Too Slow. Way Too Slow... But Why Can't They Hit It Right?
'Slow. Way too slow... But why can't they hit it properly? Is my condition not fully up yet?'
Even when pro players practice against batting machines, they usually set them to speeds in the early to mid-140km/h range, up to early 150km/h. The pitching machines for batting practice are the same—no matter how slow, they clock at least late 130km/h. That's how they instinctively time their swings to meet the ball.
Because of that, matching the timing against Tae-woong's early 120km/h slowballs was harder than it seemed.
'A fun one just popped up.'
A jolt ran through him.
"Huh? What the hell?"
The batter, who had stepped back from the plate for some swing practice, locked eyes with Tae-woong. What he saw were eyes blazing with fighting spirit.
The flustered batter turned to catcher Lee Hae-chan, someone he was friendly with.
"Hae-chan hyung, why's that guy suddenly glaring at me like that? Dude's built like a tank—scary as shit. Season ends and I'm FA, gotta watch my back."
"Heh, no idea. He's been weird since spring camp, but the kid's harmless."
"He didn't sneak some drugs over in America on a holiday or something?"
"Nah. Normal guy otherwise—only gets like that on the mound."
"Then maybe bipolar? Look at him staring—guy's not right in the head."
"Hey, our rookie's fine, heh. Don't talk smack."
"Enough chit-chat. Let's get started."
"Yes, sorry."
At the umpire's words, they cut the conversation and refocused on the game.
'Same delivery every time—can't tell 'em apart. Should I groove one?'
As the batter pondered Tae-woong's next pitch, the catcher's sign came.
Inside low four-seam.
For the first time, Tae-woong shook his head at the catcher's sign. Then he called his own.
Two-seam fastball, middle of the strike zone, just a bit high.
The catcher looked puzzled. Tae-woong hadn't thrown many two-seamers today. And a groundball-inducer high in the zone? But he respected Tae-woong's call—kid had been lights-out so far; must have a plan.
'Fine, play along once.'
The catcher nodded at Tae-woong's sign and thrust his mitt forward. Tae-woong fired again.
Thwack!
The batter panicked tracking the ball's path.
'Middle again? Three straight? Control shot from nerves?'
If it had been early 140s, he'd have swung without thinking. Unless it was a pitcher on an absolute heater, 99% meatball. But this sub-124km/h junk—an under average velocity—threw him off.
'Meat? Too slow to tell meat from good stuff? Swing and see!'
Clink!
Everyone heard the foul tip off the bat. Whoosh. The ball grazed the bat's bottom and popped straight up.
Lee Hae-chan yanked off his mask and charged, but it dropped just out of reach.
"Foul!"
"Damn, close."
Tae-woong smacked his lips watching it.
Hey big bro, ain't that a bit harsh?
"Who you imitating now?"
You're totally screwed... Nah, focus on the hitter! Where you looking?
Ace averted his gaze, embarrassed.
"Why you picking fights? You spout all the bullshit..."
'Got a bit greedy there.'
Even he felt a twinge of guilt. A rookie debutant trying to finish the inning in three pitches—not even three Ks.
Take it slow. Slowly. Slowly. OK?
"Ace... you worthless piece of shit."
Pause the system?
Yes or No.
3 seconds until selection.
"No! No! Hell no! Please!"
'You ruthless bastard—exploiting that I'm nothing without the system right now?'
Ahem. That's more like it. Even for a shitballer.
'Now I gotta watch this guy's mood? Damn it... I'll pay you back someday.'
Tae-woong burned with vague revenge, no plan in mind.
Foul for first-pitch strike. Batter still had room, but pitcher-friendly count.
The batter agonized over five pitches: four-seam, two-seam, changeup, curve, slider. No data on the rookie, identical deliveries hid weaknesses. Curve hand a tad higher? Barely noticeable now.
'Changeup it is.'
Decision made. Next pitch: low outside dropping slow curve—perfect timing disruptor.
Whoosh!
'Huh? Again?'
Ball floated up from Tae-woong's hand, then plunged with big break into the zone. Batter recognized too late—brain knew, body couldn't react.
Clink!
Middling contact popped up; shortstop ranged back for the out.
Bottom first: four pitches, three outs. Tae-woong dispatched 1-2-3 silently and stepped off.
Quit posing. Makes me wanna puke. Who you think you are?
'Shut up for once, please.'
Tae-woong went four innings, blanking the Lions' lineup. Mixing four-seam, change, curve with sharp control—no one reached second. One hit inevitable: RBI king Ruff worked a seven-pitch walk? No, single off low outside 124km/h four-seam, muscled foul.
Luckily, lefty Tae-woong's compact motion eased pickoffs. Ruff a slugger, not fast. Tae-woong cruised.
Not scoring position, but runner who could tag third on single. Next: DH vet Park Han-il.
Tae-woong went low outside changeup twice.
"Striiike!"
Park watched first intently, swung fastball timing on second similar pitch.
Crack!
Foul tip off bat bottom rolled short left; 6-4-3 double play. Clean inning.
"Nice! Feeling it today?"
"Ball's live, huh?"
"That changeup's nasty!"
Seniors welcomed Tae-woong to dugout for changeover. Short stint, but inspired the vets watching.
Not everyone throws 150km/h heat for Ks. Survival means honing stuff, breaking balls, control—finding your 1st-team niche.
Tae-woong showed the blueprint: long-term pitcher craft. Wait for fastball? Curve/change. Change? Four-seam sails over whiff, slider dives. Mix changes, fastballs. Slow speed weakness? Overcome with counts, control. Confidence in your arsenal.
Lions helpless. Sub-130km/h arsenal toyed with them. Four scoreless.
Tae-woong's gem, but Yang Chan-seop hit a wall.
Aggressive fastballs blanked first: max 148km/h four-seam, four Ks already.
But fireballers have fatal flaws. Top second: two runs.
Control. Wiz leadoff Yoo Ha-jun—past prime power, but vet savvy trumped rookie.
Ten-pitch full count. Squeezed late-140s four-seam fouled off seven times.
Crack! "Foul!"
Clink! "Foul!"
Clink! "Foul!"
Crack! "Foul!"
Clink! "Foul!"
Thwack! "Foul!"
Clink! "Foul!"
Unlike Tae-woong, average-rookie-minded Yang rattled by cuts.
Yo, he's gonna plunk the next guy. Face red as hell?
Last pitch: outside corner slider buckled. Walk. First baserunner.
'Vibe from experience...'
'Shit...'
Exhibition innings/pitch limits amped Yang's urgency. Twelve pitches first; fourteen to leadoff alone second. Focus, stamina dipped. Prior battle bled over.
K-hungry, fastballs galore—next a meaty slider, shallow break.
Super rookie Kang Baek-ho pounced. Sensed junk, adjusted wrist low, centered it.
BOOM!!!
Stadium-shaking rip. Center-field wall gone—two-run bomb.
"Deep center! Deep center! It's gone! Kang Baek-ho draws first blood off Yang Chan-seop!"
"Kang Baek-ho's two-run homer! 2-0, Wiz leads!"
"Wiz got lucky charms—two of 'em."
"Commissioner Park Jae-ho, thoughts on Baek-ho's swing?"
"Slow-mo shows the wrist snap at the end! See it?"
"No ordinary rookie. Baek-ho's gonna make waves this season!"
'Monster's a monster. Low outside slider? Adjusts and crushes.'
Tae-woong admired purely. Youth rep teammates, but US grind meant no eyewitness to Baek-ho's debut era.
'Crazy... Two months weights? Power's insane.'
Under a year, beyond high school—otherworldly hack. Talent, effort shone: eye, reflexes, trained bat control, wrist snap. Decade for mortals, rookie magic.
Outshone past Tae-woong's gifts—from fresh-faced 20-year-old.
"Eh, system's mine now. Call it even."
No envy. Unique power leveled it.
Acting cool? Makes you look more pathetic. Nah, for real.
"Strike three!"
Lions yielded first blood to Baek-ho homer. Rattled Yang refocused—fanned two, 4-3 groundout next three. Inning done.
Tae-woong stretched in dugout, watching. Baek-ho run hurt, but Yang climbs fast.
'Won't go five? Pitches at 92... Not my worry. Survive first.'
2-0 Wiz. Bottom fifth: scoreless Tae-woong remounts.
"Let's go—hurry up!"