What Every Pitcher Wants Most

The position every pitcher dreams of is, without a doubt, the starting rotation. It allows for a regular schedule, making it easier to manage conditioning, and lets them take the mound in peak physical form to throw their best stuff. On top of that, in the real world of pro baseball, factors like salary negotiations and free agency value starters far higher than relievers.

For all these reasons, pitchers who climb the mound as starters always want to throw as many pitches as possible, for as many innings as they can. Seo Tae-woong had been no different in his outings so far.

Yet here he was, in the first inning after recording just one out, calling timeout and summoning the catcher. That usually meant some issue with his mechanics was making it uncomfortable to pitch—something wrong somewhere in his body.

And since January, Lee Hae-chan had been syncing up with Tae-woong, who almost never called for him first. Tension etched across his face, Hae-chan hurried over and rattled off his questions like a drill sergeant.

"Tae-woong-ah, you hurt somewhere? Nail split? Blister on your finger? Hamstring in your thigh? Shoulder? Elbow pain?"

He fired off every common injury that popped into his head.

"Nah, I'm not hurt. Hae-chan hyung, I'm good—don't worry."

"Phew... Thank God. Then why'd you call me? We barely started."

Hae-chan let out a relieved sigh and asked.

"Ah, it's just..."

'To keep One More After Out triggering, I need to throw a few extra pitches even if it means more balls. Gotta mix in more lure pitches than before...'

Finishing his thought, Tae-woong suggested upping the ratio of off-speed pitches.

"Hae-chan hyung, I ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠can't locate every pitch like Greg Maddux or Tom Glavine right now, but I think I can at least spill some out over the outside corner."

"Already tweaking the pitch mix in the first? Hmm..."

The dugout left the sequencing to Hae-chan and Tae-woong, only chiming in with signs for key spots. And Tae-woong had been thriving with an aggressive approach that caught hitters off guard.

But for him to proactively suggest a change? Hae-chan had watched #1 hitter Choi Jun-hwan guess right on the first pitch and turn on it from point-blank range. He mulled Tae-woong's idea, then fully bought in on ramping up the lures for a fresh mix.

"Alright, I'll mix up the signs through the second then. If it flops, we switch back. No biggie."

"Sounds good."

"Still, speak up mid-inning if it feels off. Better to check ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠inning by inning if the pattern's working."

"Got it. Thanks, hyung."

"You got it."

Tae-woong, who'd been targeting the corners of the strike zone left and right, switched things up right away on the first pitch to the #2 hitter.

He fired what Hae-chan called—a changeup. With solid command, it would've dived low and away. But with Tae-woong's control, it couldn't always nip the edge.

In short, this wasn't about stealing a strike. It was a lure pitch to probe the hitter's reaction to a changeup hugging the zone's edge.

And unfortunately, location-wise, it wasn't perfect.

'Damn, gonna burn a ball count. Starting with a strike makes lures work better...'

He hadn't planned it as a strike from the jump, but any pitcher hates balls over strikes. That was just pro instinct kicking in.

Worse, right as he released, his wrist tensed up—turning it into a flat neither fastball nor changeup.

'Too high. Good thing no runners, no wild pitch.'

Tae-woong exhaled in ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠relief. The pitch clipped the outer edge but height was the killer.

Whiff.

His mistake hung low enough that even a middle schooler would've crushed it by the time it thudded home.

'Lucky break? If it'd sailed middle-in, it'd be a hit, One More After Out triggers, and done.'

He'd take it. As long as the skill held, he had the edge over the hitter.

'And above all, I've got my curve.'

If he located it right, few could touch it.

'A first-pitch four-seam at that velocity? Is he nuts? Or just disrespecting me?'

Heo Kyung-man, who'd memorized Tae-woong's scouting report like scripture since yesterday, pegged the lanky rookie as having his exact platoon split.

Tae-woong's bread-and-butter: changeups and curves, his heaviest heat. And those two had been his Achilles' heel for years.

Heo hit .280-ish lifetime, never dipping below mid-.200s. But lately? Half that against off-speed.

'Barely scraped .100 last year. Can't tell 'em apart at the plate...'

Making it worse: Tae-woong's fastball usage hovered at 40%, but he often opened with breaking stuff to gain count leverage.

'Can't just sit back.'

No matter his kryptonite, he couldn't watch it cruise in. He'd timed up for an early changeup.

The Bears boasted depth—even bench guys could start elsewhere. They were the league's "fountain of talent."

Heo, an infielder, played third—where power trumped glove work traditionally, needing both bat and boots.

Yet purely as a hitter, he ranked bottom-third on the team.

The kicker? The Bears had a 1B backup hitting .280+ and two more in Triple-A.

'Competition sharpens you... if you can sleep at night.'

If pitchers kept exploiting his holes with curves and changeups, he'd lose his spot soon. And reclaiming it? Years.

So yesterday, he'd begged the lefty batting practice pitcher: curves, changeups, four-seams only.

One or two days wouldn't transform him—he knew. But luxury wasn't his; desperation was.

"Help a tall underclassman out, yeah?"

Whether those crash-course hours built mental toughness or repetition clicked, by session's end, he timed milder locations.

'Two balls off the plate?'

Now, in a blink—but clear as day—he spotted it. Release: wrist flicked like a curve.

'Mistake? Hung?'

Tae-woong's whip arm blurred by; Heo only ruled out curve grip.

And what entered his sights:

Whiff.

A flat dud sailing outer half, past the zone.

'Velocity's so tame, no intimidation... Just a plain hanger?'

He eyeballed trajectory, guessing pitch.

'What is it? Changeup tailing outer? Slider boring middle?'

Tae-woong's first-pitch strike rate topped 80%; no way he'd open with a ball.

'Neither? Total mistake?'

Lately, KBO favored hitters—a classic hitter's era. Outside the top 2-3 command guys, mistakes littered every game.

Tae-woong wasn't immune. Rookie-no-more control, top-tier even. But 5-6 flubs per start? Routine. Luck kept 'em low/outside, unhittable.

Not every middle-in blooper became a hit or homer. Hitters had to react, square it up.

'Then...!'

Heo had looped Tae-woong's footage hundreds of times prepping. Early games, sure—but why couldn't vets touch 125 km/h junk?

Arsenal: curve, four-seam, changeup. Four-seam and changeup forms? Identical to the millimeter. 99.9% match.

Even his curve blended in. That 2m frame somehow whipped concise, fluid—left arm glued to thigh till head-high release, grip barely visible.

'This one's begging to get crushed. Wasn't the plan, but swing!'

Regretting his whiffed guess, Heo adjusted his wrist-flick outer-half hack.

But his bat sliced 0.1cm shy of leather.

Tae-woong's "mistake" broke later, lower than expected.

Bwoong!

Heo's whiff synced with Hae-chan's shallow hop-stretch. Mitt bloomed wide, snaring the big bounce dead in front.

No runners, one strike—could've let it go. But instinct took over.

'Occupational hazard... Ow, knee.'

Pain flared; Hae-chan stood, checked it, flashed an open palm to dugout and mound—no issues—then reset.

First-pitch strike in the bag, breathing room.