The Guts of 125 km/h
Tae-woong's four-seam fastball topped out at 125 km/h, with an average velocity settling around 122-123 km/h. Even with solid control that placed the ball precisely in the corners—despite it not being a light ball—it was still a slow pitch that didn't crack 130 km/h. If it wandered into the heart of the strike zone, even a contact hitter with fewer than double-digit career home runs could clear the fences.
In the past, he'd made decent use of it in one-point relief roles, facing just one lefty batter after getting bumped from the rotation. 'Of course, it's worlds apart from back then.'
These days, his pinpoint control compensated for the reduced velocity, but in his previous life, he'd often plunk hitters when trying to throw like this. Only when he was nearing thirty and had built up enough seniority did he get away with apologizing first. As a rookie, he'd have deserved a flying kick and then some.
During the intrasquad scrimmage, coaches who'd watched Tae-woong's trick curveball freaked out and swarmed pitching coach Jeong Myeong-eon.
"Coach Jeong, that's a trick pitch, right? When did you teach him that?"
"That curve trajectory is no joke. With decent control, most lefties wouldn't touch it. You planned this, yeah?"
"Looks like it. His release point doesn't waver, and his follow-through is clean."
"More than that, seeing it hit the zone properly... it's not like he just lucked into it once."
But the most shocked among them was pitching coach Jeong Myeong-eon himself. 'When did the second-team coach report this? I'm seeing it for the first time today...'
Jeong Myeong-eon was at a loss for words, struggling to respond.
"You didn't know either, Coach Jeong?"
"Yeah, honestly, this is my first time seeing it too. Tae-woong was with the second team before spring training, so I didn't see him much. No reports came up from down there either."
"Ha, what a ridiculous kid. He didn't even learn it from anyone—he just figured it out on his own?"
There were pitchers who effectively used trick deliveries, of course. In the KBO, there was Tipford from the NG Twins a few years back, and Hana Eagles' Sin Su-chan was still active. But they were veterans who'd spent years honing those tricks to work at the first-team level.
No pitching coach ever recommended trick pitches to a fresh pro rookie. No matter how much you practiced, maintaining consistent mechanics for a few pitches could disrupt your overall Pitching Balance. Half-baked releases from awkward slots produced flat balls that batters exploited once they analyzed them.
Thus, switching deliveries mid-at-bat to surprise with an unexpected trajectory only worked once or twice.
"Coach, time."
Catcher Lee Hae-chan, acting as temporary umpire, called for time and climbed the mound.
"Tae-woong, when did you practice this? That curve break is insane. If I were a lefty, no way I'd touch it."
"Yes, sunbae. I watched Rich Hill trick-pitch videos every night and practiced alone. It fit my body better than I expected."
"Whoa, you crazy bastard? You should've warned me, lol. I almost got torched catching it."
"Haha... thanks, I mean, sorry."
"Whatever. You gonna keep mixing it in today?"
"Nah. It's just for stealing timing once or twice right now... That's all for today."
"Phew... good, thank goodness."
Lee Hae-chan headed back down to squat and prepare. "Whew, thought he pulled a hamstring or something. What kinda form is that..."
"Hae-chan didn't know either?"
"Huh? If the catcher didn't know, does that mean he practiced sidearm all by himself? A rookie who just got drafted a few months ago?"
"Pitching coach doesn't know, manager doesn't know, catcher doesn't know—has to be the pitcher solo."
"Is that even possible?"
"Who knows. Ryu Han-jin from the Dodgers throws changes better than the guy who taught him after one start if you just show him the grip. Why not this?"
"This ain't some sports fantasy novel..."
"True. Geniuses look like that to normal eyes. But one of 'em changes the world now and then. Be nice if he had velocity too."
"A guy with control, good breaking stuff, trick pitches and heat? MLB would've snatched him already."
"Yeah, well. Last winter, he reworked his mechanics himself to drop velocity and nail control first. Lucky for us."
"Definitely crazy. A twenty-year-old with MLB and first-pick draft locked in, changing his form on his own..."
They had every reason to be stunned. Pitching form wasn't something you overhauled in months. Even Korean express Park Chan-ho, struggling with injury in MLB, bet his career on a form change. It took three grueling years—more likely to fail than succeed.
Park Chan-ho emerged to climb the World Series mound again, throwing 96 mph fastballs and sharp breaking balls over 3.1 innings in four games with a 0.00 ERA.
Korea's top MLB pitcher in the steroid era needed three years to perfect a form change. Yet here was a high school grad rookie flawlessly throwing two forms. They couldn't hide their shock.
As manager and coaches marveled, Yun Seong-min finished warming up and stepped in.
'Still jet-lagged? Even so, how do I whiff on a sub-125 km/h pitch...'
Yun Seong-min, who'd hit Woo Hee-gang of the Bears decently, shook off missing Tae-woong's even slower stuff and plotted.
'Foul off breakers, hunt fastballs.'
'Even assuming the hitters aren't 100%, this is solid against the bottom of the order... Gotta boost pitch ratings more.'
As Tae-woong pondered, the catcher signaled. Three fingers extended, fluorescent nail polish gleaming. He smacked his mitt once, then crab-walked left.
The mitt was far from righty Yun Seong-min.
'Outside changeup, low.'
Tae-woong fired before the batter settled.
'Bailed? Another bait pitch? Not falling twice, punk.'
Yun swung then froze. The ball, a hair outside the zone, dove in.
'What? Slider? Coming middle!'
It headed into the zone; his hesitated bat swung late. Fastball arm action, but it sank 5 o'clock at the plate, clipping the outside corner.
Shwooo!
"Strike!"
Slow speed, sloppy-looking path. Batter thought meatball, swung early—bat sliced the zone's heart.
"Changeup?"
With Tae-woong's slow fastball, the 15+ km/h slower change looked hittable.
"Whoa, that drop is massive. Bat and ball were a ball-and-a-half to two apart."
"Even to me, that change looked better than the curve. Not a fluke."
"Yeah, I thought it was just a straight miss too."
"This rookie class—Baek-ho too—the scouts nailed it."
'Phew... close one. Any lower and it wouldn't fool 'em, just a ball. Pulled it off under 130 km/h.'
Unlike his past patterns—or lack thereof. He'd only located well once or twice a year, mostly zone-middle.
Twenty years in, this was new. Slow velocity plus control transformed his game.
'2-0 count. Show 1-2 outside baits.'
Tae-woong shook off the sign.
'Tight inside fastball.'
'Got it.'
Rookies usually followed the catcher's lead. Even ten-year vet Hae-chan had never had a rookie demand inside—let alone deep.
High school prioritized fastball command; scouts favored power over control.
'If it lands... deadliest pitch. His control's been sharp so far.'
A shake would plunk or middle-up for extra bases. Yet the rookie's confident demand showed skill and mental steel.
Past Tae-woong couldn't command inside, repeating low/missing breakers and outside-only, walking the house. Not now.
'Outside-corner breaker, then tight inside heater—my 120 km/h hits like 130 to him.'
Perfect for intrasquad trial.
Hae-chan hugged inside; Tae-woong targeted the mitt below the elbow.
Shwoong!
'No-ball, 0-2. Gotta bait outside or low—swing and it's whiff city. But if he speeds up, tip it at least!'
Yun vowed light contact unless middle-mistake; full cuts only then. Rookie vs. traded cleanup stud—pride on the line before juniors.
'Patience brings chances!'
He gripped and reset.
Shwoong!
'What? Shit! Not middle-mistake—inside rip!'
The ball rocketed elbow-ward. No hit worth injury—he bailed.
Paang!
As he retreated, 123 km/h four-seam jammed the zone.
"Strikeout!"
"Whoa, 125 km/h with those balls? Kid's got guts."
Yun checked the catch and retreated. Out call rang; Tae-woong's inning ended.
He high-fived infielders and outfielders one by one.
"Yo, Tae-woong, skip me—I'm beat already, lol."
"We got an ace rookie now too?"
"125 km/h slowball art! Good stuff today!"
"Haha, thanks, sunbae!"
Tae-woong hit the dugout bench, catching breath. A hologram flickered.
Show the Rookies' Spirit!
1 Inning Scoreless Achieved!
Reward: Random Skill Granted
Chief coach, Blue Team manager, approached as Tae-woong eyed the reward.
"Hey, ace—stuff looked sharp."
"Haha, thanks."
"Velocity's way down. Body not loose yet?"
"Control was trash, so I tweaked form bit by bit since last year. Still adjusting."
He'd prepped this answer for his sudden changes post-return.
'It is changed. Not lying.'
"Huh? No shoulder or anything hurting?"
"Nah, I'm good. Could throw 200."
"Kid, if I let you throw 200, I'd get fired. Got three mouths to feed."
"Ah, sorry."
"Anyway, great job today. Speak up if anything hurts; we'll talk post-game."
"Yes, coach."
Next pitcher followed Tae-woong, fanning the last out on 148 km/h heat.
"Strikeout! Game over!"
Blue Team—Tae-woong's—won. He couldn't recall contributing to a team win like this, pre-regression or not.
Separate from missions or growth, his gem gave personal satisfaction.
'Winning's what makes it fun, right? This is the taste.'