The Bet (1)
"Yeah, Mom. Of course. I've been working out hard. Main camp starts tomorrow."
After wrapping up the final day of training at the camp Kwak Daehwi had put together, a call came in from my mother. I slipped out of the dorm for a moment to take it. The evening air still held a chill.
"Injuries? Come on, of course not. The seniors have been taking great care of me. You don't need to worry."
Outside, I was a twenty-four-year-old, fourth-year pro ballplayer — but to my parents, I was apparently still their clueless kid. My mother's inevitable fretting over my body left a warm feeling in my chest.
"Everything okay at home?"
"Yeah. Mom's fine. Training must've been tough today. Get some sleep soon."
"Nah. It wasn't that bad. We dialed the intensity way down since camp starts tomorrow. Can't burn everything out right before it starts, right?"
"Alright. Take care of yourself, eat properly, and keep working hard. I'm hanging up now?"
"Got it. I'll call again later."
I finished the short call with Mom and was about to head back inside when Kwak Daehwi came walking out through the dorm entrance.
"Senior. You're not sleeping — what's going on?"
"Just wanted some air. You?"
"I was on the phone with my mother."
"Well, look at you. What a dutiful son."
Kwak Daehwi said it with a grin. He never told me to follow, but I fell into step beside him as if it were the most natural thing in the world, and we started walking.
"Right — you know that Japanese team we play practice games against every spring camp? The Fukuoka Seiryuu?"
"Oh, I've heard of them."
"They've got a cleanup hitter. Shimamura Kenta. Guy's hit over forty home runs three years running."
"Whoa, for real? That's insane. Didn't know Japan had a hitter like that."
The moment I said it, Kwak Daehwi looked at me like I was some kind of alien.
"You don't know Shimamura Kenta?"
"No. I don't really watch Japanese baseball."
"Then take a look. This kid can really hit."
With that, Kwak Daehwi sat down on a nearby bench and pulled out his phone. He queued up a video, and a massive left-handed batter filled the screen. For all that bulk, though, his face looked surprisingly young.
"How old is he?"
"Twenty-four. Same age as you."
"Huh…"
Same age as me. My eyes locked onto the screen a little harder without my meaning them to.
Crack!
Crack!
Crack!
"Well? Pretty good, right?"
Kwak Daehwi pressed for a reaction in an excited voice, but my overall impression… honestly, it wasn't that jaw-dropping.
That's… about it?
His style looked pretty similar to Kim Dohyeon of the Suwon Storms. Loved a full swing, extreme uppercut path. The difference was that while Kim Dohyeon had plenty of power himself, this Shimamura Kenta looked like he was operating a full tier above that.
CRACK!
In the video's final clip, Shimamura squared one up clean and the ball sailed clean over the wall for a home run that left the park entirely.
Heh… okay, yeah. The power is the real deal.
He could hit, no question. Calling him an upgraded version of Kim Dohyeon — a top-tier hitter in our league — wouldn't be wrong. Still… personally, it wasn't the kind of swing that made an involuntary "whoa" fall out of my mouth.
Not for me, at least.
"You're looking a little underwhelmed."
Kwak Daehwi shot me a sidelong glance. The expected awe hadn't come, and a hint of a smile mixed into his expression.
"It's not like he feels terrifying or completely out of my league."
"That so?"
"Yes. The power is definitely there… but I can see the holes, too."
Shimamura's swing path from the video redraw itself in my head. Compact setup, then that big uppercut arc. No matter how many times I ran it back, it looked plenty attackable.
"For real?"
"Yes."
When I answered so calmly, Kwak Daehwi spoke with a touch of frustration.
"Hey, Japan's pitching level is higher than ours. You admit that much, right?"
"…Well, yeah."
"And those higher-level pitchers are giving up forty bombs a year to this guy?"
He had a point. Objectively speaking, a lot of people ranked Japan's pitching a cut above Korea's. I wasn't about to deny that either. So for a second, I had nothing to say.
"I actually watched him hit in person two years ago."
Kwak Daehwi kept going, and this time his tone carried real conviction.
"Man… it's different. Different. One flash and it's gone, I'm telling you. And his eye is ridiculous. Ball misses by even a little and he doesn't so much as flinch."
"…That good?"
Honestly, no matter how I thought about it, I couldn't believe it was that extreme. But watching Kwak Daehwi make this much of a fuss, I figured there had to be something to it, so I studied the video again more carefully.
"Look — right here, his timing was a little early. He was on a fastball and a curve came in. But watch him bend his knees and delay his timing by half a beat. That's skill."
…Ah, come on.
The entire time I rewatched the video, Kwak Daehwi praised Shimamura Kenta like he was practically worshipping the guy. Timing, plate discipline, reaction speed — every single point came with a fresh wave of admiration.
"The way I see it, this kid can pick changeups with his eyes. There's no other way he could—"
…I wasn't sure I should say this about a senior, but it was really starting to get under my skin.
I was sitting there thinking I could handle him just fine, and Kwak Daehwi kept piling on nothing but praise for Shimamura Kenta.
"The way I see it, this kid can pick changeups with his eyes. There's no other way he could—"
…Seriously.
By the time the video ended, I couldn't take it anymore. It wasn't just that he was saying the guy hit well — it felt like he was saying, Shimamura Kenta is this good, and you think you can get him? And that kept scraping at my nerves.
"Senior."
"Yeah?"
"I can strike him out for sure."
There wasn't even time for a filter to kick in. The words just shot out. In that instant, Kwak Daehwi's mouth curled into a grin.
"For real?"
"Yes. I can get him, no question."
Kwak Daehwi looked at me for a moment, then let out a short laugh. The longer that laugh went on, the more irritated I got.
"Come on, not 'no question.' Even so—"
"No, I mean it — I will get him. Want to make a bet?"
I didn't wait for him to finish. I practically shouted it. I was already fully heated. I didn't even care that the person standing in front of me was our team captain and a major senior.
"…What kind of bet?"
"Shimamura Kenta's first at-bat. Strikeout. If I don't get him, I'll cover my entire share of the training camp expenses out of my own pocket."
Kwak Daehwi looked at me for a second, then shook his head.
"Nah, that's a bit much. Too steep."
Then he pretended to think for a moment, and the corner of his mouth lifted.
"How about this instead. If you don't get the strikeout, you do whatever workouts I tell you to for the entire spring camp."
"…Fine."
I answered before I'd even heard the terms. I was so worked up that I honestly didn't care what the bet was. All I wanted was to drag Shimamura Kenta in front of me right then and there, punch him out, and throw it in the face of the Kwak Daehwi who'd been singing his praises.
See? Nothing special, right?
"But."
Kwak Daehwi continued.
"If you do get the strikeout, I don't touch you for the rest of spring camp. I'll tell Junseong hyung, too. Hands off Doyoon."
He said it with a smile.
"How's that?"
"Yes. Sounds good."
Just like that, the bet was sealed in an instant.
Shimamura Kenta… I'm getting him for sure.
And even though I'd never faced the hitter once, somewhere along the way Shimamura Kenta had become a goal I absolutely had to clear.
After finishing every last session of the camp Kwak Daehwi had organized, we headed for the club's official spring training. Building our bodies with just six guys and running high-focus drills had been great, but baseball was still a team sport. The moment full-squad workouts started, the feeling that the season was truly approaching snapped into sharp focus.
"Alright. Spring camp starts today. We're not looking for anything flashy here. Stick to the basics. Catch, stretch, run. That's what gets you through a season. Oh, and if something feels off with your body, don't hide it — speak up right away. This is camp, not a real game. Don't get antsy for no reason. Like I said, just the fundamentals, and if you've got something you worked on over the winter, check that out. Work hard, all of you."
With the manager's short speech, spring camp officially began.
After warm-ups, the pitchers' first order of business was bullpen sessions.
"Fastball!"
Thwack!
"Nice ball!"
Pop!
In the bullpen, the pitchers drafted this season were throwing first. Every pitch looked close to full effort, like they were trying to stamp their names into each one.
The sound of the ball hitting the catcher's mitt varied wildly. Some pitches buried themselves with real weight; others were all noise and no substance. The coaches said nothing. Their hands just kept flipping through clipboards at a busy pace.
I watched from behind the bullpen, slowly loosening my shoulders. Seeing the rookies grinding to carve out their names naturally pulled old memories to the surface.
I used to be just like that…
"Next!"
The rookies finished their turns, and it was time for the younger guys who'd already carved out some kind of spot on the first team. Which meant it was my turn.
Heh.
I stepped up in front of O Daesik, the friendliest of the six bullpen catchers. When I smiled, he squeezed his mitt shut, then opened it wide in answer.
"Fastball."
First bullpen session of spring camp. First pitch.
There was zero need to push it. But with practice games coming up soon, I wanted to burn myself into the manager's and coaches' eyes for good.
Activate Full Effort Pitching.
Full Effort Pitching has been activated. Stamina consumption is doubled.
I gave a single nod and went into my windup.
THWACK!
The instant the ball buried itself in the mitt, the air in the bullpen shifted.
"…Whoa."
A low murmur of awe was the start. That sound became a signal, and the area around me began to stir.
"His stuff looks even faster…?"
"If he's doing that on day one of camp, what the hell are the rest of us supposed to do…"
They weren't clocking velocity on the first day of bullpen work, but even at a glance my pitches were on another level. The way they cut through the air and the sound alone when they hit the mitt announced an overwhelming presence.
O Daesik tossed the ball back, muttering under his breath.
"…Damn."
"Again. Fastball."
The second I got the ball back, I called for another heater. In that moment, I could feel even more eyes locking onto me.
Scrape!
My right foot tore hard across the dirt, kicking up a cloud of dust. The ball shot through that dust and—
THWACK!
—slammed into the mitt hard enough to leave a mark. O Daesik's mitt snapped backward for a beat before catching itself a half-count late.
"…Oh."
A short, swallowed breath came from behind me.
I didn't step off the mound. I took another ball, gripped it, and set in the same stance. I didn't even bother catching my breath. That was deliberate.
"Again."
Another fastball. The murmuring around me grew a little louder.
THWACK!
This time the mitt sat lower. The pitch came down from a high release point and drove in like it was being hammered into place. Stuff like this on day one of spring camp, with a body that shouldn't have been ready for it, was hard to believe.
After burying three pitches in a row, I flicked a glance behind me. The manager and coaches had already taken up positions right at my back.
POP!
I was speaking with the ball.
Fukuoka Seiryuu. And Shimamura Kenta.
Against them — put me in as a starter.