Chapter 14 - Activating Skill 'Wari Gari 1'
Wari Gari 1 used.
Pitch type 'Curveball' selected.
Curveball's vertical movement increased by 2cm.
Opponent designated: Cleanup hitter Scraks.
The effect of Wari Gari 1 boosted the higher value between vertical and horizontal movement of the selected pitch type—by a whopping 2cm, no less.
'Looks like he's dying to launch one over the fence with that full swing.'
Tae-woong had chosen the curveball, the very first breaking ball in baseball history. Among all breaking pitches, it was the slowest yet had the most movement. Add 2cm more vertical drop to that?
The batter would just watch as the ball vanished above his sightline only to bury itself in the corner of the strike zone.
'Inside curve.'
Tae-woong flashed the breaking ball sign to the catcher and unleashed the pitch.
Whoosh.
The ball floated up into the sky before starting to plummet. Scraks reacted instantly. He'd timed the slow breaker from the jump, so his bat came around easier than expected.
Crack!
'Foul tip!'
Tae-woong knew from the sound alone it wasn't squared up. Once his analysis wrapped, his next move was shielding himself from any comebacker. His eyes tracked the ball.
Up it went, farther than he'd thought.
'Oh? Damn it!'
It was a foul tip for sure, but Scraks had snapped his wrists hard enough to send it sailing toward the gap between second base and right field. Bad luck, and it could've dropped right in front of a fielder for a Texas leaguer.
Second baseman Park Kyung-seo, eyes locked skyward, bolted over. He leaped forward as the ball began dipping into the grass, glove hand fully extended.
Thud.
'Got it?'
Tae-woong couldn't see clearly from the mound, Park Kyung-seo's body blocking the view.
Scraks sprinted full tilt to first, then whipped his gaze to Park Kyung-seo. Decent contact with a runner on deck—would it be one out, first on, or two down?
Park Kyung-seo's glove tip told the tale: the ball nestled there.
"Nice! Two outs!"
No lucky hit.
'Whoa, thought that was smoked. Damn, every pitch has me sweating bullets.'
Tae-woong tipped his cap to captain Park Kyung-seo's web gem, wiped his brow, and reset for the next pitch.
Even his best pitch right now—a fastball that tracked straight like a four-seamer before dropping sharply at the plate—had been dicey. Sure, the merc was a power hitter, but a tipped foul flying that far meant Tae-woong's stuff wasn't there yet.
Game system or not, he hadn't logged much real action with these abilities. Over a decade-plus pro career, his average velo had topped mid-140s km/h. At fifteen, he'd already touched 130. Sidestepping with this much slower stuff and iffy command felt alien.
'This game's way more mental than skill...'
No matter how well he threw, good hitters existed. And every liner screaming through the infield felt like it yanked out a hair.
'Am I gonna go bald like this? I'm only twenty!'
Back in the day, his peers would doff caps mid-game, shiny domes and foreheads gleaming one by one. Tae-woong, pushing forty, had kept a flat gut and full twenty-something mane through relentless training and care. He sensed the threat now.
A man's hair was sacred.
Pat.
'Hand moved on its own!'
Tae-woong snatched his left hand—itching to check his scalp—mid-motion and exchanged signs with the catcher.
Up was the five-hole, third baseman Park Sung-min. The guy who'd shattered the batter FA record at 96 billion won in 2016 with power, eye, and solid D. But since joining the Dinos, nagging injuries had shelved him for 2017. He'd grinded winter ball furious.
Thwack!
'Swung at that?'
Maybe hangover from the lost season—he wasn't full throttle. First pitch dove deep inside, a hair below the knees: slow curve. Slower velo than most pitchers tricked him into offering.
The bat grazed the top, sending a dribbler rolling lazily frontward. Tae-woong fielded and tossed to first.
First-pitch out. Three up, three down. Eight pitches for the frame.
Lucky gem.
"Yo! Ace! Curve looking sharp today? How'd that trajectory pop? And that grip—what's the secret?"
Foreign ace Fairband handed Tae-woong an ion drink and towel as he hit the dugout, grinning.
Tae-woong replied seamlessly in English. "Ah, Fairband, thanks. Ace? Haha, nah."
With hitter Nam Tae-hyung—the Dodgers washout—the only other bilinguals, Tae-woong doubled as interpreter when the translator stepped out. In under a month, all three foreigners called him their closest teammate in pressers. Dugout chats flowed English often.
'Sorry, can't spill the beans.'
Tae-woong flashed an awkward grin, demoed his curve grip, and bantered.
"Details after the game. You got it?"
"Sure, boy. Haha."
Dinos turned to new import starter Barell. Amped by Tae-woong's clean frame, he fired 145 km/h-plus four-seamers with hop, sharp sliders, and flat changeups from the jump.
'Jealous...'
"Striiike three!"
Barell whiffed a batter on a high outer heater, digging the mound with his spikes.
'Objectively, my command and break are better.'
Tae-woong mentally deducted velo for the moral W.
'Did my mental age regress with my body? Blame Kang Baek-ho.'
No trace of his old phone-scrolling, forum-lurking self.
Top of the fifth. Wiz's seven-hole onward fizzled quick. Whiff on high heat, looking K on deep inside four-seam, routine right fly on a hanging slider.
Barell three-up, three-down with two Ks in his debut frame.
'Fine, whatever. Arm's loose, good is good.'
Tae-woong stretched, shook out, and remounted.
Dinos bottom-half from the bottom. Six-hole: backup infielder Ji Sung-hoon (.241 last year). Seven: catcher Park Kang-yeol (.190). Eight: center fielder Kim Jung-wan (.250).
Tae-woong mowed the bottom three: one K, no hits, no runs.
Bottom first. Wiz leadoff: nine-hole Kang Baek-ho.
By the book, Baek-ho was your typical rookie struggling with breaking stuff. Last at-bat, low-inside changeup fooled him into a third-base grounder.
As he dug in again, the YouTube live chat erupted in paeans and pans.
Barell eyed the breaker-vulnerable rook for an easy first-strike count. He fired a slider per the catcher's sign, tailing off the plate outside.
Pop!
Mid-zone... then it bent away.
'For real?'
Baek-ho's hands exploded, hips firing as he spotted the path.
"Baek-ho, c'mere."
"Yes, Coach."
The hitting coach called back the dugout-bound rook. Hunt first-pitch outside breakers, he advised.
Sure enough, slider tailing out. Coach tip or not, without the tools to adjust, it wouldn't matter. Average guys couldn't either.
But Kang Baek-ho? Talent incarnate. He embodied tips on contact.
BOOM!
Baek-ho split the hanging slider, crushing it outward.
Barell didn't bother looking—knew the damage. The blast's crack echoed empty stands, trajectory screaming bomb even by sound.
"It's huge! Huge! HUUUGE!"
"Ooh!"
"Gone!"
"It going? Going? GOING?"
"Please! Homer!"
"Just one run for us too!"
Runners on through six, but zero scores. Pitcher's duel. Coaches and skipper burned inside, faces pleading silent.
Tae-woong and the crew craned necks, eyes chasing.
Ball rocketed high, liner-straight, clearing left-field wall easy. 130m drive!
Wiz closed 2-0 to one out in a blink.
Baek-ho dropped the bat lightly, dazed, slow-trotting bases.
"Whoa! Insane!"
"Great hit! Way to go!"
"Super rook!"
"Haha, thanks."
Baek-ho fist-bumped, grin unstoppable.
Tae-woong chased him in, pounding his dome in celebration.
Smack! Smack! Thump! Whack! Pow! Bang!
"Congrats, buddy! Over the fence? What's gotten into you, Baek-ho! So pretty!"
Tae-woong trash-talked like a mouthy brawler, right hand flying.
"Ow! Agh! Hurts! Stop! For real!"
Baek-ho fled. Tae-woong mock-wiped tears.
"Tough guy like me, but you're making me cry."
"Seo Tae-woong, you bastard. Wait 'til your next inning. Give up runs, it's double payback. Eat a grand slam. You're dead."
Baek-ho beamed through the pain—first homer off a change he couldn't touch thrilled him.
"Heh, prep all you want, kid."
"Ugh, annoying prick..."
"What'd you sayyy? Super rook with one bomb in eight games—speak up!"
"Jerk... evil jerk..."
Tae-woong's facts crushed; Baek-ho's voice faded.
As the duo bickered in the corner, leadoff Jang Hyun worked full count to a walk.
"Shit! Fuuuuck!"
Barell muffled curses into his glove.
'Close. Half-inch more, looking K.'
Tae-woong agreed: zone-edge four-seam. But green catcher framing averaged out.
Main guy enlisted post-2017—Dinos' Achilles.
'Ours? Catcher depth solid. Even backup Jang Sang-woo holds it down.'
Last year: two-way stud Jang Sang-oh starter, iffy-hitting Lee Hae-chan backup. Scandal and injury benched Jang two seasons; Hae-chan surged to starter.
'Hold it down awhile, Hae-chan hyung.'
Tae-woong eyed him, then the plate.
Crack!
Captain-for-two-years second sacker Park Kyung-seo yanked a meaty inside first-pitch fastball. Center-field looper.
Whoosh! Whoosh!
Center fielder Rohis—the guy Tae-woong'd eyed since camp—unleashed vicious hacks.
Back when Tae-woong got dealt to Double-A Tennessee Smokies (Cubs affiliate), Rohis had three gems in Wiz before 2020 MLB return. Signed 3yr/$18M FA with Cubs, manned CF years, retired.
First in-person for Tae-woong.
'Bulked all winter, alright. Muscles insane.'
Per memory: MVP-caliber next two years, rivaling Eric Thames' Brewer tear.
'Thanks in advance. KBO title reward? Skill? Pitch evolution ticket? Nah, won't cheap out with upgrade scrolls. Right?'
Mid-mutter, hologram popped.
Error. Typo detected.
'What? Error? Cheap-ass system. Stingy much? Rewards cost ya?'
Game system vs. human. Both petty as hell.