A Bolt from the Blue
The next day, a summons from the manager brought me to his office.
Knock, knock.
I rapped on the door and stepped inside. Jang Hojin, manager of the Wonju Flyers, was staring intently at his monitor, his expression grave.
"Ah, you're here. Have a seat for a moment."
From his appearance alone, Jang Hojin looked like the kind of man who radiated warmth—someone who simply liked people. Among the players he was famous as a benevolent, fatherly skipper. He rarely lost his temper over mistakes, and once he placed his trust in someone, he waited them out to the end.
"The club's policy regarding you has been more or less decided, so I wanted to hear your thoughts."
"Yes, sir."
"Going forward, our team intends to use you as a starter again. How do you feel about that?"
"That would be wonderful."
After being shoved into the bullpen at my previous club, the Seoul Wales, and having my pride thoroughly trampled, the words were pure relief. The Wonju Flyers were short on starting pitching, so I had half-expected it—but hearing it straight from the manager still settled something tight in my chest.
"And… in the club's judgment, we think your delivery needs a bit of adjustment. Would that be all right with you?"
To a pitcher, mechanics are life itself. From elementary school through high school and into the pros, most pitchers settle naturally into the form that feels most comfortable; it is not something you casually rewrite. Knowing that, the manager was carefully asking for my consent.
"Hmm…"
While I hesitated, he continued.
"I have no intention of forcing anything. Our organization doesn't treat players that way. We'll point out the problem areas, suggest a direction for the correction, talk it through thoroughly—and only proceed with your agreement."
"Yes… then I think that would be fine."
"Good. We'll discuss the details later with the instructors."
I had sensed it the moment I toured the training complex yesterday: this really was a player-first organization. A pitcher of my standing was normally expected to do whatever the club ordered, yet they were respecting my opinion. The thought left me unexpectedly warm.
"And… one last thing…"
Then Manager Jang's face slowly twisted. He pressed a hand to his forehead and let out a deep sigh, and the tension jumped straight into me.
"This is a decision the club and I reached after long, careful deliberation. I hope you won't take it too hard."
What on earth is he about to say…?
"This season… we do not plan to use you. Not in the first team, and not in the second team either."
The moment the words landed, my mind went blank.
Had I really just heard that?
Not using me in the first team—
That was effectively a declaration that I was surplus to requirements.
The air in the office, which had felt so warm only moments earlier, turned suddenly cold.
Every player wants to play.
Even a veteran staring down the aging curve.
Even a raw rookie short on experience.
Even a hitter whose bat has gone completely cold.
Even a player on a team mired in a ten-game losing streak—
If a professional ever starts thinking, I'm afraid to take the field, that player has already ceased to function as a pro.
That is why professionals fight tooth and nail to protect their place on the roster.
And I was no exception.
Even if half the pitches I threw sailed down the middle,
even if every outing left me getting battered in precarious situations,
the instinct inside me was still very much alive.
If I die, I want to die on the mound.
If I live, I want to live on the mound—
That is the instinct of the pitching tribe.
"Manager, I think this requires a full explanation."
So I surrendered to that instinct and met his eyes straight on. He did not look away.
"Of course. You deserve one."
A faint smile touched the corner of Jang Hojin's mouth.
"That look right there. If I hadn't seen it… I would have been deeply disappointed."
With those words he switched on the wall-mounted monitor.
"I'll explain why you can't take the field."
He pressed the remote. The screen filled with my delivery, then a slow-motion loop of the exact moment I released my changeup.
"Two years from now, our club plans to shift into win-now mode."
Manager Jang's voice was low.
"When that time comes, we intend to make you our number-one starter."
I could not hide my shock. I had assumed I had been brought in because my results were poor, because my command was shaky.
They planned to make me the ace?
It made no sense. They had poured tens of billions into building this massive training complex, drawn up plans to grind players under the banner of "win-now"—and the centerpiece of that plan was supposed to be me?
For a second the suspicion flickered that this was just lip service meant to quiet my complaints.
But there was no lie in the manager's eyes.
Only conviction. Pure, unshakable conviction.
"The problem is the present. There are far too many things that need fixing in your pitching mechanics. Especially the changeup. That pitch is destroying everything else."
He paused the video and pointed to a frame where my arm angle had gone wrong. On the monitor my arm was twisted unnaturally as I threw.
"This motion. Your arm is torquing past its natural range of motion. That's why damage keeps accumulating in your shoulder and elbow."
"Have you been feeling any pain in the elbow or shoulder?"
"Y-yes! That's right. Don't tell me that's why…!"
"Exactly. That's why this bizarre mechanism developed."
On the screen my body moved as if something were chasing it. Elbow and shoulder locked rigid, I was forcing the ball out with nothing but trunk rotation.
A habit I had never even been conscious of.
The manager continued.
"You may not feel it much yet, but if this continues, damage will keep stacking in your lower back as well, and eventually the pain will arrive. When that happens, there's no telling how long recovery will take."
When he finished, the office fell quiet for a moment.
Only the soft rush of the air conditioner brushed my ears.
"You have to scrap the changeup immediately. We need to restore your broken mechanics to normal as fast as possible."
He folded his hands on the desk.
"As a pitcher, your raw talent is truly outstanding. Physique, mentality, intelligence, feel for the ball—there isn't a single weak point."
Jang Hojin's voice was calm, yet a strange certainty ran through it.
He paused and looked again at the delivery on the monitor.
"And yet, for some reason, these excellent ingredients refuse to blend. So we made a decision."
He stopped once more, then added with quiet finality:
"Exactly half a year from now. For six months we will pour everything into rebuilding Han Doyoon. And then—"
"We will make Han Doyoon the number-one starter of the Wonju Flyers."
I could only stare at him, wordless.
The wavering release point, the twisted shoulder, and… the familiar memory of pain. Every sense of wrongness I had felt in my recent pitching suddenly had an explanation. Rationally, the entire situation made perfect sense.
The manager is right. Right now I'm broken in more places than one.
But—
Six months without a single game…?
My pitcher's instinct still seemed unable to accept it.
"…If I still wanted to pitch in games anyway, what would happen?"
"Then we'd put you out there. Right now the fifth starter slot is empty and we're filling it with bullpen days."
"…"
"Looks like you need time to think."
"…………Yes. Let me think about it a little longer."
In the end, the battle between reason and instinct never produced a winner, and that day's conversation closed on that unresolved note.
After the meeting I returned to the dorm and stared blankly at the ceiling for a long while.
You have the potential of a number-one starter.
The words kept circling inside my head. It had been so long since anyone had said anything like that to me that the idea felt foreign, almost awkward.
Did I really have something like that?
Even setting aside the special problem of the Status Window, the version of myself I had shown over the past two years with the Seoul Wales was nowhere near number-one-starter potential.
Public opinion of me had stayed exactly the same for two full seasons.
An innings-eater who could take pressure off the bullpen with his solid stamina—yet a question mark when it came to run prevention.
At best, a reliable fifth starter.
What if I spent the next six months grinding through the rebuild and still failed to show anything resembling an ace?
The club would dispose of me without hesitation so they could proceed with the planned win-now window. Even if their style was to respect a player's position and prioritize communication as much as possible, they would never let one man wreck the entire blueprint.
And on top of that—
"…Service days."
As someone who wanted free agency as soon as possible, the fact that I would not be accumulating roster days gnawed at me.
I lay there lost in thought, staring at the ceiling, until suddenly one particular face floated into my mind.
"J-jeez, you startled me. When did you get here?"
"Just now. But what were you staring at so hard?"
"Nothing important. Let me show you around first."
Without even realizing it, my finger was already dialing Cheon Sojin.