First Taegeuk Mark (11)
"Waaaaaaaaah!"
The play that flipped the entire fate of the game in a single instant.
Clap! Clap! Clap! Clap! Clap!
The Korean fans who had come to cheer their team roared themselves hoarse. Even the Japanese spectators who had been quietly watching the game found themselves clapping before they realized it.
"Uwaaaaaah!"
"Are you out of your mind?!"
Hands slapped Lee Hajun's body from every direction. A two-run lead had vanished into a tie—given up by the two pitchers they had trusted most. Still, every player on the Korean side knew the play just now had saved them.
Allowing a comeback like this and then having to take the field for the bottom of the ninth as the final inning? Just imagining it was enough to make anyone's blood run cold.
"Dae-han-min-guk!"
Clap! Clap! Clap! Clap! Clap!
A gold medal hung in the balance. One mistake could rewrite everything. In a tied game, Korea's offense stepped in for the top of the ninth.
CRACK—!
"Yes!"
"Nice!"
The leadoff hitter singled and reached base. Applause erupted from every corner of the stands. Taiwan's pitching coach climbed the mound; the infielders gathered around him.
The pitcher on the rubber was Chen Chenming, the right-hander rated alongside Ryu Fei as the future of Taiwanese baseball for the next decade or more. He could touch 155 km/h, but this was the top of the ninth in a final that would decide first and second place in the entire tournament. Anyone with a heart still pumping blood would feel the pressure.
CRACK—!
"Out!"
They had to cash this chance in. Taking the field for the bottom of the ninth while the score was still tied was every baseball player's nightmare.
POP—!
"Strike three!"
The commentator's voice was nearly a scream.
"…"
Now it was the ninth batter's turn. Lee Hajun walked toward the on-deck circle. An international final at-bat that most people would experience only a handful of times in a lifetime, yet he went through his usual preparatory routine as if it were any ordinary game.
Please get on base.
Hajun desperately wanted his teammates to create a chance for him.
CRACK—!
"Foul!"
"Hoo… hoo…"
Cha Seongmin, who had played every inning at second base, exhaled in ragged bursts. The opposing pitcher's heavy fastball still left his hands tingling. But Cha Seongmin was the man Changwon Dragons fans called a hustle player. He was somehow wringing more out of himself than he actually possessed and hanging on.
Everyone rooting for Korea knew it. Everyone believed it. If they could just hand the chance to the predator waiting in the on-deck circle, something would happen.
POP—!
"…"
Silence blanketed the field. You could feel how many people were locked onto every single pitch. Full count. If the batter did not swing, there were only two possible outcomes.
"Ball!"
"Waaaaaaaaah!"
"Seongmin hyung!"
One pitch's difference. It could have been three outs with a runner stranded at first. Instead it was two outs, runners on first and second.
Clap! Clap! Clap! Clap! Clap!
Even the local fans who had been sitting in neutral silence rose to their feet and applauded. The shortstop who had just saved the team on defense was about to deliver at the plate? That was exactly the kind of story they had come to see, even though it was not their own country's game.
"Number one hitter, Lee Hajun! Hit! Lee Hajun!"
The Korean fans who supported the Daejeon Hawks, and even those who only vaguely knew the name, started the chant first. Everyone else naturally joined in.
A trade that had essentially been a throw-in. Then he became the charge leader of a miracle team and earned a spot on the national roster. Even here he had been the team's most valuable player so far. If he went down on three pitches right now, no one would blame him.
"…"
Just as he always did, the moment he stepped into the box he leveled the bat at the opposing pitcher. Everything he had achieved so far meant nothing to the man standing there. There was no such concept as "this is enough." Only the will to win.
"…"
Hajun's attention drifted for a second before he snapped back.
If I were the opposing manager…?
His numbers this tournament. His line today. There was one perfectly rational option.
Korea had already burned most of its useful pinch-hit cards. Waiting on deck was the number-two hitter, Woo Jaechun. He had been solid enough today, but nowhere near the man currently in the box.
The sign exchange from Taiwan's bench dragged on. That meant they still had not settled on an answer. The home-plate umpire barked at the pitcher to throw.
With runners on first and second, an intentional walk would not have been strange at all. But it did not come.
POP—!
"Ball!"
A splitter that dropped out of the zone. Hajun had been ready to attack, yet the bat never left his shoulder.
POP—!
"Strike!"
"…"
Hajun felt no regret about taking the pitch. With three chances still ahead of him, there was no reason to swing at a fastball jammed tight on the hands.
Gulp.
The pitcher on the mound was pouring sweat. And with every pitch, the urge to mutiny against the bench that kept calling the signs grew stronger inside him.
The pitcher threw to the catcher's sign.
Splitter!
Hajun had already decided it was a ball.
Plop—!
The splitter that should have dropped in front of the batter fell far too early. The catcher had to spin and dig it out of the dirt.
First and second became second and third. A single could bring both runners home. Normally a great situation—yet some of the people rooting for Korea felt a twinge of unease. First base was empty. The pitcher could now walk the batter even more blatantly. And the count was 2-1, hardly pitcher-friendly.
The pitcher who had just thrown the wild pitch wiped sweat and stared at the signs. A hurried debate broke out in Taiwan's dugout. Even the manager could not make a clean decision. Two outs, bases loaded if they walked him. Chen Chenming had made the national team on pure stuff, but his occasional control issues made the manager hesitate. Would the call have come faster if this were not the gold-medal game? Pointless to wonder.
Chen Chenming set himself to face Lee Hajun again.
Hmm.
Hajun locked in. The catcher rose from his crouch.
POP—!
"Ball!"
A fastball at the batter's eye level. Hajun swallowed the urge and took it.
So that's how you're playing it?
The more extreme the stress, the more everyone wanted the easy way out—and wanted both rabbits at once. Taiwan's dugout wanted the same. Walking him felt uncomfortable once they factored in the pitcher's control and the next hitter's contact ability. Trusting the pitcher's pure stuff against a hitter locked in at the absolute peak of his form also felt queasy. So the conclusion was: maybe, maybe not. Throw balls out of the zone; if the batter got greedy and swung, great. If not, they would simply deal with the next guy. In a hundred-plus-game pennant race they would have walked him without a second thought. In a gold-medal final, even the boldest man hesitated.
Taiwan's catcher shifted outside. The mitt sat well clear of the strike zone. Chen Chenming, proud of his stuff and his pride, stared straight at that mitt without flinching.
CRACK—!
"Foul!"
"Tch."
Hajun clicked his tongue before he could stop himself. The catcher shot to his feet in surprise. A fastball that had clearly left the zone still found the end of Hajun's bat. It was only a foul, but the sound off the barrel was vicious.
Everyone wanted Lee Hajun to end it, but offering himself up on a chase pitch was another matter entirely.
"…"
The sign reached the pitcher. The catcher dropped to one knee; the mitt rested on the dirt. The intent was obvious to anyone watching. The pitcher spread his index and middle fingers wide around the ball. He was going to bury a splitter for sure.
Fastball.
Hajun timed himself for the heater and decided he would swing at anything near the zone.
Chen Chenming threw the ball he was holding with spread fingers toward the catcher's mitt.
Huh?
Instinct moved before thought.
CRACK—!
The instant Chen Chenming realized what he had done, a screaming line drive was already climbing over his head.
Neither the shortstop nor the second baseman even thought about reaching it. The ball shot straight into the gap in center. The center fielder tried a throw, but—
Slap—!
"Yes!"
"Ha… haha."
He high-fived the first-base coach. Standing on the bag, Hajun felt his heart about to explode.
Thank god.
He had wanted to finish it somehow—even knowing the pitcher would try to avoid a clean fight. Such a flat pitch. The splitter clearly never dropped and floated right down the middle.
The pitcher and catcher looked devastated. Taiwan's manager could not keep the expression off his face. A decision that had seemed perfectly rational would one day come back as blame.
"Lee Hajun! Lee Hajun! Lee Hajun!"
Korean fans screamed until their throats tore. The cameras caught female spectators with Taegeuk flags painted on their cheeks, eyes already red.
POP—!
"Strike three!"
Chen Chenming punched out Woo Jaechun with pure heat. The coaches and manager who had supported the half-hearted approach squeezed their eyes shut.
Then came the bottom of the ninth.
Hong Jongyeon of the Grizzlies, hungry to reclaim his honor, burned with intensity in his eyes.
POP—!
"Strike!"
"Yes, yes!"
"Let's go, Jongyeon!"
The Korean dugout was already on the edge of the steps, ready to pour out. As if to prove the eighth inning had been nothing more than an accident, Hong Jongyeon's fastball was breathing fire.
Bottom of the ninth, two outs, nobody on. The batter in the box had already swung through two fastballs that caught the zone.
"Strike him out! Strike him out! Strike him out! Strike him out!"
The fans of the leading team shouted their demand.
POP—!
A fast, heavy fastball. The batter swung at the pitch that came in at the top of the zone, but never came close to touching it.
"Strike three!"
The pitcher on the mound visibly melted with relief. Lee Hajun clenched his fist and sprinted toward him.