Weekend Clash in Daejeon
The weekend three-game series against the Dinosaurs in Daejeon. Friday marked the opener, and even though it was the day after his start, Tae-woong arrived early at Hana Eagles Stadium. He spent the morning in the analytics room reviewing yesterday's pitches and pinpointing areas for improvement. Lunch was a nutrient-packed meal, followed by two boxes of fried xiaolongbao as a light snack that he polished off effortlessly. Afterward, he warmed up with the training coach, checked for any potential injury spots, and wrapped up his routine.
"Great work!"
"Yeah, if anything comes up, don't suffer in silence—tell me right away."
"Got it, Coach!"
Once the training coach headed off to check on the other pitchers, Tae-woong was left alone in the training room. He tidied up in under five minutes and lay back on the mat for a breather.
Hold on, what time is it...? Already 4 p.m.? Damn, what did I even do all day?
Ace: Hey, this is normal. What, did you think being a first-team starter meant something special? Like taking your girl for a three-day Porsche getaway on off days? Nah, if anything happens on a rest day, that's the real problem.
Tae-woong had spent more time in the second team than the first, but that didn't mean he was clueless about starters' schedules. It just felt surreal doing it himself.
"It's just... kinda disorienting, you know? Back in the day, I envied guys living this life, but now that it's mine, it feels kinda ordinary."
Ace: What, did you sneak one of those fried xiaolongbao and swap it for your brain earlier?
"Why would I waste good food like that? I was just talking. Can't a guy talk?"
Ace: Of course people can talk. But shitballers? Nah, they keep their mouths shut.
"How long you gonna call me a shitballer?"
Ace: You've only started three games in the first team, punk. By my standards, you're still a straight-up shitballer. Get like ten wins, then we'll talk.
"Ten wins? Shit, that's a long way off. I never even hit that in Double-A."
Ace: Then quit whining and work harder.
"Can't even argue here..."
He grumbled, but Ace was spot on, a hundred times over. Ask any baseball player what their top priority is at the start of the season, and you'd get the same answer every time:
"Stay healthy and play every game!"
To actually pull that off, you needed to maintain peak condition alongside good health. That's why so many players stuck to their personal routines like glue.
I was the same.
After getting promoted to Double-A and taking a beating, Tae-woong wondered if his issue wasn't physical but mental. He tried yoga and meditation at dawn, followed every tip from teammates and coaches.
Of course, it didn't work out... or I wouldn't have come back to Korea.
One day, during the monthly pitchers' mental training session, a guest lecturer—a sports psychologist somewhat famous in the majors—hit him with a line that stuck:
"Everyone, emulate Suzuki Ichiro! When it comes to routines in baseball, it starts and ends with Ichiro!"
Ichiro had retired by then, serving as a special advisor for the Seattle Mariners while awaiting the Hall of Fame. Tae-woong, who was a kid during Ichiro's peak MLB years, hadn't paid much attention anyway—his focus was pitching. He just knew the guy as that Japanese major leaguer who'd infamously declared he'd make Korea lose to Japan for 30 years straight.
But the lecturer's PPT flipped his view 180 degrees.
Suzuki Ichiro! In MLB's 140+ year history dating back to 1876, he set the single-season hit record with 262. Career 3,000 hits, 500 steals, ten Gold Gloves—a legend. And despite his relatively slight 180cm, 77kg frame for a pro, the key to his legacy? Routines.
Of all things, that's what caught my eye...
Ichiro had finicky, varied routines, and Tae-woong latched onto them like a lifeline from God. He skipped the hitting ones, but even so, it was overwhelming.
"Ichiro's a superstar, and I'm a minor leaguer at the edge of the world. Didn't factor that in."
He tried arriving five hours early like Ichiro but bailed after sleep deprivation.
"Took three days to quit. Fell asleep in the dugout and got chewed out by the bald pitching coach."
He kept the stretching and warm-up order, though. Practice throws? Always assuming no-ball, two-strike counts.
Problem was, Ichiro hit .300+ as a baseline, while Tae-woong couldn't even locate in the zone.
"0-2 or 3-0, didn't matter—either walked 'em or jammed it in and got crushed."
A week in, he realized pitchers like him—with zero command—didn't need fancy counts.
Ichiro ate curry or noodles every morning? Tae-woong copied.
"Shokupan... damn. Plain in the morning, chunky peanut butter the rest. Looking back, that wasn't a routine—it was poverty."
In the end, ditching Ichiro's convoluted rituals didn't take long.
"Waste of time. Forced my body into stuff that didn't fit and got worse."
Ace: You're still trash now, but you say you were even worse back then? That's like three tiers down. Can't even imagine.
"Shut it."
After that, he ditched extreme routines. Just stuck to his own schedule: regular training and rest. The minor league grind limited things, but he maximized within the framework.
Ask if it worked? Nah.
The routine kept his condition steady enough, warding off muscle soreness, low fevers, minor tweaks. But results? Zilch.
"Funny—routine's the same pre-regression, but results are night and day. Guess my routine wasn't half bad."
Ace: Or it's all the game system.
"I'd have never gotten this without grinding Real Baseball Ace to death, so it's my effort."
Ace: Shameless... whatever. Hey, didn't you have something at 4:30?
"Right! Pitchers' meeting! Damn, talking to you made me forget. What time is it?"
Ace: Three minutes left.
"Shit, almost spaced out reminiscing again."
Ace: Not like you're a 90-year-old. Why do you zone out every time old stories come up?
"Beats me. Gotta run—can't be late to the first one."
Tae-woong bolted for the meeting room. Ace watched like a runner stealing home from third.
Ace: Runner goes! Home! Safe at home! By a hair!
"Huff... huff... Phew, made it."
His mad dash got him to the conference room—on the opposite side of the stadium from the training room—right on time. The clock ticked from 29 to 30 minutes.
He pushed open the door to find the group chatting, meeting not started yet.
"Oh, Tae-woong's here."
"Hey, those fried xiaolongbao hit the spot?"
"Ran like hell—must've been in a rush."
These were seniors anywhere from one to over ten years older, so he greeted loud and clear.
"Hello! Sorry if I was late!"
"Nah, on time's fine. No bullshit here like showing up extra early to wait around. Just don't be late."
"Thanks, hyung."
With closer Jeong A-ram—the pitchers' group leader—kicking things off, the meeting began.
"Alright, everyone's here. Simpson, Hiller, you okay?"
"Okay."
The two foreign pitchers even brought an interpreter. Foreign arms usually skipped these—too proud, looked down on KBO guys, or figured short-term contracts didn't need the hassle.
Team bonds must be solid here...
Senior leader Jeong A-ram collected pitchers' gripes and passed them to the pitching coach, who handled what he could and escalated the rest to manager Han Yeong-deok. The skipper, a former ace and ace pitching coach himself, got it. The system kept the 14-man staff humming like gears—minus the occasional injury or slump swap with the second team.
Starters had wobbled, but Tae-woong's debut yesterday eased worries.
"Now Tae-woong's aboard, Sang-un and Gun-i'll brief you on basics. Re-yong'll cover starter duties."
"Got it, hyung."
"Any issues or questions?"
"I do."
"Me too..."
Two or three hands went up; they spoke in turn. A-ram noted them on his smartphone for the coach.
"That's all for the coach. Now, starters and bullpen separately. Bullpen first."
Bullpen notes were light. Hana Eagles' pen, anchored by league-best closer Jeong A-ram and eight others, operated like a single unit. Even into May, their ERA was the only sub-4.00 in the league—no chasers, all closers. In a hitters' era crumbling pens everywhere, they drew envy from managers and coaches.
Good vibes meant no tension, no blame—just laughs and praise.
Chit-chat was casual, like:
"A-ram hyung, thinking of front-hair implants after the season."
"Nice. Comments calling me 'bald eagle' dropped a ton lately."
"Hook me up with your clinic, hyung."
"Sure, Man-jae. Kakao after."
Next to him, same-age pal Lee Tae-young cursed Jang Man-jae:
"May your hairline recede forever."
"You, your kids, grandkids—all bald."
"Take it back."
"Nope."