Once Upon a Time, There Lived a Genius Pitcher (2)

— Thud. Thud.

The moment Han Doyoon stepped out toward the bullpen, the air in the ballpark shifted. With every stride, the murmur from the stands swelled louder.

"Hey, isn't that Han Doyoon?"

"What the hell… didn't he throw a hundred and thirty pitches two days ago? He's coming back out?"

"I heard his arm's in bad shape. Can he even throw?"

And that change in the ballpark's atmosphere was something the opposing coach from Hanlim High School could feel as well.

"Hey! One hit and they take the lead! Stay focused!"

"Don't worry about him! There's no way he's coming in!"

The players are rattled…

He put on a calm front, pretending not to be shaken, but it wasn't enough to hide the anxiety creeping up through him.

…Nothing I can do about it, is there.

Even the coach himself had been so fixated on Han Doyoon that he hadn't registered the opposing pitcher just striking out a batter for the second out — so of course his players were rattled.

Every eye in the stadium locked onto Han Doyoon as he arrived at the bullpen.

The Hanlim High fans hoped the toll of those hundred and thirty pitches two days ago had left him nowhere near full strength. The Cheongmyeong High fans hoped his monstrous recovery had already shaken off the damage. Both sides watched for his first bullpen pitch.

And the first pitch everyone had been waiting for —

— WHUMP!

It roared like a predator announcing it was very much still alive.

"Well. Looks like I can still throw."

Having announced my survival with that first pitch, I shook out an arm still throbbing with muscle soreness and stole a glance at the field.

The atmosphere had changed at a glance. Hanlim High, which had been riding high just moments ago, was now watching me with full wariness.

Confirming that frozen-herbivore look of animals staring down a predator, I went right back to putting the fear into them.

— Whump!

— Whump!

— Whump!

The catcher must have picked up on what the coach and I were after, because he started popping the mitt even louder — loud enough for the other side to hear — matching me beat for beat.

— Thock.

A strikeout and a grounder back to the pitcher out of a one-out, runners-on-second-and-third jam. Confirming the herd of terrified herbivores had scattered in every direction, I forgot the pain in my arm and kept right on throwing in the bullpen.

"……"

Sitting off to one side of the dugout, Coach Kim Taehwan watched the bullpen with uneasy eyes.

Han Doyoon was still out there.

The manager's gambit had worked perfectly.

A rattled opposing batter had forced a swing at an outside slider and grounded out to the pitcher, ending the inning.

Doyoon's job was done. It was time for him to come back to the dugout.

But —

Han Doyoon was still in the bullpen.

And he was still throwing.

"Manager, should I call Doyoon in now?"

Kim Taehwan asked carefully, but the manager didn't answer.

He just stood there with his arms crossed, staring silently out at the field.

Then the top of the ninth came and went with Cheongmyeong High's offense producing nothing of note, and with only the final defensive inning left —

the manager opened his mouth.

"…Put Doyoon in."

Kim Taehwan's eyes went wide.

"Manager, you said he was only supposed to loosen up in the bullpen!"

"Put Doyoon in."

"I won't."

"Put Doyoon in."

"I won't!"

A short, taut standoff stretched between them.

The air in the dugout grew heavier by the second.

Then —

a voice cut through the silence.

"I'll go."

Both men turned at once.

From the bullpen, Han Doyoon was walking over, adjusting his cap.

"You need me, don't you."

His voice was firm.

"I'm fine. The pain's almost gone."

"Don't play the tough guy!"

Kim Taehwan shot to his feet and blocked him.

"Not hurting doesn't mean you're fine — you know the state of your arm better than anyone! Cut the crap and sit down. This is as far as you go. Leave the rest to the team."

The manager, who had kept silent until then, suddenly let a faint smile touch the corner of his mouth.

"If it's hard, you can say it's hard."

His voice was calm and even.

"The choice is yours."

…For a moment, Kim Taehwan's face twisted.

The same manager who, just seconds ago, had been casually ready to grind a kid barely about to enter his senior year of high school into the dirt had, the instant the player was in front of him, flipped into the face of a "virtuous leader who respects his players' choices."

Faced with that cunning, calculating shift, Kim Taehwan found he couldn't get another word out.

"Ah — no…"

Leaving him behind, Han Doyoon tugged his cap down and started walking toward the mound.

"It's fine. Just one inning. Just one inning."

I knew my arm was in dangerous shape. But the brutal schedule leading up to the finals had pushed the team's pitching staff to the brink.

On the way back to the dorm from the hospital last night, I'd overheard the seniors talking.

"…Think we'll even get drafted?"

"How would I know. Just focus on tomorrow's final. At least then, if we don't get drafted, we can still go to college."

"…Doyoon's got it good. He doesn't have to worry about any of this."

"He's a genius. A baseball genius. You think he's like us ordinary guys?"

— Squeeze.

My grip on the ball tightened on its own.

What ran through their voices wasn't envy so much as resignation. Not because they were jealous of me — because they already knew this year might be the end of their baseball.

Sorry, Coach. I want to keep the hyungs playing baseball.

I pictured their backs as they forced smiles over dark faces and clapped each other on the shoulder.

"Hoo."

I let out a short breath and looked at the catcher. Four-seam fastball.

I drew in a breath, wound up, and fired the first pitch hard.

A gasp of admiration erupted from the stands at the number on the scoreboard.

"…Okay."

Satisfied with the velocity, I settled back into my delivery. You don't give terrified herbivores time to rest.

— Whap!

One kilometer slower than before, but still an absurd velocity for a high school sophomore. I kept throwing.

After punching out the first batter and the second on strikes, the pain had gotten so much worse that I nearly reached for my elbow without thinking — and barely stopped myself.

The last number on the board was 145 km/h.

I'd only faced two batters, and the velocity was already dropping visibly.

My arm was getting heavier. The feel in my fingertips was going fuzzy.

This is really… the last of it. Just hang on a little longer.

The catcher put down a sign.

Inside fastball.

But in that moment, something told me I shouldn't throw it.

…With my arm like this, I won't make it to a strikeout.

A strikeout would take at least three pitches. I couldn't believe my elbow would hold that long. Already, every single pitch was a jolt of pain I could barely stand.

With this stuff, a strikeout isn't easy anyway. So the answer is…

I slowly lowered my head and shifted the four-seam grip, laying my fingers across two seams.

Two-seam fastball.

I'd thrown it plenty in practice, but never once in a real game.

A ground ball. Just get a ground ball.

I steadied ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠my breath and drove my left foot into the rubber.

— Whoosh.

The instant the ball left my fingertips, my elbow flared with a burning pain. But I gritted through it and finished the arm swing all the way.

— Tock!

The ball caught the end of the bat and rolled slowly.

A weak grounder toward the shortstop.

Yes…!

And in the same breath as the relief —

— Snap.

Something ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠gave way with a sound like a string breaking, and the agony that followed dropped me right where I stood.

Fingering the scar through my clothes, I fell into thought.

…If I went back to that day.

Would I make the same choice?

I hesitated only a moment. The answer was clear.

Yes.

That one inning I threw won us the Phoenix Flag championship.

Naturally, the tournament MVP was me — Han Doyoon.

Most of the seniors never got drafted. But that championship résumé let them knock on college doors, and they're still chasing the dream of baseball even now. That was the greatest comfort I had.

Of course, the price was brutal.

An injury that could have ended as simple inflammation got worse until it needed Tommy John surgery, and even then the recovery went poorly — my velocity dropped more than ten kilometers.

But I'm still playing baseball. Drafted by a pro team, and until ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠recently, in the first squad.

…Isn't that enough?

More pressing than that was the content of the second journey.

The first journey I'd cheesed my way through, but for the second, I couldn't come up with a single idea.

"Hey! Status Window! You know my Tommy John went to hell, right? How am I supposed to throw a hundred and fifty?!"

I even yelled it into empty air out of sheer frustration, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠but of course there was no answer.

"Wait… what if?"

A good idea hit me.