One-Point Relief
Kim Ji-seok, who had given up a home run to Kim Yong-soo, also surrendered a double to the opposing team's fifth batter, second-year Shin Yu-seong. He then walked the next man, the sixth in the lineup. Kim Ji-seok looked shaky, but he buckled down against the bottom of the order, striking out the seventh and eighth hitters in a row to escape the inning without further damage.
No one approached Kim Ji-seok as he sat quietly in one corner of the dugout. This was one of the stark differences between last year's North Myeong High and this one. A year ago, the manager or coaches would have come charging over, berating him not just for ignoring the bench signs but for getting shelled for a homer on top of it.
In the bottom of the fourth, they managed two hits but couldn't convert them into runs. Then came the top of the fifth, Gyeong-sang High's turn at bat. Kim Ji-seok took the mound and retired the ninth batter without much trouble. It seemed like a solid start to the inning, but things deteriorated as the top of the order came up.
He gave up back-to-back singles to the first and second hitters, putting runners on first and second with one out. With the situation turning sour, the North Myeong High bench sprang into action. They had planned to let Kim Ji-seok go at least through the fifth if he held up, but now that wasn't an option. As they rushed pitchers into the bullpen, a tense Kim Ji-seok walked the third batter on four straight balls, loading the bases.
And in that spot stepped up Kim Yong-soo.
“……”
Manager Park Sung-tae pressed his fingers to the corners of his eyes.
Bases loaded, one out. Sending up a pitcher who wasn't ready was the worst-case scenario. But who could they send out when no one was warmed up? They couldn't leave it to Kim Ji-seok any longer. From that last at-bat, his mechanics had collapsed—probably from frustration. Even if his velocity held, there was no way he'd have command.
'Better a pitcher with decent control even if the velocity's low...'
Manager Park Sung-tae murmured to himself, then paused and called over pitching coach Han Myeong-hwan.
“Hey, Pitching Coach.”
“Yes, Manager?”
“How's Yoo Min-hoo's command?”
“……”
Pitching coach Han Myeong-hwan stared at him in disbelief.
“Manager, that kid doesn't even touch 120 km/h.”
“That's preferable.”
Manager Park Sung-tae clicked his tongue softly.
“Kim Yong-soo's the type who's brutally strong against fastballs. He handles velocity well and swings aggressively the moment he sees one coming.”
“You're saying we match a guy who doesn't hit 120 against him? And he hasn't even warmed up.”
“That's exactly why it's better.”
Han Myeong-hwan looked puzzled as the manager emphasized it again.
“He's the high school hitter with the most home runs in Korea right now. And 90 percent of them came off fastballs—from aces, no less.”
The coach's confusion deepened. Match a slugger who crushes aces against a pitcher without high school-level stuff?
As Han Myeong-hwan pondered, Manager Park Sung-tae continued.
“Kim Yong-soo has never gone deep off a slow pitch. No matter his raw power, he doesn't have the strength to carry weak stuff over the fence.”
In other words, better a clearly weak pitch than one in the mediocre range.
“Just have him face Kim Yong-soo as a one-point reliever. That'll do it.”
“Even so, what if he gives up extra bases?”
Manager Park Sung-tae smacked his lips at the coach's worried tone.
“Then it's on me.”
Yoo Min-hoo, watching from the reserves' section, looked puzzled when pitching coach Han Myeong-hwan called him over to the dugout.
“What's up?”
Manager Park Sung-tae eyed him curiously.
“Can you pitch without warming up?”
Yoo Min-hoo blinked in disbelief.
“You're telling me to take the mound right now?”
The dugout players all turned to stare at Manager Park Sung-tae and Yoo Min-hoo. A timeout had been called at the bench's request, and the players huddled on the mound.
“Against Kim Yong-soo, a total lack of velocity means less chance the ball carries.”
Yoo Min-hoo got the idea: he was being sent up as a one-point reliever.
'Makes sense.'
Before the scrimmage, he'd downloaded Gyeong-sang High footage from the North Myeong archives and studied it at home. Kim Yong-soo stood out. He was impressive, no doubt. But still a high schooler—his power lagged behind pros. Most of his homers were off fastballs; he'd never gone deep on junk velocity, often popping up to the outfield instead.
His great eye, contact skills, and aggressive hack on mediocre stuff created that blind spot unintentionally. But exploiting it took guts, and Manager Park Sung-tae had it in spades.
“No need to warm up.”
Manager Park Sung-tae nodded and strode to the mound—a clear pitcher change. Yoo Min-hoo grabbed his helmet and glove, preparing.
Kim Ji-seok stiffened as Manager Park Sung-tae approached. Lee Ho-seok sighed, shaking his head like he'd expected it. The bases-loaded timeout had foreshadowed this. Kim Ji-seok had even insisted to Lee Ho-seok that he could keep going, but now the manager was there himself.
A pitching coach might mean discussion, but the manager sealed it.
“You pitched well. Rest now.”
Kim Ji-seok's face hardened.
“Manager, I can still go.”
“With your mechanics shot and just muscling it up? What're you gonna throw?”
Lee Ho-seok nodded along with the blunt words.
“Yeah, Ji-seok. You did great today. Take a break.”
He patted his shoulder. Reluctantly, Kim Ji-seok handed over the ball and left the mound.
Lee Ho-seok watched him go, then turned.
“So, who's next?”
“The transfer kid.”
Lee Ho-seok blurted without thinking.
“Yoo Min-hoo?”
“Yeah. One-point reliever. Run the count deep. After three balls, groove one down the middle.”
“Down the middle?”
Lee Ho-seok gaped. Manager Park Sung-tae nodded.
“His stuff's so weak, it won't carry out.”
Meanwhile, the bench adjusted the outfield shift, pushing defenders back for extra bases. Lee Ho-seok glanced out, then to the dugout. Yoo Min-hoo was heading up, ready.
Manager Park Sung-tae gave him quick signs and headed down.
“One-point reliever, huh…”
Lee Ho-seok muttered, then thumbed at Kim Yong-soo.
“Watch yourself, buddy. That guy's scary as hell.”
Yoo Min-hoo chuckled and nodded.
“I know.”
Lee Ho-seok laughed, clapped his shoulder, and stepped off.
Yoo Min-hoo watched him go, took a deep breath, exhaled sharply, and flexed his right hand. He'd told Manager Park Sung-tae he had no starter ambitions, but truth be told, he'd joined with them. He'd just figured mid-semester at earliest.
This chance came sooner than expected. He knew his skills weren't starter-ready yet.
'But it's not hopeless.'
Before his life rewound, he'd faced worse countless times. Always the underdog, he'd scraped by with every trick. Constantly cornered, he'd tightrope-walked daily.
Bases loaded or not, this pressure was nothing compared to his past. He analyzed: Kim Yong-soo was dangerous but weak to bad velocity. Still, he could slap singles. If he hunted contact, Yoo Min-hoo was done.
'But with his hot temper and overflowing confidence—especially after that homer—he won't go small ball.'
'And he's just a high schooler, no matter how good.'
Even pros had flaws. No high schooler out-teched them.
His fastball strength meant a glaring hole.
'One issue first, though.'
The play ball sign came. Yoo Min-hoo stepped on the rubber, arms loose, glancing at first and third. He raised his hand to his chest, twisted into his motion—and fired straight to the first baseman's glove.