Season's End
Having climbed the twin mountains of Kim Dohyeon and Park Taewon, then sealing off cleanup hitter Ahn Boseong with a grounder to third, I finally caught my breath and headed back to the dugout.
"Doyoon, I don't need to say it, right?"
Kwak Daehwi patted my head the moment I came in. His tone was gentle, but there was steel underneath.
His words from the top of the third came back to me.
...Still, don't get too comfortable. Veterans aren't veterans for nothing. They've got that one swing in them.
I should have carved that advice into my heart. Instead, I'd stacked up complacency points thinking, Old hitters like these? No big deal... and ended up manufacturing a first-and-third, nobody-out jam all by myself.
Kwak Daehwi's words were clearly pointing that out.
I quietly bowed my head.
"...Yes, sir."
But Kwak Daehwi just grinned and clapped me on the shoulder.
"Why the long face? You only gave up one run. Six innings, one earned, you idiot. How many pitches you at?"
I must have looked pretty dejected. He was trying to lift my spirits.
"Uh... a little over seventy."
"Barely thrown anything."
He shrugged with a sly look.
"Going for the complete game today?"
"Nah, no way."
I waved him off at once.
"I'm just focusing on the seventh for now."
I'd just walked into a crisis by letting my guard down the previous inning. I didn't want to get cocky and give complacency another opening into my head.
That answer seemed to please him. Kwak Daehwi nodded, the corner of his mouth lifting higher.
"Aww, didn't take the bait."
He grinned.
"If you'd gotten all hyped about a complete game, I was gonna make you do push-ups."
It was a mischievous joke, but I understood the real meaning well enough.
I steeled myself once more.
I wouldn't make the same mistake again.
I wouldn't create room for myself to waver.
Top of the seventh. I cranked my focus to the limit, determined not to let my guard down for even a second. I wasn't going Full Power Pitching, but I was done lazily stuffing 140 km/h pitches into the zone.
Then came the bottom of the seventh—
"He goes the other way — splits the gap between right and center completely! Kim Gyeongmo's two-RBI double! The Wonju Flyers take the lead!"
Kim Gyeongmo finally uncorked some extra-base power and lifted the weight that had been crushing my shoulders.
"Han Doyoon takes the mound again in the eighth."
"Aside from the sixth, he hasn't really been in any serious trouble today."
I didn't waver in the top of the eighth either.
As if I still had gas left in the tank, I shoved hitters around with four-seam fastballs climbing back over 150 km/h. Bump the gear even a little, and the Storms' veteran bats — with their slow bat speeds — had no chance of catching up to my stuff in the first place.
When I came off after closing out the inning, the pitch count on the scoreboard caught my eye.
One hundred six.
A number that meant the limit was closing in.
If I just hadn't screwed around in the sixth...
Burning through thirty pitches in that single inning alone stung more bitterly than anything at this point.
"Doyoon, that's enough for today."
My hand froze on the water bottle. I'd expected it, but hearing it out loud still sent regret rising first.
"...Manager—"
He raised a hand lightly and cut me off.
"I know. You could probably grind out one more inning. But there's no need to force it. No reason to push yourself just because it's the last game."
The 106 on the scoreboard filled my vision again. I drew a quiet breath. The manager tapped my shoulder.
"Doyoon, you did plenty today. I know you want the complete game, but hold off just this once. There'll be plenty of chances next season."
It was disappointing, but... he was right. One hundred six pitches. Handing the rest to Gang Junseong — our bullpen's only true lock-down arm — was the smart call.
"...Yes, sir. Understood."
The manager nodded without a word.
It's a shame, but... that's enough for today.
I left the regret behind and headed for the training room.
When I came out after icing, Gang Junseong was already on the mound. Thirty-eight this year — a true old-timer. He'd once reigned as the guardian of the Wales, but after his extension fell through at thirty-four, he'd been stitching his career together on one-year deals ever since.
Whoosh—!
Damn... how does this hyung still throw like that?
Gang Junseong's signature weapon: the cutter. Velocity had dropped three or four kilometers from his prime, but the movement was still very much alive. Even just that one pitch showed the same late bite at the end.
Crack!
The inside cutter he threw to sixth hitter Park Gwangseop bored deep into the hands. It caught the thin part of the bat clean—
Snap!
A sharp crack, and the bat split.
The ball died and rolled out in front of the plate. Kim Gyeongmo scooped it up in one smooth motion and flipped it lightly to first.
"Out!"
The first-base umpire's call, and the whole ballpark erupted in a roar.
Game over.
I stood with my hands on the dugout rail, staring blankly as Gang Junseong recorded the final out. The power in that pitching made the word "veteran" feel completely wrong.
When the game ended, Gang Junseong didn't overdo it and didn't celebrate too hard. He just exhaled once, took off his cap, and raised it lightly toward the stands. Every motion was restrained, practiced — the finish of a true old pro.
Players started pouring out of the dugout one by one to high-five him. I naturally fell into the line and approached my senior.
"Sunbae-nim, that last pitch... that was insane."
When I said it with genuine awe in my voice, Gang Junseong tapped my shoulder once and grinned.
"Hey, look who's talking. You just threw eight innings by yourself."
He said it casually on the surface, but the weight of his hand on my shoulder carried a clear, honest you did well.
Over the stadium speakers, a broadcast thanked the fans who'd stayed through the final game, and the crowd kept cheering, waiting for the team to come out and bow.
I took a moment to catch my breath and looked up at a night sky that had gone completely dark without my noticing.
...So this season's over too.
A lot had happened this year. I'd gotten that damn Status Window, been saddled with the garbage skill Blockhead Thrower, and eventually been treated like a trade chip and shipped out of the hometown team I'd grown so attached to.
But after coming to the new club, that same Status Window I'd once resented had restored the velocity I'd lost, and I'd finally broken free of Blockhead Thrower. And with a solid eight innings and one run allowed in my final start, I'd managed to settle into the new team.
Applause was still rolling down from the stands. Even though we'd finished dead last, the fans were clapping from the heart for the fight the team had shown down the stretch.
I slowly looked around the ballpark. The team that had felt so foreign at first, the mound that had felt so awkward — both felt strangely comfortable now.
My desire to go back to the Wales once I hit free agency hadn't changed. That had been my dream since before I was even a ballplayer.
But the name Flyers had quietly, firmly made a place for itself right beside the Wales in my heart.
The fans' cheers. The laughter with my teammates. A front office that believed in a washed-up prospect everyone else had pointed fingers at.
I wanted to repay all of them.
Next year... let's do even better.
About an hour after the game ended, the Flyers' team bus pulled up in front of the most famous barbecue joint in downtown Wonju. They'd rented out the entire place so the front office and the whole roster could spend the last night of the season together.
The moment we opened the door, staff who'd already arrived had meat and side dishes neatly set on every table, waiting for us.
"The players are here!"
Someone called out, and every head inside the restaurant turned our way at once.
"You all worked so hard this year!"
"You really pitched great today!"
"Seats are over this way — come on over!"
The staff hyped us up as we filed in. It was a little overwhelming, but pride hit first. A small smile spread across my face on its own.
We sat down, and for about thirty minutes drinks and meat flew around in a blur. Every table had already settled into its own warm, well-aged atmosphere.
At ours, Kang Daegeun had already finished a bottle of soju and was halfway slumped over.
"Sunbae-nim... I really never thought I'd debut this year, sir..."
"Hey, you're already wasted?"
Kim Gyeongmo shoved Daegeun's head away with a scolding, but his face looked happier than it had all season.
Coaches leaning back and cackling. Front-office staff circulating to pour drinks at other tables. Even the seniors who usually held back for body management were inhaling meat. Everyone was clearly savoring the pure liberation of the season is over.
And our captain, Kwak Daehwi — I'd been wondering where he went — was wedged in among the front-office staff, flipping meat on the grill.
"Oh my, so tonight we get to try meat grilled by Daehwi himself~?"
"Give me the tongs. This stuff burns fast."
True to form as the Flyers' longest-tenured player, he looked completely at ease with the staff — not a hint of awkwardness.
Eating meat, trading glasses, front office and players mixed together cracking jokes, tossing each other light words of you worked hard this year.
Then—
Ding-a-ling~
A small bell chimed from the door. Someone hurried into the restaurant, still fixing their hair.
"Ah — hello. Sorry I'm a little late."
It was Cheon Sojin.