Love at First Sight
Crack!
"A sharp hit! But it's right at the shortstop — over to second, on to first—"
The crack of the bat rang out, and the moment the broadcasters' voices spiked, Dad and I both locked onto the screen.
"He's out! Game over! Final score four to three — the Daejeon Titans are headed to the Korean Series!"
"Ugh, tsk. Why'd he even swing at that?"
Dad clicked his tongue from the living room couch, where we'd been watching baseball after dinner.
"That's Han Ijun's problem. Always does this when it counts."
"Come on, the Mariners only got this far because of Han Ijun. That's too harsh."
"Too harsh? The next batter was Kang Heewon. If he'd just made contact and moved the runners along without getting greedy, that would've been enough."
Dad shook his head and rose from his seat.
"Dad, did you switch to rooting for the Mariners?"
"Switch? Hardly. It's just that the Mariners had the easier path up, that's all."
"Ah. So that's why."
Mom, who had been watching quietly until then, spoke up in a sympathetic voice.
"Poor thing. That player must be going through so much."
I nodded without a word. Playoff Game Five. A double play in a situation where a single hit would have tied the game. You didn't need anyone to explain what that weight felt like.
On the TV, the Daejeon Titans players came pouring out onto the mound, pulling each other into embraces. Then the camera cut, and there was Han Ijun standing in front of the Busan Mariners dugout. Helmet tossed aside, head bowed. Hair a mess, hands trembling faintly. At last he covered his face.
"…Oh no. He's crying."
Teammates came over and patted his back, but Han Ijun couldn't lift his head for a long while. I watched in silence.
"I'm gonna take out the recycling."
I couldn't stand looking at that cruel scene any longer — winners and losers sharing the same frame — so I got up from my seat.
"Hoo…"
The mid-October night air was fairly cold. Even as I sorted the recycling, that last image of Han Ijun wouldn't leave my head.
A double play.
Playoff Game Five. Final at-bat.
The moment he sealed his own team's elimination with his own hands.
Dad had pointed fingers. Mom had offered comfort. But what I felt was different from either of them.
Still… he stood in that spot.
Bottom of the ninth.
The whole stadium holding its breath as his name was called, walking out to the plate with bat in hand.
That scene rose up before the image of him crying ever did. Carrying every expectation on his back, standing dead center in a showdown he couldn't run from.
I was jealous.
Purely, simply jealous.
Of the fact that even in failure, he had stood in a place where you could put everything on the line.
Back in my Whales days, I'd set foot in the postseason myself. But back then I was an extra. I'd been a starter through the regular season, only to get bumped from the rotation once fall ball arrived, demoted to the bullpen, and never once called when it truly mattered.
Maybe that was why.
Even looking at that batter with his head hung low, what came to mind before the defeat itself was the back of a man whose name had been called, walking to the plate with every eye in the park on him.
Not a place where it was okay to fail — a place you had to stand even ready to fail.
That was what I envied.
Next season, I want to make it to fall baseball. And… I want to stand in that spot.
The place I'd always been familiar with since I first started playing. The place that had somehow drifted far away once I turned pro. I steeled myself then and there — I would get back to that role of the main character.
I finished with the recycling and was opening the villa's front door to head back inside when someone came down from upstairs. A large box hid their face. I stepped aside and waited for them to pass.
"…Haeun?"
"Ah — hello. Haha…"
The person coming down with the box was Park Haeun. She was dressed casually, the same way she had been the first day I met her.
"Heading out for recycling?"
"Yeah, as you can see…"
"I'll help. Let's go together."
"Oh, it's fine, really…"
She said that, but the box looked pretty heavy. My hands were already reaching for it.
"It'll go faster with two people."
"…Thank you."
When I took the box, a solid weight settled into my hands.
"You came out for recycling the second the game ended?"
"Uh, yeah. You too, Doyoon?"
"Of course. You don't walk out on Playoff Game Five."
The more often we ran into each other, the more I could feel Park Haeun treating me with real ease.
"The game was seriously good. At the end, one out, runners on first and second, and Han Ijun steps in—!"
"I know, right? How do you hit into a double play right there of all places…"
True to form as a hardcore baseball nerd, the moment the topic turned to baseball Park Haeun started chirping and pouring out words nonstop. We went on for a while about the game, and then one line of hers snagged in my ear.
"Kim Wonjun looked a little off today, so I thought it might get dangerous — but luckily it ended clean with a double play."
Luckily…?
It hadn't been my pitch, of course, but as a fellow pitcher I couldn't just let that slide.
"Hey, that wasn't luck. The pitcher did a good job inducing the ground ball."
My expression hardened before I could stop it. But Park Haeun didn't back down either.
"The closer came in and put two men on, and he didn't get a single strikeout."
"Still, he finished it by inducing a grounder with a splitter. He got the out — isn't that what matters?"
"In terms of the result, sure."
Then she kept right on going.
"But with one out and runners on first and second, the expected runs go over one. On average, that's a situation where a run scores."
"…I'm not really following. What's expected runs?"
"It's a number that shows, for a given situation, how many runs score on average before the inning ends."
Park Haeun traced a simple line in the air with her finger.
"It's calculated for every combination of baserunners and outs. One out, first and second — average of 1.15 runs."
"Based on historical data, right?"
"Yes. The average of thousands, tens of thousands of similar situations collected together."
I nodded.
"So by that number, getting out of it is the rare case."
"Exactly. That's why I said he got lucky. He got a better result than the average."
"…That's fascinating. I never thought of looking at it that way."
Hearing her explain it piece by piece, I started to understand why Park Haeun had said "lucky." What I'd pictured was a single at-bat on the mound; what Park Haeun was looking at was a thousand similar scenes all at once. That way of seeing things had a strangely persuasive force. The feeling of a professional baseball player learning baseball from a civilian was a little unfamiliar — and a little refreshing.
"Still, though."
"…Yes?"
"From a player's perspective, it's kind of unfair. You throw low and lower trying not to give up a run, and then someone just calls it luck."
I deliberately put on a wounded look, and Park Haeun waved her hands in a fluster.
"Ah, no — I'm not saying the pitcher threw badly…"
"But in the end you're saying luck was mixed in."
"Mixed in, yes — not that it was pure luck…"
She took a breath and spoke carefully.
"A pitcher's choices don't always lead to the same result… that was all I meant."
A brief silence.
"Still, though."
"…Yes?"
"There are cases where the pitcher did it one hundred percent. Absolutely."
"Like what?"
I had a pretty good idea, but after the wounded act I'd just pulled, Park Haeun looked a little dejected for no good reason, so I pretended not to know. She hesitated a beat, then said it.
"A strikeout."
"…"
"An out that has nothing to do with the defense, the wind, or the ballpark. Just the pitcher and the batter left standing."
When she finished, Park Haeun gave a little shrug for no particular reason. The lively Park Haeun was back. I nodded, then asked,
"So in a situation like earlier — one out, first and second. Is the pitcher who gets the double play better, or the one who gets the strikeout?"
The second the words left my mouth, Park Haeun shook her head.
"No. The question itself is a little off."
"…How so?"
"You can't put double plays and strikeouts on the same line."
Park Haeun drew a small square in the air with her finger.
"A double play isn't an out the pitcher gets alone. It's a result the defense completes."
"Oh. That's fair."
"So you have to ask it like this."
She said it clearly.
"With one out and runners on first and second — is the pitcher who induces a ground ball better, or the pitcher who gets the strikeout?"
"And your answer, Haeun?"
No hesitation at all.
"Obviously the strikeout."
"Wow, really? That strongly? If you just get a ground ball, doesn't it usually turn into a double play?"
Park Haeun shook her head.
"That 'usually' is the problem."
"…"
"Ground balls have way too many variables. Exit velocity, direction, defensive positioning, the runners' jump."
She ticked them off one by one on her fingers.
"Strikeouts don't have any of that. The second the ball hits the mitt, it's over. If you're a pitcher, you have to go for the strikeout."
Park Haeun looked especially alive whenever she talked about baseball. Not the shy, careful version of her from everyday life — this was the face that only came out when she was talking about something she truly loved.
I was watching that face with quiet fondness when—
"That's why I fell for you at first sight the moment I saw you, Doyoon."
"…What?"
A line anyone would mishear came tumbling out of Park Haeun's mouth far too naturally. For a moment, the air between us shifted.
"…Uh."
"…"
Park Haeun's eyes went wide a beat late, as if she'd only just caught the meaning of her own words.
"Ah — no, I mean — that is—"
"Yeah, yeah. I get what you meant."
I looked away for no good reason. Park Haeun, red all the way to her ears, rushed to add,
"As a player! As a pitcher! I meant I like that style—"
"I know."
I knew perfectly well that wasn't what Park Haeun had meant at all — but my heart, apparently, did not, because it was beating just a little faster.