What If Iron Arm Choi Dong-won Was Born 20 Years Later?

What if Iron Arm Choi Dong-won had been born twenty years later and avoided overwork? He might have thrown his waterfall curve from the mound in a Major League World Series, just like his solo four wins in the 1984 Korean Series.

What if Korean Special Express Park Chan-ho had the durability of the "Cy Young" who logged 7,356 innings? He might have surpassed his Asian record of 124 wins and entered the Hall of Fame.

What if Randy Johnson had unleashed that monstrous fastball and slider from age nineteen all the way to his retirement in the 2009 season? His left arm's legacy would have been even greater.

What if fireballers topping 160 km/h had Greg Maddux's insane control? Baseball fans always dream up these "what ifs."

But as we all know, there were no "what ifs" in their careers. I thought the same. Right up until just a moment ago.

"Championship? Heh heh heh, screw the championship. Some of us just got released the other day."

The smartphone screen was flooded with articles about Hana Eagles' unprecedented four straight KBO championships. Tucked in the corner was a single piece about his release, but it barely registered.

"Damn... People don't give a shit about me if there's not even hate comments on my retirement article."

Tae-woong glanced at his own article for a moment before closing his eyes in resignation.

It's really... all over. Everything's done...

Though he was in this sorry state now, as a kid, Tae-woong had made a name for himself as a lefty fireballer. In high school, he'd led his team to four national titles as the star ace. That earned him a spot on the youth national team, where he pitched Korea to the world championship as their ace.

His international exploits spread his name beyond Korea to Major League Baseball.

More teams wanted him than he could count on hands and feet. After much deliberation, he chose the New York Yankees' $1.2 million signing bonus and boarded a flight to New York with dreams of becoming a big leaguer.

Yeah... those were the days.

Back then, the media ranked him in the MLB top 30 prospects, and his big league debut seemed inevitable. But his peak ended there, nothing special about it. America chewed up dozens, hundreds of hard throwers without control every year.

His improper mechanics caused issues right after high school graduation—major shoulder and elbow injuries. He scraped by five grueling years in Single-A and Double-A minors.

Contract up, no renewal, released without a second thought. No American teams wanted him. He returned to Korea and enlisted to kill time.

But his baseball wasn't over. Post-military, he joined the AT Wiz and posted decent numbers in a few games.

Then happiness ended. After debut season, his stats plummeted. Once hailed as Korea's next top pitcher, injuries and slumps during his prime growth years left him wrecked.

His mechanics collapsed, leading to constant injuries and worse command, velocity, and stuff than before.

Any other player would've been cut ages ago. But his past as a 152 km/h lefty fireballer kept him afloat until last season. Now ineffective even in Double-A, aging out as a pro, endless injuries—the team cut bait.

He trained harder than anyone before his final Double-A start, but pros valued results.

"Seo Tae-woong, you're on waivers effective today. Figured I'd give you a heads-up out of courtesy."

"Yes, thanks for the advance notice."

"Contract ends with the season. Really sorry. Thanks for all your hard work. Hope you land with a good team."

"No, thank you for everything. I'll be going now."

Ugh... a good team? Who'd want me? Even I think my salary's wasted on a guy like this.

He knew he was smooth-talking, but didn't show it. He wasn't the hot-blooded twenty-year-old living and dying by pride anymore. Even this minor spot could vanish.

What can I even do now? Double-A rehab coach? Scouting analyst? If the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠team offers, anyway.

No offers came, as expected. From the GM's unprecedented call-up, he'd known. Calmly, he packed his locker and left the stadium.

Baseball had seemed his lifelong meal ticket, but that was just wishful thinking.

"End of the line here too. Nice knowin' ya, let's never meet again."

Bags in hand, he walked out without looking back, face impassive as if his baseball life was truly over. His tumultuous career seemed to end in three minutes flat.

"Oh! Gotcha!"

Tae-woong clutched his smartphone. Unintentionally, it was now his most precious possession. Homeless after release, he couldn't tear his eyes from his shining self on the tiny screen.

A thumbnail-sized him struck out the final batter, leading his team to victory.

Satisfied watching his in-game self lead the team to victory, Tae-woong set down the phone and sipped canned beer.

"Ahh! Warm electric blanket, cool beer and chicken in one hand, game in the other. This is heaven."

What he was playing on his smartphone: the mobile game Real Baseball Ace. During his career, save ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠two years, he'd scraped by on near-minimum salary. Mobile games were his sole cheap hobby.

"Ahhh, if only this were reality..."

He'd stumbled into Real Baseball Ace during long injury rehab, spotting his character in an ad. The game analyzed real players' stats into game characters. His starting stats sucked, but that didn't matter.

In the game, effort meant growth, however slow. Hooked by controlling and leveling his own self, he dove in and never looked back.

Real life him stagnated despite effort. Game him? Missions unlocked new pitches next game; achievements granted skills. He grew endlessly.

The other him in the phone kept him going. There, he was the best, a monster pitcher without limits.

Crack, crack.

"Ugh... neck's stiff."

Glancing at the old wall clock after rolling his neck—crunch like breaking bones—it was 7 a.m.

"Yawn... Sun's up already? Gotta win the title then sleep. Twelve hours straight, I'm beat."

He grabbed the phone again to gift his game self the World Series trophy.

Soon, with MVP-level four wins in the Series, he wrapped it up—like Immortal Glasses Ace, Iron Arm Choi Dong-won.

"World Series win at last! Wow, even for my character, this took forever. How many seasons was that?"

Real stats reflected, his pitcher started abysmal.

"Other characters max out in under ten seasons—I raised this one for damn near twenty. Be grateful, you got the best owner."

As he spoke, the best player ranking page popped up.

"Let's check. Duh, I'm number one anyway."

Four Series wins, plus 25-4 regular season—historic, top-of-the-line stuff. First place was locked.

Or so he thought.

"Yeah, I'm number one as expec—huh? Wait, I'm second?!"

His eyes bulged at the list.

"No way! This can't be right!"

Someone topped him.

"Who the hell is this guy?!"

A vaguely familiar name—he'd glimpsed it. LA Dodgers' ace starter, who went 3-0 in the three games Tae-woong didn't pitch.

"Stats must be insane to top me. Our hitters scored one run in three games?!"

Clicking the name brought up Ace Brainard's overflowing stats.

Too many pitches and skills to take in. And those ratings? Unreal. "80" was the game max.

"Wild Thing and Breaking? Two hidden skills? All maxed? Impossible!"

Glancing past, the four-seam's "85" was worse—beyond the cap.

"Everything 80... four-seam 85? Max is 80! Did devs use udon noodles for brains?"

He'd achieved near-top marks, but this guy blocked the summit.

"Total cheat! No fair! Damn, even the game favors talent."

The beaming Ace Brainard on screen mocked him. But his griping cut short.

His game screen went white.

Then, system messages scrolled up.

"What the—? Choose a season?"

A disbelieving chuckle escaped Tae-woong's lips.

"2018? What, regress now or something?"