After the Draft
After the draft wrapped up, the GM and scout team leader, Go Hyeong-woong, moved forward with contracts for the players we'd picked up. As far as rookies go, there wasn't a better team for growth than ours. I got word from the scout team leader that every single one of them had signed on. Other teams sometimes saw their draftees bail for college, but we'd locked down all of ours.
Still, my mind wasn't entirely at ease. I'd seen the effort these rising stars were putting in firsthand. But the status windows visible only to my eyes told a different story. It was almost like my vision was peering straight into their fates. Without this ability, I would've rewarded that hard work, pulled them along, given them more chances, built a foundation for their growth.
But as manager, with the outcomes already laid bare before me, did it make sense to pour effort into the inevitable? At the same time, I couldn't just deny them opportunities—not when they were grinding away today, just like always. It felt like looking in a mirror. A player who hustles but never quite makes it. That's why it was getting harder to watch them train so diligently. Even so, I figured it was the manager's job to help these guys carve out a spot somehow, win or lose. Just like Coach Shin Hyun-kyeong had quietly backed me from the shadows.
I was overseeing the players' training when Go Hyeong-woong sidled up beside me.
"Manager?"
"Team Leader? What brings you here?"
He was usually out in the field scouting, so his sudden appearance at the training ground caught me off guard.
"Contracts are done, and I was curious how they're training, if they're settling in okay."
"Haha, got it. What do you think so far?"
"But Manager... what exactly do you see in these guys?"
"Huh? What do you mean...?"
His words startled me. Did he know my secret?
"The players you picked. They're really something."
Go Hyeong-woong smiled, either reading my mind or just being polite. As he'd said, the three I'd pushed for—Jeon Sang-hyeok, Choi Sang-young, and Shin Ha-jin—were already showing different caliber from the pack.
"I've got a good gut for this stuff. Haha..."
I laughed awkwardly at his comment.
"At first, when you bulldozed through the draft room, I was pissed, wondering what the hell. But seeing who we got? Glad you were right."
"Thanks for saying that. I felt bad about overstepping. Still, we've gotta develop the others too."
"No worries. I'll get back to scouting. Keep up the good work."
Go Hyeong-woong gave a nod and headed out. His approach eased some of the guilt I'd been carrying.
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As September rolled in, we dove headfirst into the pennant race. Daegu Lions in second were charging hard, keeping us on edge. We held a three-game lead, but one slip could knock us from the top.
On the 1st and 2nd, we hosted Seoul Twins for two tough home games and scraped out wins. Game one, Pierce Band dominated with a 11-2 blowout. But the second saw our third starter, Han Hyun-ho, implode for eight runs early, putting us down 8-3 before we clawed back to a 9-8 reversal.
Daegu Lions were on a hot streak too, racking up wins. After the game, I dragged my exhausted body through shutdown routines. Snatching victory on a comeback felt great, but as manager, it left me drained.
Then someone knocked on the office door.
"Come in."
It was Han Hyun-ho, today's starter, stepping inside. I'd figured he'd headed home with everyone else, but he'd been waiting.
His face was grim—and understandably so. He'd given up eight runs without finishing five innings.
"Manager, I need to talk."
I could guess from his expression. The notes in his status window, the mental flags about ongoing elbow pain. It even mentioned Tommy John surgery could ease the agony and restore his old form.
"Sure, go ahead."
"I was gonna wait till season's end, but my elbow's getting worse. I came to discuss surgery."
"Must hurt like hell. Your delivery looked off compared to before."
"Yeah. I'm gutting it out, but velocity's dipping, and pitches are flattening."
Han Hyun-ho threw hard for a sidearmer, with solid durability—that's why I'd slotted him as a starter over bullpen. But things were deteriorating.
"What'd the docs say? You got checked, right?"
"Full scan showed bone fragments in the elbow, ligaments shot. They say Tommy John should fix it."
"What's your take?"
I meant, would he pitch through the season? He hesitated.
"We've got about 30 regular-season games left. If we keep this up, we're likely champs. That means straight to the Korean Series. I'm asking if you're okay missing your name on a title ring."
I had no intention of overworking him. But I knew how much etching your name on a championship mattered to a player's legacy—uncertain as it was.
"But... if I keep starting, it'll be more days like today."
He seemed to think sticking around out of selfishness would hurt the team. Manager worrying for player, player for team.
"What about bullpen? Willing to give that a shot?"
"Bullpen? Yeah, if I can."
"If starting's brutal anyway, you in the pen would help us big time. Just monitor that elbow closely. No pushing it—you're young, plenty of innings ahead."
"Thank you, Manager. Pain's manageable for now. I'll schedule surgery after the season ends."
He left the office looking far more at ease than when he'd arrived. But now my worries kicked in.
I rummaged through rosters, stats, analysis sheets on my desk. Our two foreign aces and Lee Ji-seung locked down the top three starters. Beyond that? Trouble.
We were already thin at fifth starter, and now Han Hyun-ho sidelined. Relief would strengthen, but starters were scarce. Ha Min-young, Song Young-shin, Choi Tae-won weren't ready—combined, they might handle one outing. My headache deepened.
Then a name jumped out. Not currently on our roster, but soon to be: Shin Young-jae. He was grinding through military service with the police baseball team. Discharge loomed, and his stats there weren't bad.
First year in: 3-8, 5.90 ERA. Rough, with shoulder issues noted. This year: 10-4, 5.74 ERA. Futures League logs showed his innings-per-game ranked second among pitchers—elite digestion for the level.
In our dire need for a reliable innings-eater, Shin Young-jae looked tempting. Late as it was, I dialed Go Hyeong-woong.
"Yes, Manager? What's up this late?"
"Team Leader, Shin Young-jae?"
"Shin Young-jae? Yeah, police team right now."
"Think he can jump to first team post-discharge?"
"His release is end of September. Cool with bringing him straight up?"
"Han Hyun-ho's elbow is iffy, rotation's shaky. Need him up ASAP for the Series."
"Hmm. I'll visit, relay the message, have him prep till discharge."
"Sorry for the late call."
"No sweat. Head home."
"Thanks. You too."
September discharges rarely played that season, but we needed the firepower. He'd proven enough in minors—not a bad gamble. Postseason eligibility required August 31 registration, but military holdovers got exceptions. Ironic, fretting like this with all our talent. Building a squad meant planning beyond this year, next, and the one after. Lesson learned.