Awakening After the Trade (2)

"Man, I'm wiped."

"…"

The dormitory at Seosan Baseball Stadium, home of the Daejeon Hawks' second team.

In a two-person room, the newly traded Lee Hajun and Jin Yeongil had finished their training for the day. The location had changed, but the routine itself was hardly different. Aside from Park Jisu, the infielder who had gone straight up to the first team, the two transfers had sat out today's Saturday game — though whether the team's consideration meant much of anything was hard to say.

"Wanna watch some baseball?"

"Sure."

Hajun accepted the suggestion from Yeongil, who was a year older. He wouldn't call Yeongil a close friend exactly, but he wasn't someone Hajun felt awkward around either — a senior of that comfortable middle ground. Yeongil had his eccentricities, thanks to that extreme pitching style of his, but he was never the type to make anyone else's life harder.

On the TV, the first-place Gwangju Kings were on the verge of sweeping their weekend series against the ninth-place Daejeon Hawks. The pitcher threw. The batter swung.

"Oh, come on. How do you even swing like that?"

"…"

There was no way the sound could carry through the screen, yet Hajun could almost swear he heard a clean whoosh of empty air. An utterly baffling swing from a player occupying the single foreign-batter slot allotted to every Korean professional team — the kind of cut that made you wonder if they'd brought him over by accident.

Hajun felt a strange discomfort watching it. He had no confidence in his own hitting, but even he knew he wasn't that bad. And honestly, the Hawks' own foreign batter Brian's swing was just as ridiculous.

Should I have just been born a foreigner?

The absurdity of his own thought drew a dry laugh out of him.

The pitcher-versus-batter duel that followed was no different. Park Haein, the Gwangju Kings' closer and one of the faces of the league, dropped a splitter that fell off the table.

Even after the final out, a certain legendary former player turned commentator kept hammering away at the Hawks' ugly showing. Not that Gwangju fans had any grounds to complain about the tone — not after a swing like that.

A soft electronic chime sounded from the screen.

"At this rate, the Highlanders are gonna catch us."

"Yeah, well…"

Does that even matter?

Hajun scratched his head. The rebuilding Seoul Highlanders and the Daejeon Hawks had indeed closed the gap to a single game. But as far as he was concerned, what difference did it make whether two teams sitting on a .300 winning percentage finished ninth or tenth?

I should just worry about taking care of myself.

Hajun didn't consider himself the kind of player who had any business fretting over team standings. Even back in his first year as a pro, sitting in a chicken restaurant with his second-team teammates watching the first squad win the Korean Series, all he'd felt was a quiet wish that someday he might stand in that place himself.

"Haa…"

"What's wrong?"

Yeongil didn't miss the heavy sigh that escaped Hajun without him realizing it.

"I just wonder if there's even a spot for me on this team — whether they finish first or tenth."

"Hey, the Hawks' shortstop situation is a total disaster, though."

Yeongil said it like he couldn't see what the problem was.

He really doesn't know a thing about this side of the game.

Hajun barely managed to keep his expression blank. The Hawks had a gaping hole at shortstop. Sure, elite shortstops were scarce across the league, but that was mostly because teams wanted offense out of the position too. Few clubs felt the positional stress the way the Hawks did right now. The crowning embarrassment had come a few years back, when they'd thrown a fortune at a shortstop whose bat sat well below league average — drawing mockery and ridicule from fans of all nine other teams. And that shortstop, Shin Hojun, had done nothing whatsoever to solve the Hawks' shortstop problem.

"Shortstop's a mess, but everywhere else is stacked."

"Mm… yeah, that's true."

Interestingly enough, if you set aside the instability at shortstop — the very heart of the infield — the Hawks boasted the second-stoutest infield in the league, right behind the first-place Gwangju Kings. Third baseman Park Jinhyeok, a power-hitting cornerstone of the national team lineup and one of the league's premier sluggers. Second baseman Ji Gyeongjun, who for over a decade had ranked among the best at his position. First baseman Kim Dongseong, the Hawks' cleanup hitter. Park Jinhyeok was the franchise star Hawks fans cherished above all others. Ji Gyeongjun and Kim Dongseong had both been brought in as big-money free agents. And then there was Park Jisu, who had come over from the Gators alongside Hajun — shortstop wasn't his primary position, but he could play it. He was the weakest defender of the group at short, so he'd never start there, but at third, second, and first he was as good a backup as you could ask for.

"I figured if shortstop didn't work out, maybe I could get some time at second or third. But that's not happening either. And this team doesn't look like the type to burn through pinch runners left and right."

Hajun's voice carried a self-deprecating edge. He'd steeled his resolve in front of his parents just yesterday, but reality was still reality. That was why the trade had felt like the ground falling out from under him.

"Eh, it'll work out somehow."

Yeongil said it with a smile. He had no intention of teasing the younger player fretting over his future. And Hajun, knowing Yeongil wasn't a bad guy, didn't show any irritation at the useless comfort.

Their situations were different. Yeongil had control issues, sure, but he was still a ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠young left-handed pitcher who could touch 150 kilometers an hour. He'd find a way to stick around. Hajun, on the other hand, had left a Gators team that treated him like a pinch-running junkie — and every single day was a fight just to survive.

Hajun lay down on his bed, and the first day seemed to be drawing to a quiet close.

"…"

It was an enormous place, and utterly silent. A pitcher's mound, a diamond of grass, bases marking out the infield. Anyone could see it was a baseball field.

Hajun rubbed his eyes. He knew full well he'd just fallen asleep in the dormitory.

"What the hell is this?"

A dream so vivid it raised goosebumps. A place he'd never seen before. The distinct memory of the dormitory mattress under his body. Without those anchors, he might not even have realized he was dreaming.

"Wha—?"

As he took a few steps forward, a massive message materialized in front of him.

"What is this?"

Well — it was a dream. Absurd phenomena like this weren't exactly out of place.

Hajun swallowed hard. He had no idea how to explain any of this. But human instinct was to escape uncomfortable, uncanny situations, and standing still didn't feel like the way out of this place.

"Huh?"

Over by the batter's box, a blue light was glowing. Hajun headed for the right-handed batter's box — his spot as a left-handed hitter.

"I didn't even notice. When did I put on a uniform?"

The Hajun who had just been lying in bed was now wearing a baseball uniform he'd never seen before, and a bat rested beside the batter's box.

"…No way."

He finally pinned down the source of that strange familiarity. It reminded him of the baseball game he loved to play — the same game he'd meant to fire up on his last night at his family home in Seoul. And specifically, Career Mode.

"This is that training drill."

In Career Mode, you could raise your attributes through strong game performances, but the foundation was always training — grinding points through repetitive practice to unlock higher-tier Skill Sets.

"Whoa—?"

Someone appeared on the mound. Wearing an unfamiliar uniform, glove on hand. Once the game connection clicked into place, it wasn't hard to figure out. That was a training bot — the kind of pitcher that showed up in the game's practice modes. Even across the distance, it didn't feel human at all.

The pitcher settled into its delivery.

Whoooosh!

"Ah, crap!"

A fastball blazed straight through the zone. There was no catcher behind the plate, no barrier of any kind, and the moment the ball crossed the strike zone it simply vanished. The real problem was that Hajun hadn't swung — not even reflexively. Seeing something in a game was one thing. Actually standing in against a pitcher was something else entirely. Hajun was not the kind of player confident enough to hack at the first pitch from an unfamiliar arm.

"Hoo…"

Hajun took a deep breath and tapped his chest with his fist a couple of times.

I have no idea what any of this is supposed to be, but…

A crystal-clear mind in a world he'd never seen. He didn't know why he was the one living through this, but he was going to give it everything he had. Surely this place didn't have home fans sighing in disappointment because he'd struck out, or because he'd been swapped in as a pinch runner for the cleanup hitter and then stepped into the box himself. There was no pressure here at all. It was just a game.

Hajun decided to charge at this world the same way he charged at everything else.

Crack!

The ball met what looked like a quality wooden bat and sailed into ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the outfield. It dropped fair.

"Yeah, that's more like it. No annoying fielders in sight — love that."

A fantasy ground where any contact became a hit. For a player whose weak contact had forever found its way into opposing gloves, Hajun finally got to blow off some steam.

Right. That's how it worked.

Fouls and whiffs gave nothing. But even a ground ball earned ten points. A short single that cleared the infield and reached the outfield was worth twenty. He'd missed five pitches before finding his timing, but he was making contact now.

Crack!

The practice pitcher's stuff was nowhere near elite difficulty. Hajun watched another ball drop fair before clearing the infield and let out a small sigh of frustration — but he'd connected all the same.

"All right. Since I'm here, I'm finishing this properly."

It was a strange feeling, but a fresh one. A field where every hit was a free base hit had a strangely liberating quality to it.

CRACK!

"Nice!"

The twentieth pitch was a fastball. Against that pitcher, Hajun produced the cleanest contact of the session.

It wasn't a home run — even in a dream, he couldn't manage that. But it was a line drive dropping along the right-field line, the kind of ball that would be extra bases in a real game even with a defender in place. With Hajun's speed, it was an easy triple.

Extra-base contact that carried beyond a standard outfielder's positioning was worth forty points.

Hajun finished the session on a high note.

"Haha, well…"

And yet the moment he knew it was over, a wave of hollow disconnection washed over him for reasons he couldn't name.

"Huh?"

This world didn't even give him time for a dry laugh.

"Now what is this?"

Come to think of it, Career Mode always handed you a Bronze Skill Set right at the start. That was how it gave you the sense that something special was already in play from the beginning.

Bemused, Hajun tapped the Bronze button with his finger, then touched the Empty slot above it.

The Empty label that had been so irritating to look at was filled in.

"Ah—!"

Hajun immediately reached out and tapped the button floating in midair. A blue light began to radiate from his body.

"What, that's really it?"

This bizarre world. These crude screens. He still had no idea how to explain any of it — but the numbers kept ticking down.

"Haaah—!"

"…"

Hajun sat up drenched in cold sweat. Vivid as ever. He was right back in the dormitory where he'd fallen asleep.

What the hell was last night?

Hajun went through his usual routine — washed up, headed out to the training grounds — but he couldn't shake the absurd experience from his dream. It had been far too sharp, too precise, to dismiss as ordinary sleep. Anyone he told would think he was crazy, but somehow he still carried the physical memory of swinging a bat twenty times.

"All right, Lee Hajun — you're up."

The Daejeon Hawks' second-team hitting coach called out. It was Hajun's turn for batting practice.

"Pfft."

"Huh? Hajun, this is practice — focus up a little."

"Ah! Yes, sorry, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Coach."

Hajun apologized immediately and stepped into the box. He'd almost laughed because he'd done batting practice in a dream and was now doing it again the moment he woke up — the absurdity of the overlap had gotten to him.

Reality's a lot more bare-bones than the dream, huh.

In the dream, at least a human-shaped pitcher had mixed fastballs and off-speed stuff on something that looked like a real diamond. Here, he was facing a pitching machine in a cramped training cage.

But that only meant he needed to concentrate harder. He was a professional ballplayer, and it was only the second day since he'd promised his parents he'd give everything he had until the end.

Crack!

"…"

Hajun kept working against the machine firing fastballs north of 150 kilometers an hour.

This kid's swing is actually pretty clean.

Kim Jonghun, the Daejeon Hawks' hitting coach, watched Hajun's cuts with a pleased expression. He'd expected a pure pinch-running specialist who wouldn't see many at-bats even in the second team — but seeing him in person was a different story entirely. The way he swung reminded Jonghun of the contact hitters who batted over .300 at the first-team level.

"What the hell, Hajun! That swing path is seriously clean."

Kim Jonghun clapped him on the shoulder.

"…Thank you, Coach."

Hajun managed a smile as he answered. The coach had meant it as genuine encouragement, but Hajun was still too stunned to process it properly.

What is this?

Even accounting for the fact that he was facing a machine, Hajun felt like a completely different hitter from yesterday. If he had to compare it to the baseball game he loved — it was exactly like equipping a brand-new Skill Set.