A Sudden Trade

People often call sports unscripted drama. Athletes strain past their own limits, and the crowds roar for them, and together they forge a story that moves you all on its own.

And of all sports, baseball may write the most dramatic stories of all. Unlike most games that simply end when the clock runs out, baseball refuses to crown a winner until twenty-seven outs have been recorded. That is why, right down to the final instant, the team ahead still lives with the dread of defeat, and the team behind still clings to the hope of victory — and baseball keeps writing another drama every single night.

And tonight, in that drama called baseball, I was cast in the role nobody ever wants to play.

Crack!

The ball left my hand and soared high on a clean, ringing crack. In that instant, every person in the stadium already knew how the ball would finish. And with it, the role I would play in this game was sealed as well.

"The ball is up! This one—this one is headed over the right fielder, over the wall—!"

Waaaaaaaaah!

A beautiful arc carried the ball into the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠stands. The Wonju Flyers section of the crowd ignited in a single breath. Across the way, the Seoul Wales seats held nothing but a hollow silence.

"It's gone! The Wonju Flyers climb out of that long, long eleven-game losing streak at last! In the bottom of the twelfth, Captain Kwak Daehwi's dramatic walk-off three-run homer!"

<Bottom of the 12th — Pitcher A, who gives up the walk-off home run to the hero>

That was the role I had been handed tonight.

"Kwak Daehwi! Kwak Daehwi! Kwak Daehwi!"

Kwak Daehwi rounded the bases at a measured pace, stepped on home plate, and thrust both arms into the air. The Flyers' stands poured out a roar that dwarfed everything that had come before, chanting the name of this drama's true protagonist.

I looked toward the opposite side of that frenzy and could only hang my head. One by one, the seats emptied in quiet retreat.

"Ah… I've felt so sorry that I couldn't repay the fans who kept coming out to the park. The first thing that hits me is just how glad I am we finally snapped that eleven-game skid tonight. And to every fan who kept cheering for the Wonju Flyers through the whole streak — thank you, truly!"

The hero of this fine drama closed it out with a speech worthy of the part.

And unlike the hero's happy ending, bathed in everyone's cheers—

"Han Doyoon. Manager's office."

—what waited for me was the cookie scene that fit my role perfectly: Bottom of the 12th — Pitcher A, who gives up the walk-off home run to the hero.

Knock, knock.

"Come in."

I rapped on the door and heard the invitation from inside the manager's office.

Creak.

I opened the door and stepped through. The manager sat behind his desk, his face set hard, his eyes sharp. Reading his mood, I carefully took a seat on the sofa.

"Doyoon."

"…Yes, sir."

"Do you know why I called you in?"

Our manager had always been notorious for his temper. When players failed to follow instructions, he routinely flew into a rage; when truly furious he would hurl whatever was within reach; and though he no longer did it now, I had heard he used to put hands on players in the old days.

Today, though, he wasn't angry at all. He was simply cold and flat. Somehow that was worse.

"…I'm sorry."

The words spilled out on reflex under a pressure that felt like it was crushing my lungs. The manager didn't so much ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠as blink.

"You don't owe me an apology. You owe the fans one."

Still that dry tone. He picked a sheet of paper off the desk and held it out in front of me.

"Here. Look at this before we get into the real talk."

It was my pitching log for the five games since the move to the bullpen.

"Strike rate of seventy-three percent. On paper, not bad."

As he said it, another sheet landed in front of me.

"And this is from when you were still a starter. Compare the difference."

I looked at the chart and froze. The rate of pitches clustered dead center was night and day between my starting days and my bullpen days. Since the move, meatball mistakes had multiplied in plain sight.

And that wasn't all. Ball location had changed too. Before, even when I missed the zone, the pitch still formed near the edges — close enough that a batter might swing, or at least useful as a setup pitch. Now nearly half of them sailed uselessly wide.

…It was a mess so ugly even I was ashamed to look at it.

"The mistakes… have gotten way too frequent, sir."

I answered with difficulty, head bowed.

"Mistakes? Mistakes, huh…"

The manager tapped the desk with his index finger, wearing a meaningful look.

"Manager… the truth is, there's a reason for this—"

He cut me off before I could finish.

"The way I see it, these aren't mistakes."

His face twisted, and words I couldn't parse spilled out of his mouth.

"You used to live on your command. Catcher calls high, low, in, out — you put it right there on the button. And the second you hit the bullpen, the mistakes just explode?"

His voice climbed, and he glared as he drove the point home.

"What, did it piss you off that much that I sent you to the pen?"

"W-what?!"

"I've been managing for thirteen years. You think kids like you are rare? Pride through the roof, sulking the second they don't get the start — but no guts to say it to my face. So they pull this petty little rebellion instead. Please put me back in the rotation."

"N-no, Manager, that's not—!"

Honestly, I didn't care if he called my stuff mediocre. It was. But what he had just said made it sound like I was tanking on purpose.

I had always believed I played baseball with nothing to be ashamed of. Yes, being demoted to the bullpen had knocked me flat for a while — but I had never deliberately thrown one down the middle, never deliberately sailed one a mile outside.

And beyond that, there was a reason I simply could not tell him. I wasn't missing because I wanted to. There was a real reason…

"Enough. Drop it. That isn't what matters right now."

He ignored my injustice entirely, cut me off again, and pressed on.

"You're being traded. Pack your things when you get back to the dorm. And don't pull this pointless ego contest over there the way you did here. I let it slide this far because it was me — any other manager would've shut it down hard."

"Y-yes…?!"

What? Had I misheard him? A trade? Just like that?

My mind went blank white.

My heart hammered wildly, and my throat clenched so tight I could barely swallow.

"M-Manager, the reason my mistakes have spiked lately isn't because of the bullpen, it's— n-no! I'm sorry for being stubborn! I won't do it again, just please — anything but a trade…!"

Even as the words left my mouth I felt how pathetic and wretched I sounded. But what choice did I have? If I tried to explain that reason out loud, he would never believe me anyway.

I wanted to stay with the Wales badly enough to beg like this.

I don't really know when I first started rooting for them. Probably because my father did, and I simply followed along.

From the time I was small I watched every Wales game, and whenever I had free time I made the trip to Wales Park, and that was how the dream of becoming a ballplayer took root. From the day I first picked up a glove, I had only ever wanted one thing: to wear a Wales uniform and lift a championship trophy.

So when the Seoul Wales called my name in the rookie draft, I felt like I owned the whole world. I swore I would become a proud member of the Wales. I really did…

"Huh? What are you ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠even saying? Whining at me won't change a thing. I didn't decide this trade. The front office did. Though, well — I did agree to it. Ahem."

He cleared his throat a few times and continued.

"Anyway! It's already been worked out with the other club, so take it as done. Get back to the dorm and start packing! Their side will contact you soon enough — sit tight and wait for the call!"

No matter how hard I thrashed and clung, a fixed bad ending never turned into a happy one.

In the end I had no choice but to leave the manager's office like a man being thrown out.

The moment I stepped through the door, the strength went out of my legs and I sank to the floor.

A trade… a trade…

It wasn't as if I had felt no sense of crisis. My velocity barely cleared 140 km/h. My secondary movement was ordinary. My only real strengths were solid command and enough stamina to eat innings.

A pitcher of that profile fits as a starter or long reliever who can chew up frames — not as a fireman who has to slam the door for a single inning with pure stuff.

The fact that the club had still moved me to the bullpen meant this had been my last chance.

We gave you three straight years as a starter, and you never proved yourself. One last shot. Show us you're useful.

And instead of proving anything, I had even lost the command that used to be my strength. Of course the club was cutting me loose.

I leaned my back against the wall and glared at the damned translucent window floating in front of me, as if it were mocking me.

"…Shit. Who the hell asked for something like this…"