Hell's Bonfire Pitcher

After wrapping up that short chat with the head pitching coach, he couldn't wait any longer. Claiming he needed the bathroom, he bolted out of the dugout.

Sitting on the toilet stall, Seo Tae-woong recalled the reward he hadn't claimed yet, and right away, the mission results popped up before his eyes.

"Gimme something good! Not just good—something really good!"

And what appeared before the eagerly anticipating Tae-woong was...

"Why the hell are you showing up?"

Jackpot.

Tae-woong couldn't hold back his laughter at the hologram's description.

"No matter what I throw, as long as I use the skill, the ball's movement increases by 2cm?"

Two centimeters was literally the width of a finger. In everyday life, it was a negligible distance. But in a battle between pitcher and batter, 2cm meant everything.

A baseball's diameter was just over 7cm, and the bat's barrel was max 7cm too. The batter had to squarely hit a sphere hurtling toward them faster than a car—just 7cm wide—to notch a hit or homer. Miss by even 1cm, hell, even 0.5cm, and the odds of solid contact plummeted.

That's why Tae-woong was thrilled over a mere 2cm. His first skill since Pitching Balance reeked of jackpot from the start. Any pitch type, boosted by 2cm of extra movement with the skill.

"Heh heh heh... Jackpot!"

Too excited, he yelled out loud without realizing it.

And right then, as Tae-woong whooped it up...

"Urghhh..."

Pfffrrrrt.

A familiar stench pierced through the wall from the stall to his left, along with a voice he knew all too well.

"Seo Tae-woong, you again? Why do you always pull weird shit while taking a dump? Can't you just crap quietly?"

"Huh? No way—Kang Baek-ho?"

"Yeah, it's your boy ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Kang Baek-ho. You little punk! Why do you scream like a banshee every time you hit the john? Ruining my focus."

"You stalking me now? Why're you always tailing me to the bathroom?"

Flustered, Tae-woong fired back, but Baek-ho hit right back.

"Between the guy crapping quietly and the one screaming 'yay' mid-dump—which one's normal?"

"Uh... dunno."

"Dunno? That's all you got?"

"Sorry. Anyway, I'm outta here..."

No comeback for that, so Tae-woong hightailed it out of the bathroom.

"Hey! Wait up, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠you bastard! Urghhh..."

The hearty aroma lingered in the air a bit longer.

He'd safely wrapped up his first spring training mound time. A rookie pitcher shutting down an inning scoreless with early-120s velocity? Enough to turn heads from the coaching staff.

Their interest and expectations led to another inning next outing. His back-to-back gems earned him two more appearances on three days' rest. And after nailing three straight intrasquad scrimmages...

The first-team pitching coach, Jeong Myeong-eon, summoned Tae-woong to the meeting room.

Nothing to feel guilty about, so he strode in confidently.

"Coach! Good to see you. Seo Tae-woong reporting."

"Oh! Hey, Ace! Come on in—first counseling session, right?"

The coach greeted him with a big grin and some teasing, kicking off their chat. First up, he eyed the performance log from the analysts.

The log was pure praise from start to finish—minus the slow velo—and even Tae-woong thought it laid it on a bit thick.

"Haha... kinda embarrassing."

"I've watched every one of your outings closely, but seeing it in data hits different. You're killing it. Keep this up, and 1st-team rotation's yours, no sweat."

"Aw, shucks. Thanks—all thanks to you, Coach."

"Cut the flattery, punk. Ahem."

He said that, but the coach couldn't hide his smile. Wetting his whistle with coffee, he pressed on.

"You know the team’s short on lefties, right?"

"Yes, sir."

"Don't get cocky, though. Plenty of hotshots talk big and vanish without a trace in this game."

Maybe 'cause he'd failed once himself. Tae-woong replied with grim resolve.

"Got it, Coach. Hall of Fame's my life goal. Won't slack till then."

"Hall of Fame? You mean the Majors one?"

"Yes, sir!"

"Coors Field one?"

"Whoa, you know it, Coach!"

"Max velo 125, average 123? Hall's a stretch... Better pivot to singing or acting—Arts Palace'd be quicker."

"Coach! I'm dead serious."

"Heh, alright, alright. Don't get all serious."

Once a tiger on the mound, now Jeong Myeong-eon the pitching coach cracked dad jokes and bonded easy with players. Tae-woong, mature beyond his rookie years, sly and unfazed by brass, clicked with him—they chatted often.

After some ribbing, the coach got serious.

"Tae-woong, you know Trevor Hoffman or Jamie Moyer?"

"Of course, Coach!"

Know 'em? Pics together, changeup grips swapped, signed balls too.

"Good—makes this quick. What's their common thread?"

"Moyer starter, Hoffman closer. Both way below MLB velo average—early-mid 130s."

"Right, slow heat, long careers. But you missed the big one. What's the other?"

"Changeup masters."

Smart kid—English whiz too, huh.

"Spot on. You know your stuff."

"Haha... Parents love MLB, so I've picked up bits here and there."

High-school grad, fresh 20—but really "Tae-woong who'd crammed for 34 years to avoid getting cut." Nobody knew that. Except the system helping him out.

"Like you said, their changeups etched in MLB history. Different styles, but that pitch let 'em thrive despite the slow stuff."

"So, hone the changeup to perfection?"

"Yeah. Dopes need it spelled out every time—drives me nuts. You get it quick, old soul."

"Praise? I'll take it. Thanks, haha."

The coach chuckled at his cheek.

"Good you know. Slider ain't for slowballers. Need a killer changeup, and..."

Scraaaape.

He sketched a long arc on his paper: high climb, sharp drop.

"What's the last piece?"

"That height? Curve, right?"

"Bingo. Changeup, curve, and solid fastball. Focus on those three."

"Got it."

"Hard worker—late nights again. Next counsel's up, head out."

"Thanks, Coach! Huge respect!"

"Respect my ass. Scram!"

Tae-woong bowed to the bashful coach and headed back. Roomie Kang Baek-ho greeted him.

"Yo, bonfire from hell! Late one. Coach chew you out? Slow ain't just your mound poetry."

"Shut it, Mr. 2018 Rookie of the Year lock."

"You shut it. Why'm I roomies with this clown..."

Usually, hitters paired with hitters, pitchers with pitchers. But late-add Tae-woong messed plans, landing him with same-age Baek-ho.

Days later, they were tight—nicknaming each other "Bonfire" and "Super Rookie."

Baek-ho, high-school phenom in hit/pitch, dubbed "Korea's Ohtani" or "Super Rookie," solidified it with scrimmage bombs.

A reporter caught post-scrimmage interviews with batters facing Tae-woong's barely-120s heat. Article hit top of the green site's baseball page, birthing his moniker: "lefty bonfire from hell," slowest changer than most, racking Ks.

If he debuted this season, league's slowest arm—hype and hate galore.

Last year: near-150s fireballer, velo over control. Now, 30km/h drop, more Ks—tons of buzz.

Baek-ho grinned at his phone, scrolling Tae-woong articles.

"Yo, Bonfire—getting roasted online? Step it up."

Whatever. Not scrapping with some ink-fresh kid.

No reply worth it, Tae-woong hit the sack.

"Shut up. Lights out for me."

"Sweet dreams, 'Bonfire' sir. Heh."

Arizona's final month, full moon high—looked like a baseball to Tae-woong. Falling stars mimicked Coach Jeong's curve arc.

Swoooosh.

Gripping a curve, he raised his arm, swinging at empty air a few ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠times.

Curve... gotta grind curves like Coach said. Bonus reward wouldn't hurt.

With that, Tae-woong closed his eyes and plunged into deep sleep.