Hell Camp (2)

After finishing Day Seven, Kwak Daehwi took us back to the same barbecue place we'd gone to on the first day.

"What are you waiting for? Dig in."

Kwak Daehwi grilled the meat himself and handed out pieces one by one, but aside from Gang Junseong — who was far senior to him — the rest of us just sat there reading the room, too wary to bring anything to our mouths. Kwak Daehwi flashed that easygoing smile of his.

"Hey, hey. The hard part ended today. You can really eat freely."

He said it to put us at ease, but we still couldn't drop the suspicion. A week ago he'd told us to eat as much as we wanted, and once we were stuffed —

"Alright, you ate well, so now you work off what you ate, yeah?"

— that was when the hellish conditioning had begun. We remembered it vividly.

"F-for real……?"

The first one to speak up was, surprisingly, Kang Daegeun — the one who'd been worked the hardest. He'd spent the entire grilling session unable to tear his eyes off the meat, and now he looked ready to shove a piece into his mouth the second he got the green light.

"Yeah. Eat easy, I'm telling you."

Kang Daegeun snatched up a piece of meat at once — then froze as Kwak Daehwi added, almost casually,

"You gotta eat hard if you want to train hard."

‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠

At that offhand, terrifying follow-up, Kang Daegeun started trembling all over again and set the meat back down. While we were locked in that battle with our own appetites, Gang Junseong, who'd been watching us in silence, finally spoke up like he couldn't take it anymore.

"Just eat. The hard part's really over. This is how you build a body. Always has been."

"Sorry……?"

We stared at him, bewildered. Gang Junseong popped a piece of meat into his mouth, chewed, and kept going.

"Baseball's a sport where every single motion puts a hell of a load on the body, y'know. So what happens when guys who spent the whole off-season loafing around start throwing, catching, and swinging right away? Y'all are young, so maybe you don't get it yet — but keep that up and something's gonna blow."

He paused to swallow, then continued.

"Look. Over the past week, did we do a single drill that stressed your joints or muscles the wrong way? No. Just run yourselves into the ground, lock in your balance, and that was it. You gotta do all that before you can even get back to a body that can play baseball."

Once Gang Junseong finished explaining, it finally clicked. Why we'd only done the barest, most formal catch-ball and spent the rest of the time running, stretching, and repeating balance work. It hadn't been training for the sake of making us suffer. It was the kind of know-how only veterans with over a decade in the game — guys like Kwak Daehwi and Gang Junseong — understood: how to prepare for a season the smart way.

"So why didn't you explain any of this and just work the kids into the ground? That's why they're so spooked they can't even eat proper."

Gang Junseong needled Kwak Daehwi, who just laughed it off with a shameless grin.

"It's more fun this way. Tell them like this and they'll never forget it. Ah, so this is how ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠you build a body. This is how you stay healthy."

Gang Junseong snorted.

"Fun, my ass. Fun for you, maybe."

"Still, the kids really went all out, didn't they?"

"That's on them. They did good."

Gang Junseong looked back at the grill, flipped a piece of meat, and added,

"But remember this. Right now you're doing it 'cause someone told you to. If you want a long career, next time you do it yourselves."

"Yes, sir!"

Kwak Daehwi raised his glass and pulled the mood back up.

"Alright, that's it for today. First week done. Congrats on surviving. Good work!"

Glasses clinked, and we finally ate the meat with easy hearts. Chopsticks flew back and forth without anyone needing to go first, and the pace was slower than before. Just knowing we didn't have to rush was enough for today.

The brutal week came back to me — running, holding on, getting back up. We'd been through all of it. We'd endured.

And we enjoyed our reward for that hellish week to the fullest.

Just as Kwak Daehwi and Gang Junseong had said, Week Two was when we finally started playing real baseball. We still hadn't moved into bullpen sessions, but we worked through catch-ball and long toss, flexibility drills of every kind, and began checking our pitching mechanics one piece at a time.

After finishing our run, while the pitchers were loosening up with catch-ball, Gang Junseong called me over.

"Hey, Doyoon. Throw me a cutter."

True to his reputation as the Cutter Master, he was curious about mine. I shifted my middle and index fingers slightly off a four-seam grip, then threw with the feeling of pressing hard through the middle finger.

"Not bad."

Gang Junseong gave a short assessment after catching it.

"Throw a few more."

After about five more, he stopped, then waved me over. When I approached, he tucked his glove under his arm and put a ball in my hand.

"Show me your cutter grip."

I took my usual grip. He studied it for a long moment.

"Tsk…… You only throw it like this?"

"Yes. That's how I was taught."

"By who?"

"Coach Kim Taehwan, back in the development squad."

Gang Junseong nodded without a word, then adjusted my grip slightly. Almost no offset from a four-seam — instead, he had me seat the ball a little deeper in my hand.

"Hold it like this and throw. Gyeongmo!"

At Gang Junseong's call, Kim Gyeongmo set up with his mitt.

"From this grip, you press the ball hard with your middle finger."

He took my hand and tapped the middle finger resting on top of the ball.

"Don't try to twist it on purpose. Think four-seam, and only put force into it once — right when it catches on your fingertips. Everything else is the same as a four-seam. That's how it works."

I nodded and stepped back toward the mound. The feel in my hand was already different. The ball sat deeper into my palm. I took a breath and drove my arm through like I was throwing a four-seam.

— Thock.

"Oh."

Kim Gyeongmo reacted first.

"That one just now — way better."

Gang Junseong said nothing, just gestured for more.

Second pitch. Third.

The feel of the throw was clearly different from before. Holding it deeper softened that "cutting" sensation a lot. Instead, the press through the middle finger came naturally without me having to force it.

After about five, Gang Junseong nodded.

"See. Your cutter's good, but it had no drop to it. With a cutter, that little break and sink at the end is what matters."

"……So that's why hitters were hanging in there?"

"Right. It comes in on the hands, but it doesn't drop."

That one stung. Balls that had been jammed inside the bat and still carried into the outfield flashed through my mind. Gang Junseong took the ball and demonstrated himself.

"When you throw it like this."

The ball sank so subtly you'd miss it if you weren't watching closely, changing its path. Clean. Razor-sharp. A real cutter.

"That little drop gets you more ground balls. More whiffs, too."

"Whoa……"

I burned the trajectory of Gang Junseong's cutter into my memory. The grip he'd shown me, and that strange new feel when I threw it, were still vivid at my fingertips.

That was how Week Two passed — with me absorbing the cutter. By Week Three, full pitching sessions began, and I started refining the cutter I'd learned for real from the mound.

— Crack!

The awkwardness was worse than when I'd thrown it briefly during catch-ball. With the ball seated against my palm, it was hard to put force through my fingers, and the closer I got to full effort, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the more uncomfortable it became.

And the velocity wasn't coming out the way I wanted, either.

I figured it was just the body-building phase and threw with everything I had, but the velocity still wouldn't come.

Weird…… My top velocity went up four kilometers, so the cutter should be faster too.

But completely opposite to my discomfort —

"Nice ball!"

— Kim Gyeongmo kept calling out nice balls from behind the plate. Pitchers know during bullpen work. You can tell at a glance whether the catcher in front of you is reacting on autopilot or genuinely impressed by the pitch. Right now, Kim Gyeongmo was unmistakably the latter.

I kept throwing, but eventually I couldn't stand the awkwardness and walked over to Gang Junseong, who was working with resistance bands.

"Sunbae-nim, the more I throw, the weirder it feels… Is this right?"

"What's weird about it?"

"It's just…… hard to put force into it. And the velocity isn't coming out."

Gang Junseong smirked.

"Feels like you're pushing the ball out, doesn't it?"

"Yes! Exactly!"

I hadn't even explained it in detail, and he'd pinpointed the discomfort perfectly. It was uncanny.

"That feel is right. You're supposed to throw it that way. Your hand strength is so strong that if you grip it off the palm, you put too much spin on it. Then the ball doesn't drop."

He mimed a ball sinking with his hand.

"So you grip it like this and kill the spin a little."

"Does it not matter that the velocity's down?"

"As long as it doesn't separate from the four-seam, it doesn't matter at all. What matters isn't how fast it is — it's when it breaks."

I was nodding along to Gang Junseong's clear explanation when he stopped his tubing and stood up.

"Let's see. How much better that cutter's gotten."

He had his own body to build, and still he was putting this much care into me. Even in a single word, a single look, you could feel the real weight of ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠a senior.

And so I devoted the entirety of Week Three to one pitch: the cutter. Then, on the last day of Week Three —

That effort finally came back as a sweet reward.