First Taegeuk Mark (12)
“Waaaaaah!”
“We won!”
“It’s gold!”
Hong Jongyeon roared and tried to embrace the catcher first, but he never got the chance. The rest of the Korean team had already flung their caps skyward and swarmed the mound, bowling him over.
“Uwaaah!”
The winning pitcher, Hong Jongyeon, was swallowed by a crush of massive athletes and completely lost his bearings.
After the disaster of the 2006 Doha Asian Games, this tournament had been expected to be the hardest yet. Coach Park Seongrae’s under-25 national team had still managed to topple a Taiwan side riding the absolute peak of its form and claim the gold.
Any fan who followed baseball closely could say, without exaggeration, that they had finally repaid the humiliation of March.
We did it.
The broadcast cameras caught Lee Hajun smiling from ear to ear.
It had been an overwhelmingly glorious stage. At the same time, the title of national team player had weighed on him like nothing else. In the end, though, it was a happy ending.
The Asian Games baseball tournament does not name an MVP. Not even for the final. Yet whether someone had watched from the opening game or only tuned in for today’s final, whether their baseball knowledge ran deep or shallow, not a single fan could have failed to know who the true hero of Korea’s gold medal was.
The medal ceremony followed.
Taiwan’s players, who had lost a brutal duel of trusted aces and still fought with everything they had against Korea’s ironclad bullpen in the late innings, received their silver medals.
Their roster had been set far earlier than Korea’s. The runner who had been gunned down by a miraculous relay the instant they thought the game was theirs. The hanging splitter that became the game-winning hit. Until that very moment they had never even known the name of a certain Korean shortstop—yet today that shortstop had seized them by the ankles.
One day before the closing ceremony, Okazaki Baseball Stadium had been a battlefield. One by one the victors of that war stepped forward and had gold medals placed around their necks.
Cameras were rolling and the occasion demanded restraint, so they kept the words in their throats, but the smiles that kept slipping free could not be stopped. Most of them were still draft-exempt, which only made it worse.
Hajun bowed to the presenter and accepted his medal. He had never planned on wearing necklaces or accessories, but a necklace like this one he would welcome any day.
The last player received his medal with quiet pride. What remained was obvious.
“Waaaaaaaaaah!”
Once more they tore off their caps and hurled them into the sky. A few players formed a T with their hands. The opposing faction, treating the gesture like a faded connection, refused. Hajun flitted between the two sides like a bat before finally joining the holdouts.
Spectators who had not yet gone home still filled the stands. Korean supporters who had brought enormous national flags. Taiwanese fans who stayed in their seats despite defeat to cheer their players. The quieter ones watching with calm eyes were probably local Japanese.
A sudden wave of emotion washed over Hajun. Everyone here was tasting joy and sorrow while looking at winners and losers. It felt a little different from watching a pro game back home. He was simply playing baseball, yet so many people were watching. It made him feel, all over again, that he was a professional baseball player.
And if he had any choice in the matter—though it was not always possible—he wanted to look out at those crowds from the winner’s side as often as he could.
“Yeah, I’m fine. I didn’t drink much. Okay, bye.”
Hajun ended the call. Being in Japan, with no time difference, was a genuine blessing. He had poured everything into an international final and gloriously claimed gold. Yet the moment he spoke to his parents he was nothing more than an only son of one ordinary family.
A gold medal meant a team dinner was inevitable. They kept what needed keeping private and left out what needed leaving out. Even if a reporter hungry for a celebrity’s downfall had been sitting at the table, there would have been nothing to write about.
As with most gatherings of dozens of men and alcohol, a few got a little too drunk and others put in extra overtime reining them in. Hajun, who never particularly enjoyed drinking, ate a reasonable amount of food and slipped out early.
He dropped onto the bed.
“Huuuh…”
It was the last night in the Okazaki hotel. Only a few days, but the rooms had been excellent and he had kept his condition sharp. Tonight he had no roommate, which made it even more comfortable.
If we go back like this…
He had been following the team’s news the whole time. Without him, Park Jinhyeok, and Park Sihye, the Daejeon Hawks were in rough shape. Even their foreign hitter Jays had sat out with a minor injury, and with the offense cut by more than half they had mostly dropped series after series during the national-team call-up window.
The only silver lining was that sixth-place Seoul Grizzlies, who had also lost three core pitchers to the national team, were struggling just as badly. The Hawks’ winning percentage had dropped, yet the gap to sixth had barely moved.
He clenched his fists.
“….”
The real problem was fourth-place Suwon Knights, who had kept a winning percentage above .500. Fourth place, which had looked almost within reach before the call-ups, now looked extremely difficult with the remaining games. The difference between fourth and fifth might not be huge. Still, the feeling that something they should have claimed by force of will had slipped away through circumstances beyond their control was hard to erase.
“Huu…”
Hajun got up for a glass of water, then lay back down. The ability he had stumbled into, the talent his parents had given him, and the habits he had built—together they had created a life that felt like a dream. There were plenty of hard moments, but compared with the joy he felt they were nothing.
All he could do was hit the ball a pitcher threw, stop the ball a batter hit, and steal bases past pickoff attempts. He wanted many things, but if he drowned in those thoughts even the possible would become impossible.
“….”
Just remembering today’s moments made his heart tremble. Catching the runner at home, turning a mistake pitch into a hit—both times it had felt as if the heavens themselves had reached down to help. His chest swelled, yet he still forced himself toward sleep. Baseball would keep going.
“Hmm.”
Pitch Count 0/20
A pitcher appeared on the mound. The silent companion who always welcomed him, whether in Korea or Japan.
“Yeah. Gotta do what needs doing.”
“Lee Hajun!”
“….”
Where have I seen her?
A woman in the same uniform as him was speaking to him.
“Don’t you know me?”
She asked with a prim expression. The clothes were national-team gear, yet she did not give off the vibe of someone who trained hard. If he had known who she was he would have greeted her the moment their eyes met…
“….”
Ah!
Hajun finally placed her. She was the one Park Sihye had mentioned last time—national gymnastics representative Chae Soyeon.
“Ah! Chae Soyeon!”
“Hehehe.”
Anyone who could confidently ask whether he recognized her had to be fairly famous. He had almost been embarrassed; suddenly he felt grateful to Sihye.
“Shall we take a picture?”
“….”
It was not a difficult request. While waiting for the closing ceremony, athletes were exchanging greetings. Hajun reminded himself that a national team player’s duties did not end on the field.
“You were incredible yesterday. I don’t really know baseball, but…”
“Haha.”
If you don’t know it, how do you know it was incredible just from watching?
He caught the thought and corrected it; it was too negative. How much had he really understood when he first started watching as a kid?
“Unnie, wait a second!”
Chae Soyeon left and someone else joined.
“Lee Hajun!”
“….”
What kind of height…
Hajun’s gaze naturally went up, then to the middle, then back up again. This time he recognized her at a glance. Women’s national volleyball player Park Minjeong. He had not paid much attention to women’s volleyball lately, but she was so tall, and Sihye had mentioned her once, so he knew her.
Another round of photos followed.
“Wow, yesterday’s final, I was watching with the unnies and…”
“….”
Without pause she poured out her impressions of the game. She was a serious talker. Still, anyone with even a little interest in baseball would have had plenty to say about a match like that. Thanks to her excellent social skills, Hajun dropped the formal speech almost immediately.
“Oppa, do you do Instagram?”
“Not really, usually.”
Hajun had to be careful where he looked. When they had taken the earlier photo and their bodies brushed, her large chest had made him flinch. Gymnastics was gymnastics, but Chae Soyeon had been surprisingly slight for an athlete; Park Minjeong, on the other hand, made him wonder how someone with that body could keep jumping without a run-up in a sport like volleyball.
And Chae Soyeon was two years older than him while this one was two years younger. Judging a woman’s age by looks really was difficult.
“You little shit, who said you could take pictures alone?”
Park Minjeong waved and headed back to the women’s volleyball players. Park Sihye came running over and glared at Hajun.
“Go ask her to take one.”
He could have spoken to her perfectly well himself; Hajun had no idea why he was like this.
“….”
“Don’t stare so hard.”
“Ah!”
It was not only her upper half that was impressive. Sihye, who had momentarily lost his mind staring at the curves pushing against her white pants, snapped back to reality.
“Just now I saw you already dropped the formal speech with her?”
“She’s just got a good personality.”
“Ha, I’m so jealous.”
“Ugh.”
He really was a unique type.
“Sihye!”
“Huh?”
“Hm?”
A woman in the same team uniform walked over. She was not a stunning beauty, but she had the kind of plain, pleasant face that made anyone feel well-disposed. The clean uniform suited her lean frame, and her eyes were sharp and alive. Of all the female athletes Hajun had met today, she looked the most like a true female athlete.
“Hello!”
“Ah, yes.”
“What the heck, you never contacted me the whole tournament.”
“Uuuh…”
Someone he knows?
The girl first greeted Hajun, then spoke to Sihye. Sihye looked embarrassed and could not meet her eyes.
“You’re Lee Hajun, Sihye’s teammate, right? I’m Gi Yujin.”
“Ah…”
She was so polite that when she bowed first, Hajun automatically returned a deep bow of his own. He had no interest in taekwondo, yet the name “Taekwondo Girl Gi Yujin” rang a faint bell. A few years ago the media had briefly spotlighted her as a pretty young taekwondo athlete.
“How are your parents?”
“Uuuh…”
They seemed to have known each other a long time, yet Sihye kept fidgeting. Yujin kept talking with bright eyes and he was completely helpless.
This bastard.
The classic body language of a teenage boy who freezes in front of a girl his age. Most of the time the cause of that feeling was a crush. He could not judge the full story from this moment alone, but Sihye’s useless celebrity-chasing antics clearly had an interesting backstory. Someday he would definitely hear it.
“All right, athletes, get ready!”
A Korean team guide called out.
“Let’s go!”
“….”
“Huh?”
It was time for the national team to enter the closing ceremony. Hajun silently stepped aside; Sihye shot him a look that begged not to be left alone. He decided to leave the kid with the girl and head over to the other teammates. It was the closing ceremony—a little clowning in front of the cameras would not hurt.
After China and Japan, the Korean athletes—third in the overall medal count—appeared waving the Taegeukgi in their hands.
Incredible…
The packed crowd was a true spectacle. Sports without fans simply was not sports. This tournament had meant something real. He felt as if he had gained an experience more precious than gold.
What would a higher international stage feel like? What if they posted the same results at the Olympics or the WBC? What if he himself delivered a starring performance on that stage?
Just thinking about it made his heart race.
Of course, first he had to return to Korea and finish the remaining season. It was probably going to be… a very hard fight.