A Smooth Start
Wales Park, after two months away, looked exactly the same.
So this is what the view from the third-base dugout feels like…
Everything was familiar—except for the one fact that I was sitting in the visiting team's dugout. Even in a stadium I knew by heart, the shift in perspective made it feel strangely foreign.
"Doyoon. Look over there. They're filming you."
"I know. Don't talk to me. I'm managing my face right now."
Kim Gyeongmo, seated beside me, grinned and pointed toward the cameras.
He was starting today as the eighth hitter and catcher. Ever since his call-up to the first team, he'd been bouncing between starter and backup with steady playing time. He knew the full story of my yips that weren't really yips, and we'd already built chemistry together in the second team—so today, he was behind the plate from the first pitch.
"Play ball!"
"Game's started. Quit posing and get up."
The umpire's call rang out, and Kim Gyeongmo tapped my thigh.
"Whew."
Only then did I stand, still half-conscious of the cameras, and stretch.
"You not warming up?"
"I am. Now."
I twisted my waist side to side, then picked up my glove.
"Wow. You were just sitting there fretting over the cameras? Look at the superstar over here."
"Come on—the producer asked me to. It's not exactly hard. I'm heading to the bullpen."
"Go ahead."
Leaving Kim Gyeongmo and his teasing behind, I headed for the bullpen.
Thud. Thud.
"Nice ball!"
Before the game, I threw a simple warm-up at about eighty percent. The ball drove into the mitt with a vicious crack. The bullpen catcher tossed in little flourishes of encouragement between pitches, keeping the energy up.
Then I ramped it to a full hundred percent—and the sound that came off the mitt was nearly a gunshot.
Condition's perfect today.
"Whoa. That ball is filthy."
Even the bullpen catcher, who'd been feeding me mechanical praise, let out a genuine gasp at the sheer force of it.
A roar rose from the field while I was still throwing. At the same time, Kim Gyeongmo walked into the bullpen already strapped into his catcher's gear.
"Top of the first's over. Let's go."
"Yes, sir."
I exhaled once, short and sharp, and stepped out of the bullpen.
The moment my cleats hit the grass, a clean rush of adrenaline hit me and my heart kicked into a faster rhythm.
Watch closely. I'll show you.
This was the hour to prove what I'd become—right here, in the park I'd returned to.
A wall of boos crashed down the instant I appeared on the mound—from the home stands and the visiting section alike. Looking up, I saw Wales uniforms filling more than half the away seats.
Resentful noise aimed at the guy who'd posted lousy numbers and gotten run out of the organization.
For someone who had once worn that uniform—and who still hoped, someday, to wear it again—the sound left a bitter taste and a sharp spur at the same time.
I may go back someday. But today, I'm going to walk all over you.
"Batting first, center fielder, Kim Yeongseon."
My first batter of the return start stepped into the box: Kim Yeongseon.
He settled in, looked at me, and smirked.
Kim Yeongseon had been a senior of mine since my rookie days with the Wales. That smile held a little welcome, sure—but it also said, clear as day, I know exactly who you are.
He was wrong about one thing, though.
Four-seam.
The pitchcom fed me the sign. I set, half nerves and half thrill, and threw the first pitch of the night—
A hiss of air. A solid pop.
The ball bored in on the outer half against the right-handed hitter and punched the mitt. The umpire's right hand shot up at once.
"Strike!"
Senior—I'm not the guy you remember.
I was not the Han Doyoon from two months ago.
"Han Doyoon, back at Wales Park after two months, sets for the first pitch."
"In his pregame interview today he said he wanted to show a different side of himself. Honestly, when you think of Han Doyoon, you think command and tempo more than raw velocity."
"Right. Low-one-forties four-seam, heavy slider and changeup usage. He beat hitters with smarts more than power."
"There were reports his velocity jumped in the second team. Whatever that 'different side' is—we may see it on the very first pitch."
"Here comes the first one—"
Han Doyoon loaded and drove the ball hard. The moment it slammed into the mitt—
A roar exploded from the Flyers fans as they checked the number on the board.
"That—that just read one-fifty-six!"
Shock flooded the play-by-play man's voice. He double-checked the broadcast graphic, then the stadium board itself. The number was real.
One hundred fifty-six kilometers per hour.
"Ha… he said he wanted to show something different. Is this what he meant?"
The color commentator laughed and shook his head—disbelief and pure excitement fighting for space on his face.
"Han Doyoon's season high before today was one-forty-one! Two months later he comes back and erases that mark on the first pitch!"
The play-by-play voice climbed higher with every word.
"Oh… Kim Yeongseon looks completely rattled."
The camera cut tight on the batter's face. Kim Yeongseon had taken a full step back out of the box and kept tilting his head, as if the reading simply would not compute.
"Exactly. Even watching on the feed we can barely believe it—imagine standing in that box!"
Crowd, booth, players on the field—everyone reeled. On the mound, Han Doyoon did not so much as flinch.
Expression unchanged, he took the ball back from the catcher.
And waited for the next sign.
A hard buzz cut the air.
On the fourth pitch—a slider—Kim Yeongseon's bat carved nothing but empty space. The second the ball nested in the mitt, I clenched my fist.
The Flyers fans, who'd been pinned under the sheer number for a few beats, finally found their voices and let them rip. They were outnumbered enough that the home crowd had spilled into the visiting seats—but the volume of that cheer filled Wales Stadium end to end.
Pitch one: four-seam fastball, 156 km/h.
Pitch two: four-seam fastball, 154 km/h.
Pitch three: four-seam fastball, 151 km/h.
Pitch four: slider, 143 km/h.
The simplest sequence in the book. When you trust your stuff, you don't need to get cute with the mix.
A deep arsenal of off-speed? Painting every corner?
That's for guys whose fastball is garbage.
I let a pure Blockhead Thrower thought roll through my head and looked at Kim Yeongseon, still frozen after the strikeout. He stood there with the bat half-raised, then slowly shook his head and turned toward me. Panic, confusion, and a shock he clearly did not want to admit all mixed in his eyes.
In the second team, unless a game is televised, the data never gets logged cleanly. No official velocity, no pitch-type records. To know what a second-team arm is throwing, you send scouts or build your own charts.
Which meant the people most blindsided right now were the Wales.
There's no way that kid is throwing that kind of ball…
Kim Yeongseon, the rest of the Wales lineup, the coaching staff in the dugout—every one of them was thinking the same thing. I could read it on their faces.
Yeah. Be surprised.
I tipped my cap slightly—courtesy to a former teammate and senior.
Have a seat, Senior.
I murmured it under my breath and smiled. Kim Yeongseon bit his lip, glared at me, then spun and stalked back to the dugout. The moment he arrived he started talking to the next hitter—telling him, no doubt, what the ball had felt like.
Didn't matter.
My fastball was never just a number. Thirty-two centimeters of vertical break on the four-seam, plus the long extension my natural flexibility gave me. Until you stood in the box yourself, no description would do it justice.
The next batter walked out.
Number two, left-handed hitter Park Taehyung—one of the Wales' young leadoff types. Whatever Kim Yeongseon had told him, he adjusted his helmet as he stepped in and eyed me with unusual care.
Good. At least he came prepared.
Kim Gyeongmo tapped the mitt twice, then opened it wide.
Cutter.
Kim Gyeongmo's voice came through the pitchcom. I gave a small nod and set.
A sharp hiss—then a crack.
The cutter bored in on the lefty's hands. Park Taehyung's bat snapped and clattered to the dirt.
A soft thud.
A short chopper dropped in front of the plate. Park Taehyung broke hard for first.
But Kim Gyeongmo had already ripped off his mask and scooped the ball in one motion. He turned and fired—compact, clean, on target.
The ball beat the runner. The umpire's call rang out at the same instant. Park Taehyung launched into a headfirst dive, but he was already late.
First batter: strikeout. Second: groundout to the catcher. Two at-bats, and neither one had managed a clean swing.
This is going better than I expected.
I adjusted my cap and caught my breath. The heat rising through Wales Park pressed in from every side.
"Swing and a miss! Strike three!"
The play-by-play man's voice soared.
"Two months since his last start—his first game after the trade—and Han Doyoon just retired his former club one-two-three in the first inning!"
The whole stadium shook. Home boos and visiting cheers tangled into a strange, electric heat.
The broadcast camera locked on Han Doyoon as he came off the mound, fist clenched—full of confidence, eyes set with resolve.