Ready to Soar (3)
“Hoo…”
A baseball stadium far too grand for one person alone. Standing before it, Hajun drew a deep breath.
Even now, coming here still made him tense. This time, though, a faint sense of relief was mixed in. He’d been afraid he might never get back in.
At a moment already poised on the brink of change, having another change forced on him was the last thing he wanted.
As always, he gripped the bat and stepped into the batter’s box.
Hit the incoming pitches.
Pitches: 0/20
“Hey, while you’re listening—any chance you could bump that pitch count up a little?”
Hajun said it to the pitcher that had appeared before his eyes.
“Ah—sorry. Just kidding!”
He took it back the moment the silent presence failed to answer. He was already receiving far too much; the fear that wanting more might make it all vanish was real.
Without fail, the opposing pitcher set and delivered.
CRACK!
And he drove the ball. He did plenty of batting practice every day regardless of games, but in this strange world he found himself concentrating even harder. If he failed to put even one of the twenty pitches into fair territory, the frustration after waking would be nearly unbearable.
CRACK!
“Tch!”
A crisp contact sound, and an irritated voice that didn’t match it at all.
Thud!
In a real game it would have been a well-struck line drive dropping in front of a right fielder playing ordinary depth. But he hadn’t produced extra bases, so—twenty points.
Hajun clicked his tongue and reset his grip on the bat. Today, more than usual, impatience was gnawing at him. There was a clear reason for it.
Today. Absolutely today!
CRACK!
“Ah, damn it!”
A restless heart never produced better results than usual. He’d been hearing that since he was a kid, but it was easy to forget in the moments that mattered. Still, before the machine-like pitcher on the mound finished his twentieth delivery, Hajun got his head straight.
CRACK!
“Please!”
Thud!
Far out, a white speck smacked into the grass. If a right fielder had been out there, no amount of leaping with a glove stretched high would have brought it down—it would have sailed clean over his head.
“Yes!”
Thump!
Hajun pounded his own chest and flung the bat—
Whoosh!
—and barely stopped himself from throwing it. Expressing excitement that habitually might turn into a bad habit. And if you practiced restraint in ordinary moments, the real explosions came out stronger when you truly needed them.
“….”
It’s not going to just… not show up, right?
In a mysterious world like this, it was hard not to keep doubting.
Ding!
But once again, it didn’t betray him. Familiar text began to form in his mind. This time, he didn’t even need the monitor’s help.
Hajun’s heart hammered.
“….”
He moved the button floating before his eyes with a fingertip.
The silver border gleamed with an almost luminous brilliance.
His fist clenched tight without him realizing it.
“It dropped! It actually dropped!”
Hajun celebrated like a kindergartener who’d just discovered games for the first time. Then he made the change at once.
Skill Set — Contact / Defense [SILVER]
“Perfect.”
Hajun smiled, satisfied. Even the Bronze skill set had brought that much change—how far would Silver go? In the games he knew, this was a level that could earn recognition as a legitimate tool even in the big leagues.
Hajun hit the button immediately. The anticipation made waiting impossible.
“Mmm…”
“What are you doing?”
The Hawks’ left-hander Jin Yeongil tossed the question at him. Even back with the Lakers the kid had been a proper first-team guy—so why was he flailing around like someone who’d rotted in the second team for years and was seeing a pro first squad for the first time?
“It’s not my first time at Hawks Park, but it feels weirdly unfamiliar.”
Hajun answered Yeongil. They’d arrived even earlier than the Hawks’ first-team players usually reported. A different uniform. A different locker room. New teammates. And yet something beyond all of that felt strangely awkward—even as his mind kept comparing it to the Lakers’ first team.
“Why does it feel so different from the Lakers?”
“Shh! Someone hears that, they’ll get the wrong idea.”
“Huh?”
They weren’t even somewhere people could overhear, but Yeongil made an exaggerated shushing gesture.
“We’ve got the Kings today and tomorrow. We played them yesterday too, sure.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“The team’s one step from last place, and after facing the Kings the mood’s been awful.”
“Ah…”
When the rest of the roster had gathered, Hajun had gone through the introductions. Whatever his role had been on his previous team, it was a natural step for anyone newly wearing a Hawks uniform. The teammates—mostly seniors—had welcomed him then. Ji Gyeongjun, who’d come up from the second team with him, and the captain, first baseman Kim Dongseong, had taken the lead in making the introductions, and thanks to that he’d even gotten to greet Yu Seungjin, a figure who’d once seemed completely out of reach.
Yu Seungjin—the left-handed starter pushing forty. A former MLB All-Star starter, routinely named among the greatest pitchers in Korean baseball history, and without serious debate the greatest left-hander the country had ever produced. Since returning to the domestic league, he’d shouldered more innings than any other Korean-born starter on the Hawks for years running, posting the lowest ERA of the group—a battle-scarred veteran. That was both Yu Seungjin’s stature and a bleak reflection of the Hawks themselves. Even in a league chronically short on homegrown starters, few teams had struggled as consistently, for as many years, as the Hawks.
“Ahem. Anyway—when the team mood’s this bad, don’t go poking at the seniors for no reason. You’re a proper Hawk now. Fit in.”
“….”
Yeongil gave Hajun’s shoulder a couple of light pats as he said it.
This hyung’s only been with the Hawks for what, a month?
Barely a month since the trade, and Yeongil was carrying himself like a pure-blood draft pick. But still… After the smiling introductions earlier, there was something faintly wilted about the teammates. The Lakers, who’d chased a league title every season, had always forced the energy up somehow.
“Hey, Hajun!”
Someone was coming toward him.
“Sunbae!”
It was the infielder Park Jisu—nine years older than Hajun, but so mild-mannered that plenty of younger players gravitated to him. A senior who often bought meals for juniors with healthy appetites and not much free cash to spend.
“I’m sorry I didn’t greet you properly earlier!”
Hajun bowed at a full ninety degrees.
“Hahaha—we already said hello when everyone was there. What’s this about?”
Park Jisu waved him off. That characteristically warm smile was unchanged.
“Still, I should have come find you separately…”
“Forget it, forget it. So what now, huh? One more competitor for me?”
“What? No—I’m not—”
“I’m kidding. Let’s do well together. I’ve got batting time—gotta go.”
Park Jisu waved and moved off first. He was the kind of man who couldn’t rest until he’d lived the day by the schedule he’d set for himself, so the decisiveness didn’t leave Hajun feeling dismissed.
“Even if he tells you to just call him hyung, you never listen, do you?”
Yeongil said. Hajun was comfortable with Park Jisu and still somehow found him hard to approach—one of the few juniors who never called him hyung.
“….”
The reason was simple. Rational inferiority. Shortstop might have been Park Jisu’s weakest position, but a man who could handle every infield spot had been a wall for Hajun—someone who’d had no choice but to consider the utility-infielder path.
Looking back now…
If he’d spent that time taking one more swing of the bat instead… well, nothing much would have changed, but maybe he’d have stressed less. Before some nameless god had reached out a hand, he could at least say he’d put in a solid human effort.
But it’s different now.
Hajun believed a lot of things were going to change. They would. They had to.
CRACK!
CLANG!
“….”
Hajun was hammering balls off the pitching machine with a fierce, clean stroke.
Huh?
Park Jisu, who’d finished his own batting practice earlier than most, watched with a startled expression. That economical, polished swing and the quality of the contact would have looked excellent to anyone—but if you knew Hajun’s past, the difference hit even harder.
Was Hajun’s swing always like that?
Park Jisu was the type who studied the game seriously; when he found a hitter worth learning from, he tried to absorb something. He’d never imagined he’d get that feeling from Lee Hajun. Of course, for now it was only this much.
He must’ve met a good coach in the second team.
He smiled, pleased at his junior’s growth. Practice and games were different things, after all.
CRACK!
CLANG!
“Hoo…”
Hajun finished his session.
“How was it?”
“Huh? Uh… heh heh…”
The Hawks’ hitting coach, Song Daehyeon, couldn’t hide his awkwardness. He’d told the kid to take proper swings first so he could look for things to fix—and there wasn’t much to see. Even after studying and drilling a swing, a poor hitter usually showed some kind of weakness. Lee Hajun simply… didn’t.
Is that actually true?
The Hawks’ second-team hitting coach’s report had been simple: better not to touch Lee Hajun’s swing. Song Daehyeon generally trusted that coach’s eye. And yet a player who’d been a pinch runner on another team—career average hovering near .100, zero home runs—gets a “leave him alone” evaluation in the second team, comes up to the first team, and immediately earns a mental pass from Song himself? How was he supposed to explain that?
“You’re in really good condition today! I’ll report it to the manager.”
“Thank you!”
Hajun bowed politely. A man more than twice his age—the Hawks’ hitting coach he’d be seeing from now on. Treating him with respect was only natural. And hearing that a good-condition report would go to the manager was genuinely welcome. With a little luck, he might even get an at-bat on day one.
But the truth was, Hajun’s heart was pounding so hard he thought he might lose it.
Please—just one at-bat. Just one!
He wanted to show, in a real game, the skill set he’d earned in that dream—no, it was getting hard to even call it a dream anymore. A pitching machine alone didn’t feel like it could reveal the full extent of his change. That was how fiercely the new sensations were burning confidence into him.