from Kim Geun-seong's hand.
'No way... seriously?'
A bad feeling hit me. I glared at Talbot. That's when his status window popped up, revealing his mental state.
Name: Talbot
Mental: Shaken psychologically from getting shelled in the first inning. Considerably rattled by the dugout signal to hit the opposing batter.
The steal hadn't broken any unwritten rules. But first was open, and the current batter had already homered off Talbot before. That's why they'd signaled to plunk him intentionally.
But ordering a beanball against a 20-year-old rookie, fresh out of high school? It made no sense. I quickly signaled the strategy coach: if they went into their windup, have the batter back way out of the box.
With one strike already, pulling back wasn't tactical. Normally, you'd do that on three balls to wait out a pitch. This was absurd. But I had to protect Kim Kang-jun.
The coach looked puzzled but relayed it to Kang-jun. Talbot took another deep breath and threw. Kang-jun bolted backward. The pitch veered toward the batter, not the catcher—but Kang-jun's quick retreat let it sail past harmlessly.
The catcher knew it was coming but couldn't snag it with Kang-jun fully retreated. Wild pitch. Yoon Min-seok scored from third, and Kang Hyun-jun advanced to third.
We'd sniffed out the beanball and cashed in a free run. But no time to celebrate. I kept eyes on Kim Geun-seong's face and signals. I knew he loved retaliation, but ordering it against a kid this young? Unthinkable.
Sure enough, another beanball signal. His expression darkened further. Talbot's mental confirmed it.
I signaled the coach again: back out once more. Talbot's third pitch flew—straight at Kang-jun, even as he retreated. He ducked low just in time; it was aimed at his head. A split-second slower, and he'd be seriously hurt.
Another wild pitch. Kang Hyun-jun scored from third.
Heat surged through me. I bolted from our dugout straight for theirs. No one could stop my sudden charge—not even the umps, who reacted too late. My sprint was too fast.
I burst into their dugout and planted myself in front of Kim Geun-seong.
"You fucking old bastard! You wanna bean a 20-year-old kid?"
He flinched at my rush, and I unloaded. Eagles players and coaches froze—couldn't just grab me, especially since it was me. Kim Geun-seong gawked, speechless.
Finally, their coaches stepped in to separate us.
"Manager Lee, calm down. Calm down."
It was Jeong Cheol-min, the coach I knew well.
"Coach, you're full of shit too! The kid's just 20—fresh high school grad, a rookie! How do you order a beanball on him?"
Betrayal stung extra from someone I was tight with. Jeong Cheol-min had gotten the order from the manager and passed it to Talbot himself. Calling him out, he went silent.
The other coaches and players couldn't rein me in either. I jabbed a finger at Kim Geun-seong.
"Fuck you! Just wait. I'll make sure beanball orders have no place in Korean baseball anymore. Unwritten rules? Fuck 'em. Stealing down five in the first? That's the crime? Then fucking strike.
I knew it was wrong to curse someone so much my senior, but this was beyond the pale. The young punk chewing out a veteran—he just stammered, stunned.
The ump finally intervened, ejecting me. First time in KBO history a manager invaded the enemy dugout hurling F-bombs.
Ejected, I left their dugout but screamed at the cameras trailing me.
"To every KBO official and fan: Beanball orders must end. If anyone orders one on my player, I'll do this every time."
The commentator called it a misunderstanding, but I had proof: the status window. Couldn't show anyone else, though. Still, anyone watching would've seen it as a beanball order.
Ejected, I headed to the manager's office to watch the rest. After I left, our guys locked in harder. Grateful their manager had their backs, screaming and cursing the enemy boss.
Eagles players, meanwhile, deflated from the exposure. Ignoring unwritten rules, we ran wild—steals, strategies, you name it. Final: 32-0 in the opener.
We shattered the Lions' 27-run single-game record from '97. Snagged team-high scoring title, single-game high, and biggest margin too.
Postgame, Kim Geun-seong denied beanball orders to reporters before bolting. With a 32-0 thrashing, and me making a scene, they weren't bold enough for an obvious plunk.
Articles flooded in afterward.
And more—mostly backing me. Despite Kim Geun-seong's denial, headlines framed it as a beanball order. Fans echoed me online. Communities buzzed with me vs. him for days.
KBO hit me with a 5-game suspension and 5 million won fine for the dugout cursing. But it worked—no beanballs on our guys for a while.
Players knew I'd go nuclear for them. Beat Eagles next game too, then swept a winning series vs. Changwon Dinosaurs without me—4-1, straight to first place.