The Survival Scrimmage Ignites
Park Sung-tae's announcement of a blue-white scrimmage to craft a new lineup for the Golden Lion Tournament was more than enough to inject vitality into the North Myeong High baseball team. It was especially true for the second- and third-years who weren't currently starters.
The team had a total of 41 players. Of them, 25 made up the starting lineup. Among those, only about five were prospects for top pro drafts. And naturally, those top prospects were guaranteed starters: Lee Ho-seok, Kwon Wan, Ha Tae-woon, Kang Jae-seong, Kim Ji-seok, and the like.
Beyond those five, there were maybe ten more who could reliably draw pro interest. That meant 15 of the 25 starters had the chops to hold their spots securely.
What about the remaining ten? For them, the pro gates loomed like a desperate hurdle. That's why they needed to shine in national tournaments—to catch a pro scout's eye, or at least draw college attention.
It was different from America or Japan. In Korea, a high school baseball player switching careers this late was already too far gone. Korean students just didn't have that many paths to choose from.
Freshmen barely felt the pressure. Sophomores sensed it somewhat, but juniors carried it deep in their bones. So those in the current 25-man lineup would fight tooth and nail to keep their places. But the benchwarmers were just as desperate.
Those other ten spots? They were up for grabs at any moment. Wide open for anyone to claim.
Plenty of fuel to light the fire.
After morning practice and a quick shower, Yoo Min-hoo changed into his uniform when Lee Ho-seok approached.
"Man, that morning announcement's got everyone in a frenzy."
"Can't blame 'em. In that sense, our coach is one cold customer."
"Huh? Why? He's giving everyone a fair shot—sounds good to me."
"He usually evaluates us on the down-low. Doesn't stoke the competitive fire with public announcements like this."
Yoo Min-hoo had nailed it. Normally, lineups shifted based on short-term form or condition—quiet assessments adding up over time. But this? A blatant challenge. A test.
Evaluating daily grind versus a formal exam? Same outcome, different feel. Especially with the nail driven in: no lineup changes mid-Golden Lion Tournament.
"This flips the whole mindset."
Lee Ho-seok blinked, puzzled. Yoo Min-hoo smirked.
"You wouldn't get it."
"Feels like a dig."
"Meant in a good way. I'll wait outside."
Yoo Min-hoo clapped Lee Ho-seok's shoulder—his expression a mix of amusement and something unreadable—and headed out of the locker room.
April 9th. North Myeong High had crushed Busan Industrial High 7-3, but the team's mood was grimly determined. Reporters chalked it up to facing regional rival Gyeongsang High in the weekend league finale. But sharp ones like Lee Young-gon already knew: an internal survival game was brewing at North Myeong.
Interesting. Gotta swing by North Myeong next week.
The players boarded the bus, settling in for rest. Yoo Min-hoo sat quietly, replaying the game in his head.
"What're you brooding over?"
Lee Ho-seok, beside him, looked curious.
"Just the survival games starting the day after tomorrow."
Teams drawn randomly each day from all 41 players—no exceptions. Short five-inning games. Starters and batting orders decided internally by teammates.
Equal chance for all, so Yoo Min-hoo was in, naturally.
"Mm."
Lee Ho-seok nodded, then asked offhand:
"Oh yeah, how's it going with my sister these days?"
"So-so."
They'd reached polite smiles and hellos now.
"Good to hear."
Yoo Min-hoo chuckled dryly at Lee Ho-seok's satisfied nod, arms crossed. Conversation lapsed; Lee Ho-seok scrolled his phone. Yoo Min-hoo leaned back, eyes closed, mentally sorting North Myeong player data for the upcoming survival matches.
April 11th, afternoon practice. Morning draw had formed four teams. Yoo Min-hoo's had ten players—including ace Kim Ji-seok. Four freshmen, five sophomores, and Yoo Min-hoo as the lone junior.
Before the game, during individual warm-ups, Yoo Min-hoo fired practice pitches crisply. Han Myeong-hwan watched silently, then spoke.
"Min-hoo, your stuff looks sharper lately."
"Yeah?"
Yoo Min-hoo wiped sweat coming out of the bullpen.
"Haven't clocked your velocity recently, right?"
"No. Probably averaging mid-to-late 120s by now?"
Even that was a big jump in a month.
"Hm."
Han Myeong-hwan's expression turned intrigued. Yoo Min-hoo hopped down, squeezing a gripper with his left hand—saving the right for the game.
Others wrapped rest. Teams gathered. While others hashed out orders and pitchers casually, Yoo Min-hoo's team felt awkward.
The other groups were led by upperclassmen. Here? Yoo Min-hoo was the senior—but a non-starter transfer freshman in spirit. Freshmen aside, sophomores wouldn't defer easily, yet they eyed the junior warily.
Silence stretched. Yoo Min-hoo broke it, turning to Kim Ji-seok.
"Ji-seok, mind heading up lineup as team rep?"
"Sure, sunbae."
Kim Ji-seok nodded—the ace's word carried weight.
"Batting first... what about you, sunbae?"
"Skip me."
Yoo Min-hoo waved it off. Never a hitter in America; pitching drills from childhood left his bat average decent but no match for specialists.
His exit brightened the freshmen—middle schoolers often played both ways, hungry for at-bats. Fewer upperclassmen meant more chances.
Kim Ji-seok nodded, slotting the remaining eight into rotation. He shared Yoo Min-hoo's disinterest in batting.
"Pitchers next..."
Three sophomore hurlers including Kim Ji-seok, two freshmen—six total. Short one even for one inning each.
Non-aces eyed each other, hesitant. Ceding bats to Yoo Min-hoo was one thing; the mound too far, even for the "long-shot" transfer.
Yoo Min-hoo watched, then spoke.
"Give me exactly three batters."
All eyes turned.
"When I say."
Kim Ji-seok stared, sighed deeply, nodded.
Game on. Split between dirt and grass fields. Yoo Min-hoo's squad drew Lee Ho-seok and Kang Jae-seong's team—stacked with starters, light on freshmen. Lopsided, but this was personal showcase, not team win.
Inning progressed. From the dugout, Kim Ji-seok—slated for the last frame—nudged Yoo Min-hoo.
"Sunbae."
"Yeah?"
Yoo Min-hoo kept eyes on the field.
"Don't you have zero ambition?"
"..."
Yoo Min-hoo glanced over, smirked back at the diamond.
"To the team, I'm an awkward fit. Transfer out of nowhere."
Kim Ji-seok didn't deny it. Fact.
"And my stuff's not ace-level. Just holding a spot? Yeah, something like that."
True again.
"But I'm not ambitionless."
"...?"
Yoo Min-hoo stood. Mound had a freshman pitcher: one out, but walks and hits loaded first and second. Up: Kang Jae-seong. On deck: Lee Ho-seok.
"Now?!"
Kim Ji-seok gaped. Yoo Min-hoo shrugged, called time, strode to the mound.
The freshman blinked at the unexpected relief.
"S-sunbae."
"Good work. Mind if I take it?"
"Y-yes!"
No kid wanted that spot against those two. He yielded gladly.
Yoo Min-hoo patted his back descending, stretched on the hill.
Kang Jae-seong? High chance of a clean sheet.
He smirked at the approaching batter.
Just my type.