That Doesn't Concern Me

After scraping through the fourth inning by the skin of my teeth, I came down off the mound and headed straight for Park Taejeong the moment I stepped into the dugout.

"Man, Taejeong. Seriously, thank you. You saved me out there."

"Ah, it was nothing…"

Park Taejeong ducked his head with that trademark look of pure helplessness. He scratched at the ball and refused to meet my eyes, his ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠lower lip trembling as if he'd done something wrong.

"How the hell did you even catch that?"

"…I-it was nothing special."

"That ball was going over, wasn't it?"

"I-it wasn't quite that far…"

This kid was always like this after a spectacular play.

He'd snag a ball that looked completely uncatchable, and the second you tried to praise him, he short-circuited like a broken machine. It wasn't humility so much as sheer social anxiety — the guy was just that shy.

Then—

"Senior! How was my throw?"

Kang Daegeun swaggered into the dugout with his shoulders hiked up to his ears, strutting like a general returning from war to deliver the news of victory.

"Kid, if you can't even do that much, you might as well quit baseball."

"Aww, come on~ The transfer speed was no joke, sir!"

The shameless grin as he replayed his own highlight in his head was something else. He looked absolutely certain that if a broadcast camera had been rolling, his close-up replay would be looping on the big screen right about now.

"Caught it and — bam! — straight out of the glove and into the throw!"

He mimed yanking the ball from his glove, then reenacted the throw into empty air.

…So this was his version of a replay, since there was no camera.

Watching him bounce around like that — the complete opposite of Park Taejeong — I couldn't help but snort. One of them couldn't string two words together; the other wouldn't shut up about himself.

Same team, same age, and somehow their personalities were night and day. The contrast made me laugh all over again.

"Doyoon, we managed to hold them somehow, huh?"

"Yeah, somehow."

Kim Gyeongmo came into the dugout peeling off his catcher's gear. The September air had turned cool enough, but after hours in full equipment, his hair was plastered to his forehead with sweat. The face behind the mask carried a strange mix of relief and exhaustion.

"Lucky break. I was prepared to give up a couple of runs."

"…You were planning to give up runs?"

He'd spoken with so much confidence during the meeting, and now he was saying he'd been leading with the intention of surrendering runs? When he'd said "just let them hit it," had he literally meant "just let them get hits"?

"Yeah. Gotta give up some runs sometimes. What else can you do?"

Kim Gyeongmo said it so casually, then took a long swig of water.

"Senior, you know if I'd blown it just now, I wouldn't be going to the first team, right?"

Even with a judgment call that dangerous, Kim Gyeongmo's attitude was so unbothered it almost felt irresponsible — depending on who you asked. Of course he wasn't actually being careless, but I still wanted to know what he'd been thinking.

"Obviously I know. So what?"

He set the water bottle down and continued, perfectly calm.

"…Through the third, no problems at all. Then starting in the fourth, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠they suddenly start tagging you. What do you think that means?"

"Well… the hitters changed their approach."

I answered the same way I had in the meeting. He'd nodded then, but now he seemed to be driving at something else.

"That's part of it. But the reason they could change their approach — that's the important part."

Kim Gyeongmo paused to catch his breath, then went on.

"From the fourth on, you're facing hitters who've already seen your stuff once. So they're not whiffing on fastball-type pitches as easily anymore. Once they can foul them off, they sit patiently and wait for the ones that leak into the middle. Normally you'd change up the repertoire to get out of that — but…"

He trailed off, watching my face carefully.

"…because of that, you couldn't change the repertoire. You can't free up your location."

The "that" he was talking about was probably… the yips. Strictly speaking it wasn't the yips, but in this situation, calling it that made no real difference.

I nodded. It made perfect sense. With only three pitches in my arsenal, and half of them drifting into the heart of the zone no matter what I did, switching repertoires simply wasn't an option.

Seeing me nod, Kim Gyeongmo continued.

"That's why I told you to cut the corner work as much as possible. You try to nibble and you still can't hit the corners. Fastballs aren't generating whiffs, so strikeouts aren't coming. Our defense is solid, so the best play was to trust the fielders and put the ball in play."

He jerked his chin toward Kang Daegeun and Park Taejeong. The two of them — fresh off those spectacular defensive plays — were sitting side by side horsing around. True to form, Kang Daegeun was bouncing off the walls while Park Taejeong quietly laughed and played along. Somehow, the mismatched pair worked surprisingly well together.

"We held them in the end. That's what matters."

The game ended 7–1, a win for the Wonju Flyers' second team.

After a light recovery routine, I came back to the dorm, stretched out on my bed, and ran through the day in my head.

My line: four innings, three hits, five strikeouts, zero runs.

On paper, it looked excellent.

That should have been more than enough to lock in a first-team start — but after actually going through a real outing, one worry had taken root.

The problem was right there in the clear condition: six innings or more.

Looking back at today's outing, the first three innings had been seamless. Even accounting for it being a second-team game, the pitching had been genuinely dominant. First-team hitters would be a step up, so I wouldn't overwhelm them quite like that — but I also didn't think I'd get lit up for a pile of runs, either.

The problem started after the third.

Once the lineup turned over, the hitters got a feel for my stuff, and suddenly I couldn't just overpower them anymore.

I needed an answer to that problem.

…Should I add a pitch right now?

The ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠thought crossed my mind, but nothing useful ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠came to mind. My two-seamer wasn't polished enough, and the changeup was still sealed by the organization.

I'd considered trying a curveball, but the curve was the textbook example of "easy to learn, hard to master." Picking it up was simple; refining it into something you could actually use in a game took forever.

In other words, I had no card I could play right now.

Which left only one option.

I had to find a way to survive six innings with the pitches I already had.

This wasn't a problem a day or two of thinking would solve.

…The final gate to being recognized as a real pitcher, huh.

The quest text from the Status Window floated in front of my eyes. The last threshold of the Blockhead Thrower's journey was starting to look steeper by the hour.

The next day, and the day after that, the fretting continued — and no clean answer appeared.

…What if I just grit my teeth and throw it like the Titans game — dare them to hit it?

I was starting to understand Kim Gyeongmo's mindset. Honestly, there was no other answer. You could dress it up as "trusting the defense," but in reality it was just rolling the dice.

Is this really the best we've got…?

I set the barbell back on the rack with that thought still circling. After finishing my squats, a tight, humming tension ran through my thighs — a pleasant, electric burn. I was starting to understand why some people went completely insane for weights.

That was when my morning workout partner, O Daesik, finished his own set, draped a towel around his neck, and wandered over.

"Hyung, did you catch Lee Janghoon's game yesterday?"

O Daesik had suddenly gotten hooked on Major League Baseball lately, and every morning he brought up whatever game he'd watched the night before. I'd never cared much about the majors, but he talked about it so constantly that I'd started at least skimming the articles.

"Missed the game, but I saw the write-up. Three-for-four, right?"

"Yes, sir. His bat's been on fire lately."

O Daesik downed his usual protein shake in a few big gulps and kept going.

"Man… Major League pitchers are seriously wild, though. So many weird ones."

I wiped the sweat off with my towel and asked,

"Who caught your eye this time?"

"The guy who faced Lee Janghoon yesterday. San Diego middle reliever. His delivery is absolutely insane."

"How does he throw?"

"You have to see it."

O Daesik fumbled out his phone, pulled up a clip, and held it out to me.

In the short video, a left-handed pitcher turned his body toward first base, then twisted his hips and fired hard toward home plate. Even on the broadcast feed, the release point sat unusually low and far out to the side.

The trajectory looked like it was going to drill the batter square in the ribs — Lee Janghoon flinched and leaned back — but the ball somehow threaded the strike zone.

"…Whoa. That angle is ridiculous."

I stared at the screen. The pitcher's release was laid out way farther sideways than a normal lefty, and the ball's path looked skewed even through a phone screen.

"Right? Lee Janghoon flinched for a second too."

O Daesik stopped the video, grinning.

"Didn't we used to have a guy who threw like that back home?"

"Gu Daeseon, sir? Yes. But in the majors, every team seems to have one or two of these guys. Left-handed-hitter specialists."

I kept staring at the arm angle on the screen.

The center of gravity shifted hard toward first, the hips torqued far past a normal delivery. Even at a glance, it was a dangerous, body-wrecking form that most people couldn't even attempt to copy.

"Man, lefties must be dying against that. But doesn't throwing like that wreck you?"

"Constantly, sir. Arms, backs — everything gets shredded. But if you want to survive, you don't have a choice."

If you want to survive, you don't have a choice…

A pitcher twisting his body into knots just to carve out a roster spot. Impressive, and a little heartbreaking.

Could I throw like that?

The form kept looping in my head — the twisted hips, the shoulder wrung out like a wet rag, thrown with full knowledge that the body would pay for it.

And then, suddenly—

…Wait.

Something lit up behind my eyes.

If the problem is injury…

That doesn't concern me.