How to Let Go of Greed
Footsteps thudded against the dirt.
My eyes met Kim Gyeongmo's as he climbed the mound. Even with runners on first and second and nobody out, his expression was utterly calm.
"Tough break. Just bad luck."
He said it like a comfort, but my gaze had already drifted elsewhere.
A player was cutting from the dugout toward the bullpen, spikes scraping the concrete.
I understood the manager's thinking. I was a pitcher making my return start today. My stuff had been good enough so far, sure — but eating six innings in a comeback outing was hardly the norm.
Still…
Six innings, three runs or fewer. I have to get it done.
After two straight months of suffering under the Blockhead Thrower penalty — that fifty-percent wild-pitch rate — all I wanted was to finish the Awakening Quest and free myself from the misery as fast as possible.
And more than that—
If I don't do it today, they might figure me out.
Until this start, no team had a real read on the new me. That was the only reason I'd managed five scoreless innings despite the Blockhead Thrower penalty. Next time out, they'd come prepared with a full scouting report — and putting up a performance like today's would get a lot harder.
So today was my best shot. And with one step left to go, I hated the idea of letting it slip away.
"Doyoon."
Kim Gyeongmo's voice pulled me out of my thoughts.
"It's written all over your face. You're being greedy."
I shut my mouth. He'd hit the mark dead-on. He watched me dodge his eyes and let out a short laugh.
"It's fine. On a day like this, it'd be weirder if you weren't hungry for it. But look over there for a second."
He pointed behind me.
"The score's five–nothing. You know that?"
The words stuck in my throat.
"…Five–nothing?"
"Yeah. You didn't know, did you?"
He laughed like he couldn't believe it.
"Doyoon. We're winning right now."
Only then did the scoreboard come into focus.
Wonju Flyers 5 : Seoul Wales 0.
The numbers were printed clear as day.
I… didn't even know?
My mind went blank.
Everything I'd been so locked in on wasn't the outcome of this game. It was a single line of text — Third Journey: Complete six innings allowing three runs or fewer — and that sentence alone had been running the show inside my head, like it mattered more than the actual reality in front of me.
"…Hyung."
Shame hit me all at once.
"Doyoon, you've been off today."
Kim Gyeongmo took both my shoulders and held my eyes.
"You come back to the dugout and you don't care who gets a hit. You've been glued to that tablet all day, watching nothing but your own pitches."
He paused, then pointed toward the bullpen.
"And when you looked over there earlier — you know your whole face locked up, right?"
I had nothing to say. He'd nailed it again. The second I saw the bullpen warming, the first thought through my head had been, If they bring someone in, I won't finish six.
Not the team. Me.
Not the game. The quest.
Having it laid out that cleanly made my face burn.
"…I'm sorry."
It was all I could manage.
"You've got nothing to apologize for."
His voice stayed even.
"First start back in two months — of course you're greedy. But that's why I'm here."
He tapped his mitt lightly.
"We're a team. I catch what you miss, you fill in what I don't know — that's baseball."
It was a short line, but there was something warmer in it than any scolding could have carried.
Right… I've been out here throwing alone.
I drew a quiet breath and nodded.
"I get it now, hyung."
Kim Gyeongmo nodded back, a warm smile on his face.
"Good. Then let's actually pitch."
Once Kim Gyeongmo headed back behind the plate, I finally started reading the game the way I should have. Score: five–nothing. Nobody out, runners on first and second. And the bullpen pitcher had just started getting loose.
What I needed to do in this spot was clear.
I stepped on the rubber and stared in at home plate without moving.
Fifteen seconds. Fourteen. Thirteen. Twelve…
I watched the pitch clock bleed down.
And with three seconds left—
I stepped off and fired to second.
"Safe!"
The lead hadn't been big. The runner at second jogged back standing up, no sweat.
It looked like a throwaway pickoff attempt — but there was a clear purpose behind it.
With the Blockhead Thrower wild-pitch penalty hanging over me, I couldn't grind out long at-bats. Results came fast, one way or another — which meant the bullpen pitcher would never get enough time to finish warming up.
Getting this hitter out matters. But right now, buying time comes first.
I took the ball back from shortstop Kang Daegeun, settled my breathing on the mound, and looked in at the plate.
Cutter.
The pitch-com lit up with the sign. I shook it off on purpose, putting on a face like I didn't like it, and let the clock keep running.
Cutter.
Same sign again with seven seconds left. Kim Gyeongmo knew I was stalling — he didn't change it.
I took a short breath and, at three seconds, let the arm go.
The ball bled just off the outside corner.
"Ball!"
I hadn't meant for it to miss, but it wasn't a bad result.
Four-seam.
I waited the clock all the way down to three again, then threw.
A wild pitch has occurred!
"Strike!"
Luckily, Kim Yeongseon had no intention of offering at it — he bailed out of the box entirely, and the ump rang up the strike.
Kim Yeongseon had been in the box for a good five minutes, and the count was still only one-and-one.
A tempo I could live with.
The crack of wood.
Kim Yeongseon barely fouled off the fourth pitch and called time. He spun the bat upright, pulled off his helmet, caught his breath, and spat the words out.
"Throw the damn ball already. This is filthy — what the hell are you even doin'?"
Irritation was written all over his face as he tugged his batting gloves back on. Kim Gyeongmo heard every word and answered with pure indifference.
"You're a real piece of work too. So why's his stuff gotten so fast, huh? It's that, right? That stuff."
Even the dig about PEDs got nothing out of Kim Gyeongmo.
"Time's up."
At the umpire's call, Kim Yeongseon jammed his helmet back on and stepped in. Impatience was already sitting in his expression.
Then came the fifth pitch.
Han Doyoon worked the pitch clock all the way down again — breathed, breathed once more — and fired.
A high pitch in on the hands. Kim Yeongseon thought he had it and swung with everything he had.
A clean, ringing contact sent the ball toward the outfield.
But the bat had caught the bottom half. The ball died short of carrying, and the center fielder settled under it for the catch.
The runner at second tagged and moved up. One out, runners on first and third.
Slowing the tempo has side effects I didn't expect.
I'd only been dragging things out to give the bullpen arm time to get ready — but it was doing more than that.
Kim Yeongseon was a classic Gyeongsang hothead, temper short and fuse shorter. The longer I milked every pitch clock, the more the irritation started leaking straight onto his face.
And on that fifth pitch—
…Ah, damn.
A high fastball in on the hands. My fingertips slipped just enough that the ball rode up higher than I'd wanted, and Kim Yeongseon's bat came with it. A center-field fly that let the runner advance — but another out on the board. I could live with that.
Next up: Gang Seunghyeok.
Gang Seunghyeok had debuted last year and walked off with Rookie of the Year as a first-year. But even that title didn't cover what this kid was capable of.
In modern baseball, the two-hole was the most important spot in the order. The fact that a second-year player was hitting second for a Wales team built to win a championship said everything about how much of a monster he was.
Power, contact, plate discipline — nothing missing. And as a lefty, he was someone I had to handle with real care.
I glanced at the bullpen. The pitcher was already on a mound, set in a full delivery, throwing with intent. He looked just about ready.
I've bought all the time I can.
Even if I gave up a home run here, the score would still be five–three. Getting the out was ideal — but there was no reason to pitch scared.
I threw the first pitch with a lighter chest.
A wild pitch has occurred!
"Strike!"
Whew…
A wild pitch on the first offering — but Gang Seunghyeok just watched it go by. I smoothed the jump out of my chest and set for the next one.
Four-seam.
I settled my breath and threw.
He's not biting?
The ball just missed the outside edge of the zone, and Gang Seunghyeok kept the bat on his shoulder. Most hitters would have been tempted to stab at a backdoor slider look. This guy was no free out.
His eyes sharpened a notch.
From here on, it was real.
Third pitch. He'd laid off the second, so I went to the backdoor slider.
And then—
A wild pitch has occurred!
The crack of contact.
Gang Seunghyeok jumped all over the slider that hung middle-in and drove a bullet of a line drive.
It was coming straight at me. I lunged with the glove—
Not even close. It screamed past my hip.
That one's gone clean through…
And then something flashed into the blind spot at the edge of my vision.
Kang Daegeun.
He threw his body full-out, fully horizontal, glove stretched to the absolute limit.
Dirt hissed under him as he slid — and the ball vanished into the pocket of his glove.
Reflexes that barely seemed real.
Still sliding, he dropped to a knee, tagged second with his bare left hand—
—then twisted his torso from that kneeling position and fired hard to first.
"Out!"
A picture-perfect double play.
Just like that, the sixth inning was over.