Awakening in the Past
Unable to open his eyes amid the blinding burst of light, Tae-woong squeezed them shut and felt a bizarre sensation wash over him. It was as if he were floating weightlessly in midair, drifting toward somewhere unknown, the feeling enveloping his entire body. The moment that unfamiliar disorientation—something he'd never experienced in over thirty years of life—faded, the roar of a crowd erupted noisily from somewhere nearby.
What the hell? Why's it so damn loud in the morning? The upstairs neighbor again?
His ears ringing from the clamor, Tae-woong pried open his tightly shut eyes. Filling his vision was the back of a white uniform, emblazoned with a number and name: 60. Seo Tae-woong. There he was, on the pitcher's mound, fiddling with the ball—his own backside.
"Ha... this dream again...? I've had it a thousand times. Even after getting released, it keeps coming back?"
It was the dream that came after training sessions so grueling he could barely stand, collapsing into bed like the dead. A familiar scene for the man who drifted off every night murmuring to himself, Things'll get better tomorrow, I'll get good if I just keep at it.
Twisting around on the spot, he glanced up at the massive scoreboard. There he was again, gloved hand ready, staring confidently ahead.
"Hey, what the hell are you grinning about? You couldn't hack it in the second team, let alone the first, and got cut."
Gazing at his own face beaming happier than ever, Tae-woong twisted his lips into a bitter smirk and muttered self-deprecatingly.
The score is 1-0! A one-run lead! It's the bottom of the 9th, two outs, bases loaded in this nail-biter!
Still perfect with zero runs allowed—the ace, Mr. Zero, Seo Tae-woong! Can he clinch the championship with his own hand!?
Seo Tae-woong winds up for the final pitch!
"Seo Tae-woong! Fighting!"
"Please! Just once!"
"Tae-woong! This is it!"
"Please! Hold 'em off!"
"Just one! One more!"
"Even the announcer's lines are word-for-word the same? I've memorized the damn thing."
The identical commentary every time, the stadium packed with cheering fans.
Seo Tae-woong's curve just barely misses the zone for a ball. Now it's full count!
No escape for pitcher or batter!
Seo Tae-woong goes into his windup! Will this be the game-ender?
Tae-woong turned back to the mound, eyeing himself, and muttered.
"Last pitch: changeup dropping low and away to the righty."
Just as the words left his mouth, the version of himself on the mound unleashed it—a low-outside pitch that could end the game. At a glance, it looked like a plain four-seam fastball. Bottom of the 9th, two outs, bases loaded, full count at 3-2. One walk ties it at 1-1. No need for a homer or extra-base hit—a single flips the game with a walk-off.
And the batter? A league leader at crushing breaking balls, with serious power. Any pitcher would have to go with their most controllable offering, the pitch with the most bite from their arsenal. Everyone would expect a four-seam fastball, no doubt.
As the ball left Tae-woong's left hand, the batter swung eagerly, anticipating that 160km/h+ heat.
But the ball streaking toward the catcher's mitt—the undeniable fastball—suddenly slowed, hanging in the air like it was under a spell, frozen before his eyes.
Damn, I got faked out.
Then it plunged straight down right in front of home plate. The ball, meant for the bat, kept dropping lower and lower. The batter, timed perfectly for fastball speed, whipped through empty air. Only after his swing did it kiss the plate and pop into the mitt.
Whiiiff!
A crisp breeze reached even him, standing behind the mound. The inevitable whiff, trajectory way off. The batter, lunging to extend, couldn't support his forward lean and crumpled to the dirt, clutching his bat with both hands, eyes squeezed shut like he'd lost everything.
"Wooooaaah!"
"It's over!"
"We won!"
The stadium erupted.
Championship! They've done it! Seo Tae-woong, who took the mound in the first, the ace seals the win!
That changeup? Nothing to say—pure magic! That's what carried Seo Tae-woong here!
Trevor Hoffman! Johan Santana! Pedro Martinez! Their devastating stuff reborn in our ace, Seo Tae-woong's hand!
Exactly! It's like watching those changeups live!
Look at that batter heading to the dugout—staring blankly at the sky, like he saw a ball freeze midair!
The mound version of himself let out a joyous scream, hurling his glove skyward with a blissful grin. The crowd filled the stadium chanting his name.
"Seo Tae-woong! Seo Tae-woong!"
"Thank you! Thank you so much!"
"Seo Tae-woong! You're the best!"
"Seo Tae-woong! Seo Tae-woong! Seo Tae-woong!"
Teammates and coaches swarmed the mound. He knew this was a dream, that it'd vanish upon waking, but Tae-woong kept his eyes fixed straight ahead.
In eighteen years from pro debut to retirement, his name had never been chanted with such fervor. Not that he felt wronged—he'd never met the fans' expectations. But every moment on the mound, he'd desperately wished for this.
So he closed his eyes again, savoring the chants of his name.
Right then, a very familiar voice whispered in his ear.
"...Woong-ah."
Who's that? Sounds familiar...
"...Tae-woong-ah."
"...Seo Tae-woong."
"...Tae-woong-ah. Seo Tae-woong."
Who is it? Why're they calling me?
"Tae-woong-ah... hey."
Leave me alone! I wanna soak in this moment! Who the hell—?
"Seo Tae-woong, get up already!"
Ah... right. I know that voice...
His eyelids slowly lifted. Squinting at the sunlight streaming through the window, then opening fully. There she was—a face he knew intimately.
But not quite like the last time he'd seen her days ago. Did she get Botox behind my back? And dyed her hair black?
His mother. Not the sixty-something with white hair and wrinkles, but glossy jet-black, from her younger days.
"Uh... Mom...? Is that really you? No, wait—why're you suddenly in my place without a heads-up? Call first."
A hoarse voice escaped his dry throat.
His mom yanked back the blanket.
"Your place? You haven't contributed a single won! You've got a meeting with the AT Wiz scout team leader at 10! Get up! It's 9 already!"
"Meeting? It's been a month since retirement—what meeting? Mom, did you dye your hair? Why's it black?"
"What nonsense is this? Enough sleep-talking—get up, wash, and eat!"
"Huh? Oh. Yeah... got it."
Tae-woong nodded instinctively.
"Hurry out! You're late!"
Apron on, she confirmed he was up and bustled out.
"What the hell is going on?"
None of this made sense. Glancing around, his room came into focus.
"I tossed this when I came back from the States—why's it here?"
The worn walls were plastered with awards, trophies, and photos from elementary, middle, and high school. It felt just like his high school days.
"No way...?"
Then it hit him—the game screen before the light engulfed him.
It said something about starting the 2018 season...
He scanned the room and spotted the phone nearby. On the desk sat the white smartphone he'd used all through high school.
He reached for it naturally, then froze.
"Hold up—white? Mine and the case are both black."
He'd switched to black after turning adult, tired of the kid look. The one he'd gripped for 12 hours straight was black too.
Looking closer, more differences.
"This is... a Galaxy S8 Plus?"
Discontinued in 2020—ancient now, only seen online, nobody used it even if free. In 2034, no less.
Heart pounding wildly, he hit the power button. The screen lit up center: he gulped involuntarily.
He burst out the door to the living room, checking the time. The cuckoo clock on the wall, over twenty years old—same. The TV blaring morning news—same. Sunday, September 3, 2017.
Until last night, he'd been living in 2034. After grinding Real Baseball Ace, he'd come to in 2017—back in time.
"Did I... really go back to the past?"
The moment he'd regretted most, dying to return to. He'd fantasized countless times: grow in Korea like others, then head to the States—things would've been different. If given another shot, he'd build his skills slowly, perfectly. Thousands, tens of thousands of times.
"A dream? Nah, I'm awake."
He bolted to the bathroom mirror. No mid-thirties worn face—a fresh-faced high schooler stared back.
"Agh!"
Pinching cheeks, slapping hard—nothing. Not a dream, not a game. Reality.
As he gawked blankly, a hologram flickered before his eyes.