The Power of Perfect Balance
Smoothly, Tae-woong fiddled with the baseball gripped inside his glove.
He had staked his life on baseball, enduring 18 grueling years as a pro, but in the end, he never made it to the majors. Even in the KBO, he bounced between the first and second teams until it was over. He'd shed blood, sweat, and tears—gritting his teeth through efforts that would make anyone weep—but ultimately, Tae-woong's talent never rose above high school league level. He simply lacked the innate gift for baseball.
Until retirement, it was always the same cycle for him. He'd pitch brilliantly for 2 or 3 games when his Pitching Balance was on point, only for it to unravel again, leading to walks, wild pitches, early hooks, and demotion to the second team. He'd grind out a few games down there until his balance started clicking back into place and his control returned, earning a call-up to repeat the process—before inevitably dropping back down. His stuff played at the second-team level, but in the first team, it was just a notch below average. Nothing more.
Even looking at himself objectively, the only standout trait was his physique as a big lefty once eyed by the majors. Strip that away, and he had zero advantages.
Still, that body kept me afloat for 18 years with this level of skill.
It was a endless loop, but he never gave up. Looking back, though, it was all failure.
But if the holographic ability before his eyes was real, things would be different from now on. A chance he never dreamed of. The kind everyone fantasizes about but never gets. That opportunity had come to him.
This time, I won't let it slip. Never.
The Pitching Balance hidden skill was impressive. Beyond Tae-woong's expectations. Sure, his velocity had tanked...
But the core of this broken hidden skill isn't control—it's optimized pitching form!
He hadn't noticed it practicing alone in the bullpen. Its true power emerged during the second team's intra-squad scrimmage.
Tae-woong's arsenal consisted of five pitches: four-seam fastball, two-seam fastball, changeup, slider, and curve. The cornerstone was his 35-rated four-seam fastball, good enough for a KBO second starter. Slow as it was, it had decent life, and pairing it with 35 control let him pepper every corner of the strike zone. From the batters' side, that was a real headache—even without the first-team level of scouting analysis.
The new pitching form was a revelation. Smooth, concise motion. Consistent arm swing and release point. Wrist action nearly identical across pitches. Add a touch of deception, and no second-team hitter could pick up the ball type until it was bearing down on home plate.
In Real Baseball Ace, Pitching Balance was dismissed as useless trash. But in reality? Game-changer.
In a game, who cares if your character spins backward or flicks it with one finger? It's all data crunching. No variables from form in Real Baseball Ace. Just looks cool.
Reality's different. Unless you've got that "even if you know it, you can't hit it" kind of overpowering stuff, pitchers have to win arm-wrestling matches with hitters using pure skill. And if you can throw different pitches from the exact same slot?
You're starting miles ahead before the ball even leaves your hand.
For pitchers, delivering varied pitches from identical motions is a massive edge. Maintaining the same form isn't easy. Palm and wrist action, torso and arm angles, swing speed—everything has to match perfectly.
Pitchers who nailed it racked up results. Take Darvish in the 2017 World Series: 150+ km/h four-seamers and wicked sliders mean nothing if control falters and tells get read.
Modern tech has front-office analysts dissecting pitchers down to facial tics and blink rates.
Of course, Randy Johnson types who telegraphed 'slider coming' and still dominated are rare exceptions—you just can't square them up.
Tae-woong had briefly been a near-150 km/h fireballer himself. But wild heat was just candy for power hitters.
This isn't a real game. It's a test. Just use what I can do right now.
Tae-woong started scheming.
"Coach, mind if I throw a couple off-speed and two-seamers now?"
The coach, flipping through the evaluation sheet to check Tae-woong's pitches, nodded.
"Off-speed? Two-seamers? Go for it. Feeling confident?"
"Haha, you've been drilling me day and night, Coach. Feels decent."
"Heh, buttering me up mid-test. Alright, don't push it—light toss for demo."
"Got it, Coach, seniors. Appreciate it! Two-seam, slider, changeup, curve—in that order!"
As the bullpen catcher set up his mitt, Tae-woong gripped and went into his motion.
Right into the mitt, dead on!
Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! Thwack!
Tae-woong ripped five two-seamers in a flash.
What the hell... that two-seam control...
The mitt had darted sideways to catch them. Control that stunned the catcher.
Two-seamers, as sinking fastball variants, are tough to command due to movement. Especially for rookies—no one this raw handled them like that.
But these exceeded expectations.
If he keeps this command... this two-seam could weaponize against first-team bats.
He'd been impressed by the initial four-seamers too. Sub-130 km/h velocity, yet the ball carried as well as any he'd caught. Top-tier control.
Slowballs stabbing strike-zone corners, vanishing into the glove.
Hmm... solid. Not just okay—good. Command and life are there, but velocity's way down. 120-125 km/h?
Stepping back to watch the form, the changes were stark.
Was near-overhand a few months ago, now three-quarters. Rookies chase velocity...
After the first pitch, Tae-woong exhaled deeply and reset.
His four-seamer topped 123 km/h, hitting the catcher's spots inside and away without fail.
"Hey, we got a slowball artist brewing? Gun said 121, but it's heavy and pinpoint."
"Tae-woong, you picking a fight today? No joke—this is legit. Why not sooner? Arm drop looks good—shoulder or elbow okay?"
"Haha, thanks. No pain, just cold weather stiffening me up."
After the two-seamers, Tae-woong smiled faintly at the praise from the pitching coach and catcher.
"Good. Now off-speed, five each. Corners!"
"Yes, Coach."
Slider, changeup, curve—five apiece, bam.
Whap! Whap! Pop! Pop! Pop!
This... is the real deal.
Jeong Myeong-eon, the pitching coach watching, widened his eyes. Every pitch dove low to strike-zone corners—the spots hitters hate most.
"When'd you practice this? Night and day from pre-draft."
Tae-woong stammered, caught off-guard.
"Uh, per the second-team coach's advice—loosened shoulders, dropped the arm a bit. Control shot up, haha..."
The coach looked exasperated.
"Fine, whatever... Don't change form willy-nilly without telling us next time. Lucky it worked—plenty ruin shoulders messing solo."
It was risky for a fresh 20-year-old rookie to tweak alone. Only panned out because of the system.
"Sorry for not saying sooner."
"No issue since it clicked. Form's smoother overall. Off-speed command too. Get velo up, you'll eat. Good work."
"Thanks, Coach. Got it. You too!"
"Go home, rest up. See you."
With Tae-woong's bullpen done, testing wrapped. Him, Jeong Myeong-eon, and the catcher—all smiling.
Players shuttling first-second teams and fresh draftees sharpen their senses each year over spring camp assignments. It hints at where you'll start next season—gauges your level.
First crack at first-team camp? Feels like Opening Day roster pressure. Stiff under the gaze of manager and staff. Obsess over scrimmage and practice game stats.
Everyone endures it, overcomes. Those who prove it in real games before thousands rise to first team, become franchise stars.
Now, AT Wiz's first-team camp—and stars to lead the Magic Legion—loomed.
Full coaching staff packed the team meeting room, finalizing camp rosters. After 2+ hours, first-team slots locked. Time for second-team and rookies.
Kim Jin-woong, manager, sipped his favorite coffee amid a stack of papers thick as a ream.
"Hitters: just Kang Baek-ho among rookies... Jeong Myeong-eon, pitchers? Velo's fine low if command's sharp—recommend."
"Yes, sir. Seo Tae-woong looks good."
"Seo Tae-woong—the new rookie?"
"Yes."
"Big lefty touching 148... Scout tape showed shaky command. Big jump in two months?"
"Command and stuff? Could face a first-team hitter tomorrow. Just..."
"What? Issue?"
"Today... arm drop changed form. Velo's early 120s now."
A sigh escaped before words from Kim Jin-woong.
"Early 120s? Offseason or not, that's a drop. Injury?"
"Watched 40-50 pitches today—no signs. No strain."
"Hmm..."
"Release consistent, arm swing steady. Form's gorgeous, fluid. Effortless."
Kim bit his lip, pondered, then replied.
"Got it. Have training coach check at team hospital next week. Confirm."
"Yes, sir. Results by then."
"Done. Rookies: hitter Kang Baek-ho, pitcher Seo Tae-woong for first-team camp."
"Yes!"
"Flu's going around—stay healthy. Meet Incheon Airport 29th. Meeting adjourned."
As coaches filed out, Kim Jin-woong lingered alone. He penciled one more name at the end of the first-team spring camp list.
"Baek-ho alone's thin. Hope this kid pans out too. Seo Tae-woong..."