Fan Service on the Short Walk to Work
Tae-woong's commute from his one-room apartment to Hana Eagles Stadium took just over fifteen minutes on foot. But he could never arrive without any fuss.
For one thing, Daejeon was buzzing with excitement over the Eagles, who were on the verge of postseason play for the first time in eleven years. For another, Tae-woong—towering a full head above the average man, with skin as pale as could be for a ballplayer and good looks to boot—drew eyes just by walking down the street.
-Ace: And your knack for attracting attention doesn't help matters.
-Seo Tae-woong: Can't really deny that...
"Hey? You're Seo Tae-woong, right?"
"Ah, yeah, that's me."
"Sorry to ask, but could we get a photo together?"
"Of course. We're waiting for the light anyway—wanna take it now?"
"Thank you! Hey, set your bag down and hurry over!"
"What's the occasion? Jackpot! Look how tall he is. His legs come up to my shoulder!"
"That's gotta be three meters, right?"
"Whatever, just roll with it. Seo Tae-woong, could you hold the selfie stick for us? If we hold it, our faces won't all fit."
"Sure, hand it over."
-Smile, click!
"Thanks a ton!"
"No problem."
Every time Eagles fans spotted him and approached, Tae-woong posed for photos or signed uniforms and baseballs at their request. Right in front of the stadium, he ended up standing there for about twenty minutes, cheerfully obliging each one with a smile.
"Thank you! Next up. Oh, a uniform? I don't have a Sharpie—do you happen to...? Ah, thanks! Here you go!"
Finally, he wrapped up the unexpectedly long pre-work fan service with a grinning shoulder-to-shoulder photo alongside two male fans decked out in Hana Eagles uniforms marked '92. Seo Tae-woong'—his name and number side by side.
"Alright, I gotta head in and prep for my start. If anyone missed a signature, I'll make it up after the game!"
Tae-woong bowed politely to the crowd gazing up at him, then strode into the stadium, his right hand brimming with gifts from some of the fans, a satisfied grin on his face.
"Handled every single one today, no leftovers. And gifts to boot! Though half of 'em are fried soboro buns."
He held up a box of the buns as he spoke.
-Ace: Miracles do happen? Starting to get sick of them? Makes sense—you've scarfed down so many, it'd be weirder if you weren't. Keep inhaling them like that, and your brain might turn to red bean paste.
"They look delicious! I'll stash 'em in the fridge and demolish them after the game. You fried soboro bastards are done for!"
-Ace: If Seo Tae-woong kicks the bucket... buried under a pile of fried soboros...
"Hey, the fans gave these specifically for me to eat. How could I get sick of them?"
-Ace: Eh, at least our crap-ball pitcher does fan service right. If you couldn't even manage that, you'd deserve a chicken brick to the back of the head from some joint like Kyochon.
"Fan service is a given, isn't it? Without fans, baseball's just a pointless ball-tossing game."
-Ace: That's why you gotta hit rock bottom first. Your minor league and second-team rot actually pays off here.
"This guy's getting cocky again and hitting bone."
For Tae-woong, who had spent his days playing second-team games with more players on the field than in the stands, these fans snapping pics with him, begging for signatures on uniforms emblazoned with his name in huge letters, and cheering his name hoarse from the mound were an utter godsend.
Of course, not every player sees it that way...
Some dismissed these roadside interactions under the blazing sun as pointless hassles. Others barked "Get lost, asshole!" to preserve signature rarity. Some ignored requests out of laziness and bailed. Still others pretended to take urgent calls on their smartphones while pocketing gifts and walking off.
-Ace: All dumbass moves. Head-empty idiots who forget who butters their bread. Not that you'd ever turn out that way, but don't.
As Ace said, that crap was brain-dead—no debate needed—and deserved every bit of fan backlash. Tae-woong's mindset stemmed from a stark lesson watching minor league teammates.
"Back in the minors, after I loosened up and started chatting, I'd ask why they loved baseball or became players. Invariably, one or two mentioned idols or favorite pros. They'd whip out smartphones to brag about signed uniforms or childhood photos."
Those major leaguers they idolized were superstars pulling millions, tens of millions in salary. Did they send lavish gifts matching that cash? "Hell no."
All they'd given those kids—who showed up just to watch baseball or meet their heroes—were a signature and a single photo.
During a brief lunch break, choking down dry white bread slathered in strawberry jam, Tae-woong overheard their stories and vowed: "Someday... I wanna be someone's idol too."
A fleeting promise from fifteen years ago, a distant past. But post-regression, that resolve burned stronger than ever. Sure, he was just a promising rookie pitcher now, but he'd felt the fans' support in his bones.
-Ace: Idol's a lofty goal—too far, too tough. How about a crybaby face? Ten runs in the first'll get you there quick...
"Shut it, you devil."
Whish! Thwack!
In the bullpen practice area inside Hana Eagles Stadium, Tae-woong was firing balls with solid accuracy into the mitt of catcher Choi Ji-hoon, his battery mate for today's start.
Even in practice, he always dialed up game-level intensity. That desperation from second-team bullpen days—never knowing when opportunity might strike—lingered now that he was locked into the first-team rotation.
Pitching coach Song Jun-woo watched silently from behind as Tae-woong warmed up for his start.
Good. Balance is rock-solid as always, off-speed command's sharp, velocity's steady...
From the jump, everything looked solid—he could trust Tae-woong with today's game.
Tae-young's been throwing too much lately. No issues now, but keeping this pace... next year'll bite him hard.
Second starter Hiller earned every penny of his league-minimum $500K foreign salary, but typically went five innings allowing 3-4 runs—six on his best days. Third starter Kim Jae-yong and fourth Kim Min-wook, both young, followed a pattern from early season: two solid outings, then one early meltdown.
Out of the five starters, manager Han Young-deok and he could count on just two: ace first starter Cybers Simpson and fifth starter Seo Tae-woong, whose stability rivaled—no, surpassed—the top guy's.
Whish!
As Song lost himself in thought, Tae-woong unleashed a curve then a changeup in succession. The coach nodded involuntarily.
But why does my eye keep drifting to Tae-woong more than Simpson? Probably that.
The curve missed wide outside once, but otherwise hit near the catcher's spot. And the changeup... even sharper than last game.
It wasn't hyperbolic to say Tae-woong's changeup had evolved into something entirely new from his Wiz days.
Truth be told, Song had opposed acquiring him. He figured scouts would expose that slow stuff soon enough. No way to survive. Especially not worth trading three players, including future stud lefty Park Jun-hong.
But he'd been gloriously wrong. Game to game, Tae-woong leveled up, showed something fresh and better.
Watching this sparked a memory from a decade back: a comet streaking into the Eagles, dominating KBO from debut, first Korean pro to bolt straight to MLB—the Korean Monster.
First met Han-jin in 2006...? I hadn't retired yet. Time flies.
Back then, Song was the Eagles' pitching elder statesman—and the one who'd passed changeup mastery to rookie Ryu Han-jin.
The changeup changed my life. And Han-jin's too. Though he'd have made it anyway.
Tae-woong's changeup evoked Ryu. And he was self-evolving.
Wonder how far you'll go, Tae-woong.
Ryu conquered KBO then MLB, proving his chops despite injuries limiting peak seasons.
No need to tinker with a self-sufficient ace-in-making. His only "flaw" was velocity anyway.
Just ease the tension, boost confidence.
"Tae-woong, ball looks great today! Nice! That changeup's nasty."
"Really? Thanks."
"Dead serious. Bet the Bears hitters swing through it—you'll see. I'm betting they whiff."
Choi Ji-hoon pitched in after warmups, pumping Tae-woong up.
"Coach, put me down for whiffs too..."
"Hey, Ji-hoon, not you too—that kills the bet. Tae-woong, you siding against me?"
"Nah, whiffs for me. Wanna rope the skipper in?"
"The manager? Who's covering that tab?"
"You, obviously, Coach..."
"What, punk?"
"Hahaha!"
They just laughed.
"Do your thing today, Tae-woong. But don't overdo it. Plenty behind you."
"Got it, Coach."
After he left the mound, the league's best bullpen—led by lights-out closer Jeong A-ram—had his back. That alone lightened his load immensely.
I just do my best and trust the team.
Less than a year into pro ball, he'd already forged the trust and bonds he'd never known pre-regression.