Mastering Pitching Balance

Lee Jun-beom stepped out of the cafe to finish his call with the GM and returned to his seat. It was a monumental decision involving over 1 billion won—the highest signing bonus in KBO history—and a first-round draft pick for a new franchise team. The team leader's face was more serious than ever.

"Tae-woong, you're absolutely sure there's no injury, right? Be honest with me. This isn't just about me—your future's on the line too."

"No issues at all. If you want, you can check the detailed medical results from the team-recommended clinic."

"I'd appreciate that if you're okay with it. Sorry about this—the GM wants solid proof... I don't have much choice."

"No problem. It's only natural. Clearing it up now is best for both of us."

"Thanks. I'll schedule the exam for tomorrow morning and let you know."

"Yes, sir. Thank you."

After wrapping up, Lee Jun-beom headed back to the team office. Watching the car pull away, Tae-woong dashed to a nearby batting cage.

He could somewhat accept that he'd regressed to nineteen. But the biggest mystery remained. His trip back in time was real, but now he needed to verify if the hologram only he could see and his stats were genuine too.

"Time to test if this game system is the real deal."

Tae-woong paid at the cage, rented a glove that fit, took a few deep breaths to loosen up, and climbed the mound.

That's when the hologram reappeared before his eyes.

The stat screen and messages faded, replaced by a holographic figure in front of Tae-woong.

"Gah! What the hell? Who are you?"

White cap, white uniform, white glove, white spikes—all white from head to toe. The only standout feature was the big black capital A on the cap. He looked like he'd roll his tongue dramatically if he spoke. But he just stood there silently, expressionless.

'What is this? Looks just like that overpowered Ace Brainard from the game. Greasy face, all-white outfit... Thinks he's some Andre Kim model or something?'

The man stood facing Tae-woong as he muttered to himself. Without a word, he assumed a pitching stance and began to pitch—slowly, deliberately, like a mirror to copy.

Startled by the sudden move, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Tae-woong stepped back instinctively. But the hologram just repeated the motion.

Confirming nothing odd after watching, Tae-woong focused on mimicking the form.

"Lower the arm angle that much? Yeah, okay."

As he observed, the hologram pitched on wordlessly. Realizing the intent from the earlier message, Tae-woong got it.

"Guess I just watch and copy, huh?"

He started imitating the form.

Whoosh!

Tae-woong's hunch was spot on. A new message confirmed it: pitching form optimization.

"Gotta hit 100% for completion, right? Fine, let's do this."

With that, Tae-woong mirrored the hologram's new form.

"Ah... Changing form isn't new, but damn, it's brutal every time."

Three hours in, and Tae-woong was spent. His original form was a high overhand leveraging his 199cm frame—left arm nearly vertical to the sky, releasing from the peak for max velocity and power over control. It clashed hard with his control issues.

The result? A cursed combo. Velocity dipped with age and injuries, but the unstable form brought wildness and more injuries till retirement.

Countless tweaks never stuck; he always reverted.

Warnings popped up with every flaw.

"Got it, got it. But it's not that easy. If it were, I wouldn't be struggling."

Now his arm was near 45 degrees—a slightly high three-quarters. Lower arm usually trades speed for control, but past attempts failed.

Not easy, but Tae-woong pressed on. He'd go all the way this time too.

"Alright, again."

He warmed up and copied again. Once, twice, a hundred, a thousand times—till closing.

It'd continue till 100%.

"Man, netizens are vicious with the hate. Do they even eat?"

A week since regression. Yesterday, as planned, he entered the 2018 secondary rookie draft—snagged by AT Wiz at 2nd round, 1st pick, just as expected.

After photos, straight to the cage. No time for celebrations. Sleep aside, he lived at practice. Mom's lunchbox for meals—too precious to waste time eating out.

From October, he'd train at Wiz Park, so he wanted his form solid first. Focus paid off; optimization climbed nicely.

He'd grown used to the personal system and hologram.

"How's it looking? Check time."

Affiliation updated, optimization at 50.1%.

"Over halfway... ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Back then, 148km/h four-seam that wandered, plus a decent high school slider. Only two real pitches. The rest—grip-only two-seam, curve, changeup—took years of grinding post-velocity drop just to throw."

'Even then, ended in release.'

Talent seemed amateur-level for control and breaking balls. All waking hours on optimization, but no stat jumps yet. Just less post-practice pain.

But he wouldn't stop or quit. Trust the process, like always. Even in slumps and injuries, till the end.

This time too. No—must.

His dream was real now. No wasting this luck.

"Gotta do it. No, I will nail it this time."

Back to the mound.

Time flies, especially when laser-focused.

Tae-woong was no exception, pouring into practice.

December 31, 2017—three months since becoming a teen again. Last day of the year, sweating at Wiz Park.

Over 90%, certainty grew. Awkward moves smoothed; no more hitches. Felt perfect.

"Huff, huff... Almost done?"

Drenched in sweat, unlike the tireless hologram.

He'd tried talking early on, but it just coached silently.

Now, at the end, it spoke.

"Good work. See you soon, friend."

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

"Huh? You can talk?"

No reply. After regression, hologram, system—nothing fazed him now.

Fade...

Calmly: "Yeah, you too. Tough teaching a scrub like me."

One minute to 2018. Final pitch.

Looking up, hologram gone. New messages filled the space.