That Damn Status Window

The day I awakened this damn Status Window goes back about a month.

Near the end of the first half, the club informed me that I'd be moving to the bullpen for the second half.

Thirteen games in the first half. Three wins, seven losses. ERA of 5.32.

I'd been given the fifth-starter spot for two straight years, and this was already my third season. With numbers like that, I couldn't exactly complain about getting shoved into the bullpen. Honestly, the only reason I was even getting this last chance as a reliever was the residual prestige of being a first-round pick — even a broken one. If I'd been some lower-round guy putting up the same garbage, I'd have been shipped to the minors or released on the spot.

A fastball that barely scraped 140 km/h. Mediocre off-speed stuff. Control and stamina were decent enough that I could grind through innings, but that was about it.

At the end of the day, you need raw stuff to back everything up — and I didn't have it. So instead of growing every year, I just kept sliding backward.

…I understood it all rationally. Still, for someone who'd only ever been a starting pitcher, the hit to my pride was hard to swallow.

After the first half wrapped, I got three days off during the All-Star break and headed home for the first time in a while. Since I had the vacation, I figured I'd rest up, recharge, and come back swinging for a second-half turnaround.

Today was the last day of leave. I'd stayed up gaming until four in the morning, making the most of my final free day, then passed out cold. When I opened my eyes, it was already three in the afternoon.

"I have to be back by four… better wash up and get ready."

The ballpark was about a twenty-minute walk. Five minutes by car, sure — but I was a professional athlete. Covering that kind of distance on foot counted as a warm-up.

I shuffled into the bathroom, finished my shower, and stood in front of the sink.

"Damn. Not bad, if I do say so myself."

The sacred post-shower ritual of every guy in his twenties: checking yourself out ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠in the mirror. I turned this way and that, then a thought hit me.

"Hmm. If I just bulked up the chest a little more, I'd look seriously jacked."

The second that thought crossed my mind, the sink was right there in front of me. On impulse, I grabbed the edge and started doing push-ups.

I'd gotten through maybe twenty when I figured the pump had set in and went to check —

— slip!

My hands slid off the wet porcelain, and I went straight down.

— thud!

How long was I out after cracking my head on the bathroom floor?

"Augh… shit. Did I split my skull open? That hurts like hell…"

Thankfully, I managed to come to. Still rubbing my throbbing head, I pushed myself upright.

And then —

Something weird started floating in front of my eyes the moment I came to.

"…What the hell is this?"

I'd blacked out for a second, and now a translucent window had appeared in front of me — and it was analyzing my body? Don't tell me this was —

"OOOOOH!!!!"

A Status Window! Just like the protagonists in web novels — was I about to become a broken, overpowered baseball player?

With the power of the Status Window, my fastball would easily clear 160 km/h, my control would be laser-precise, my breaking balls would snake and dive like living things —

Was I finally about to escape the eternal fifth-starter purgatory…?!

I managed to calm my racing heart and took a closer look at the window.

"This looks almost exactly like that baseball game I play all the time."

A baseball simulation game pretty popular among hardcore fans — OOTS for short.

The layout was nearly identical to the player attribute screens in OOTS.

My stats, though? Even being generous, they were nothing to write home about. Stuff and Movement both sitting at 45, velocity a measly 140 km/h. Most of my attributes were below average.

…Well, what did I expect?

That was exactly how good I actually was.

I'd gotten a Status Window, so I could just grow from here, right?

The one silver lining was Control. A 65 was genuinely satisfying. Whatever else I lacked, I was confident in my command.

— Ding!

"Jesus! Nearly gave me a heart attack."

"…A tutorial quest?"

The reward was a random rare skill. I still didn't fully understand, but unlike OOTS, this thing apparently had skills too? The attribute window looked the same, but the finer details were different.

I'd barely ever touched gacha games, so I wasn't sure — but a rare skill had to be something decent, right?

It wasn't a hard quest either. Might as well clear it and check the reward.

Below, brief descriptions of the three primary attributes were listed.

"Yeah. Same as OOTS."

— Ding!

The quest progress ticked up automatically the moment I read the first line.

I worked through the rest without any trouble and cleared the tutorial quest. I already knew all of it, but it never hurt to double-check.

"Okay… time to pull the gacha?"

With my heart pounding, I opened the random rare skill —

— Ding!

"…W-what? Blockhead… Thrower?"

The name alone set off every alarm bell in my head. And the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠moment I read the skill description, that bad feeling crystallized into cold, hard reality.

The first line wasn't bad. No — it was better than not bad. It was fantastic. Fastball-type attributes +5.

You might think, "Only five?" — but on the 20–80 scouting scale used in baseball, five points is a massive jump. Enough to change a player's entire tier.

The problem was the next line.

"Wild-pitch probability locked at 50%…?"

Even at a glance, that was an absurd penalty.

If you were one of those so-called "archery pitchers" who just aimed down the middle and threw, it might be survivable. Even if a pitch leaked, you could muscle through it with pure stuff.

But for a finesse pitcher like me, whose entire game was built on pinpoint control? A wild pitch? Leave one over the plate by even a hair, or let one flatten out, and it was going yard. I probably wouldn't even be able to hang on.

"Fucking hell. What kind of rigged garbage is this?"

In most web novels, the early rewards were broken overpowered cheats. So why was I getting a skill that was basically a debuff?

"Haah… if I just hadn't done that stupid push-up stunt on the sink…"

Obviously, taking the mound with a penalty like that was pure insanity. A control specialist who couldn't control the ball — how was that supposed to work?

Whether I wanted it or not, every pitch kept drifting toward the heart of the plate. Eventually the manager accused me of deliberately picking fights with hitters, and I got the trade notice.

This situation wasn't entirely the Status Window's fault… but if it had just been a matter of my own lack of talent, at least ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠I wouldn't feel this cheated.

Resentment and regret tightened around my throat all at once. I slumped down against the hallway wall and stared blankly at the ceiling.

I'd been sitting there in a daze for a while when —

— Bzzzt!

My phone suddenly buzzed in my pocket.

"What…? Number I don't recognize."

Ah — the manager had said the team that was taking me would be calling soon. So who was crazy enough to want me?

"Hello?"

"Am I speaking with Han Doyoon of the Seoul Wales?"

A woman's voice I'd never heard before came through the speaker.

"Yes. This is Han Doyoon."

"Ah, yes — Han Doyoon! Hello! This is Cheon Sojin from the Wonju Flyers operations team! Do you have a moment to talk?"

A warm, energetic voice on the other end of the line.

But hang on. What team did she just say?

My mind went completely blank.

‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠

"…The Wonju Flyers?"