It's Not a Dream

"Sure enough, it doesn't disappear. It's not a dream."

He rubbed his eyes and opened them again, but the hologram floating in front of him was still there. It was identical to the status screen from the game he'd been playing obsessively, Real Baseball Ace. And the numbers displayed there were undoubtedly his own stats.

He could tell just by looking at each value. Every time he trained, scouts from various teams had measured his top velocity. And his control? It was rock bottom—no calculations needed.

He hadn't realized it until later, but at the high school level, he'd been able to shove fastballs right down the middle simply because his stuff overpowered kids his age. They couldn't hit it easily, that's all. It sure as hell didn't mean he'd mastered control.

The absolute worst.

Tae-woong was disappointed to see every stat at the absolute lowest grade, except for his two main pitches. But what caught his eye and shocked him was the hidden skill at the bottom: Pitching Balance.

"Optimizing my pitching form..."

Of everything in the hologram before him, his gaze locked onto control first. Tae-woong quickly did the math in his head.

"Right now, my control's lower than the bottom stat of 20—it's at 15. If it goes up by 20 here, that's 35. What level is that?"

As if to answer Tae-woong's question, the next message appeared right away.

"So control at 35 means KBO 2nd starter level?"

At least it didn't feel like he was doomed. Tae-woong had spent a good thirty years throwing from the mound. He'd wobbled at times, sure, but he'd given it his all—or so he thought. Still, if you judged purely by results, failure wasn't too strong a word.

"With this, even I could..."

His heart pounded with excitement. But so did the fear that none of this was real.

While Tae-woong was calming his rattled nerves in the bathroom, a voice called from outside.

"Seo Tae-woong, hurry up and wash! Dinner's getting cold!"

Grrrrowl.

The sound came from Tae-woong's stomach as he stared into the bathroom mirror, steeling his resolve. He was at that age where he felt starving the moment he woke up.

Regression to the past, game system hologram popping up out of nowhere—whatever it was, food came first.

"Yeah, Mom! Coming right out!"

For reasons he couldn't explain, he'd returned to the past. To the brightest moment of his baseball life, at nineteen—his last true peak.

"I'm not going to the majors."

"What?"

The moment Tae-woong emerged from the bathroom, his parents—who'd been scooping rice—looked up in shock.

"I'm gonna play baseball here in Korea."

Back then, too, his parents had secretly hoped he wouldn't go to America, given how much more failure than success there'd been. But they'd never said a word. They'd just quietly cheered him on from behind, respecting their son's choices and life.

His parents smiled and chimed in.

"Good call, Tae-woong. Do well here first, then head to the States later if you want."

"You thought it through, son. Living alone so far away all of a sudden would be tough."

"Your mom and dad are always on your side. We'll cheer you on."

Tae-woong smiled back at them.

"I'll work my ass off. Harder than ever."

This time, for sure... I'll be a son you can be proud of.

He couldn't voice the end of that thought.

A café near home. A quiet space, soft music drifting through the air like a holiday vibe. Only one table had a customer.

Despite the sunny Sunday afternoon, the man held coffee in one hand and flipped through a thick stack of documents on the table with the other.

Ding-a-ling.

‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠

The café door opened, and a man who looked at least two meters tall strode in.

"Ah! Tae-woong, over here! Come on in! Sorry to drag you out on your day off. We're short on time, though."

The man, who looked incredibly busy at a glance, stood and greeted Tae-woong enthusiastically.

"Hey, Team Leader."

"Hey, Tae-woong. You doing good? No issues?"

The handsome man welcoming Tae-woong so warmly was Lee Jun-beom, scout team leader for the AT Wiz.

Team Leader was still a looker back then. That sharp jawline—been a while.

Back when Tae-woong had rejected Wiz's offer, bombed in the majors, and crawled back, this very Lee Jun-beom had looked out for him. His proactive support had smoothed Tae-woong's KBO return. Even through releases and trades later, he'd checked in.

To Tae-woong, he was someone he owed big—one day, he'd repay that debt.

"Team Leader, it's been forever. Hope you've been well?"

"Huh? We saw each other last week... Haha, yeah, if you say so."

Bzzzzt. Bzzzzzzzzz.

The pager buzzed mid-greeting.

"Tae-woong, I'll grab it. Hang on."

Lee Jun-beom handed the coffee to Tae-woong.

"Thanks, Team Leader."

Watching Tae-woong sip the cream-topped ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠coffee, the team leader broached the subject awkwardly.

"So, Tae-woong... made your decision?"

Just one week until the second rookie draft. Today was the deadline for finalizing strategies on who to pick.

With his rare lefty fireballer velocity and proven international tournament performance, every team coveted Tae-woong. He was the top prospect, with MLB all but locked in.

If he entered the KBO, it'd be a 100% lock for last-place AT Wiz. Other teams were half-cheering for his MLB move.

Tae-woong didn't answer right away, so the team leader gulped loudly.

He figured Tae-woong was torn between America and Korea. But the delay had another reason.

If I've really gone ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠back in time, that hologram's real too... How do I even bring this up?

If the stats and incoming Pitching Balance were legit, no more near-150 km/h heat. His velocity would drop to a middling 123 km/h—slower than a middle school ace.

A sudden 20+ km/h drop? Anyone would suspect injury. And it'd nag at him too.

Time to test the waters.

Let's toss out some bait.

Decision made, Tae-woong set down his coffee.

"I'm not going to America."

"Pffft!"

The team leader, sipping through a straw, spat out his coffee in shock.

He'd figured Tae-woong wouldn't ditch the majors easily. But as a salaried employee—like every other in Korea—he was just hanging on per orders from above.

"Wha—huh? Really?"

"Gonna keep playing baseball in Korea."

Lee Jun-beom clenched his fist and yelled.

"Yes! Hell yeah! Thanks, Tae-woong! Must've been tough—thank you! You won't regret it!"

His voice filled the decent-sized café.

"Ah, sorry."

Overcome with joy, he'd lost it for a sec. He apologized to the wide-eyed part-timer. Good thing no other customers.

"Team Leader, before that—one thing I wanna ask."

"Yeah? Signing bonus? I'll talk to the GM. Can't promise a ton, but..."

With the big issue solved, his tone loosened up.

Wiz had marked Tae-woong as their "second Ryu Han-jin" years ago. From the first meeting, they'd dangled exceeding Tigers' Han Ki-jun's record 1 billion won rookie bonus—up to 1.1 billion—if he skipped MLB for them.

50 million? Or bump to 100? Budget's got room—report to GM first.

No clue on the exact amount, but the team leader figured he'd ask for maybe 100 million more tops. Not unreasonable—plenty of MLB teams talked 1 million USD+.

And yeah, Seo Tae-woong's potential was worth it.

"Nah, not the bonus. What you promised is plenty."

"Huh? Then...?"

"Planning a complete pitching form overhaul before next season opener."

Stunned by the sudden bombshell, Lee leaned forward from his chair.

Pros in slumps tweaking mechanics in the offseason? Common enough.

But Tae-woong? A nineteen-year-old high schooler who hadn't even debuted pro. A lefty fireballer with 1st-round talent, flaws in control aside, changing form himself?

Screamed overuse injury.

Lee proceeded cautiously.

"Pitching form—what's the exact reason? It's big for us."

"As you know, I've thrown a ton the last three years."

A ton was right. He'd set records for most innings since high school leagues started—made the news.

"Mm... yeah. Any serious injury?"

"No, definitely not."

"Then...?"

Time to start.

To bury truth in lies, Tae-woong laid the groundwork.

"Got checked at the hospital. They said pushing harder could mess up my shoulder."

"Damn... Shoulder, huh... Mm..."

Unlike elbows—where surgery and rehab often fixed things—shoulders were a pitcher's nightmare. Plenty retired post-surgery without regaining prior velocity.

Lee's worry deepened. The scouts weren't blind to it either. The team had tailed Tae-woong's starts for over two years, cameras rolling, analyzing waist, shoulder, elbow precisely. They'd anticipated some wear.

Ace duties meant frequent outings. Plus, a still-growing body chucking 150 km/h? Had to strain muscles and ligaments.

Tae-woong continued.

"Don't wanna quit after one or two seasons."

"So what's the plan going forward?"

"To play long and healthy, I'll set velocity aside for now."

Lee realized this was above his paygrade. Ditching velocity was huge.

Teams obsessed over fastball speed for a reason. It was innate talent. You could train form and build up to a point, but limits existed. Not just anyone slung 150+ km/h four-seamers.

Control? More trainable, though not universal.

They'd scouted Tae-woong for his rule-breaking lefty heat potential—a KBO outlier fireballer.

Control lagged, sure, but common for high school power arms. Clubhouse figured 1-3 years of coaching would fix it; he'd contribute in the 1st team.

So control wasn't a dealbreaker.

But a week pre-draft, volunteering to tank velocity? Questions galore.

"Tae-woong, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠gimme ten to make a call. Cool?"

"Sure, Team Leader. Take your time."

Lee fished a smoke from his shirt pocket and headed out. His furrowed brow screamed dilemma.

Team Leader wants me, obviously... but brass?

But no matter his worries, the team decided.

Less bonus stings a bit... but take what they give.

Tae-woong decided not to sweat the immediate signing money.