Tiny Tells and Familiar Faces
The bus carrying the North Myeong High baseball team pulled up to the dorms near Mokdong Baseball Field, and the players immediately headed inside to rest. Long bus rides were surprisingly draining, leaving little energy for anything beyond light individual training.
After dinner, the pitchers did some shadow pitching, while the batters took dry swings in the air to fine-tune their mechanics and feel for the bat. The dorms were double rooms, and Yoo Min-hoo ended up sharing with Lee Ho-seok.
Yoo Min-hoo finished his shower first and opened his laptop to do a final review of the materials from the coaching staff. Lee Ho-seok emerged from the bathroom and spotted him.
"You were looking at that on the bus, and now again? Isn't it boring yet?"
"Not really." Yoo Min-hoo shook his head and looked up from the screen.
Lee Ho-seok clicked his tongue in amazement. "You're something else."
Even though he'd been playing baseball since elementary school, Lee Ho-seok had never seen anyone approach the game quite like this.
"Analyzing opponents like this helps."
True, but as Lee Ho-seok had pointed out, Yoo Min-hoo took it to an extreme.
"Hmm. So, find anything interesting?"
Lee Ho-seok asked with genuine curiosity, and Yoo Min-hoo nodded.
"Daegu High's starter tomorrow should be Kim Wan-je, right?"
"Their ace, yeah."
Lee Ho-seok nodded as if it were obvious.
"Righty, top speed 144 km/h. His breaking ball is a splitter—well, forkball might be more accurate for a high schooler."
The grip is the same for both, but a forkball has the ball wedged deeper between the fingers. Splitters have less drop but more velocity. They're essentially the same pitch, just nuanced. Either way, you need big hands and strong grip strength. Japanese pitchers often have forkballs as a staple.
Yoo Min-hoo pulled up footage of Kim Wan-je pitching on his screen.
"Look at the glove closely."
"Hm?"
Lee Ho-seok peered at the glove, but nothing stood out.
"What's special about it?"
"When he grips the forkball, the glove twitches."
Lee Ho-seok rewatched the clip at Yoo Min-hoo's prompting. Sure enough, there was a subtle movement as he gripped.
"Whoa, you're right. But would that help in a game?"
"Probably not—you can't just stare at the pitcher's glove, and it's hard to see from the batter's box anyway."
Yoo Min-hoo shrugged.
The footage was shot from behind the mound, after all.
"Then what's the point? Useless."
Lee Ho-seok grumbled, and Yoo Min-hoo burst out laughing.
"Still, knowing beats not knowing."
Yoo Min-hoo never missed even the smallest clue. Whether it paid off in the game or not, a gap was a gap. He exploited them ruthlessly—that was his pitching style. Batters hated facing him.
Lee Ho-seok, intrigued, asked, "What about me? Any bad habits?"
"Yeah."
"What? Seriously?"
Lee Ho-seok's casual question met with a straightforward answer, and he reacted strongly. Pitching and hitting were battles of prediction; any tell that gave away your next move was a pitcher's—or hitter's—worst enemy.
"When you're going for a single, your bat grip drops a tiny bit lower."
"Ugh, for real?"
Lee Ho-seok grimaced.
"Only someone with sharp eyes would notice. Don't overthink it—you'll mess up your swing."
It was the kind of detail only someone like Yoo Min-hoo, a master analyst, would catch. Most players wouldn't.
Even so, Lee Ho-seok looked uneasy. Yoo Min-hoo had told him not to worry, but now that he knew, how could he not?
Shouldn't have said anything.
Yoo Min-hoo thought to himself as Lee Ho-seok scratched his head. It was a bad habit, sure, but not a crisis. Pointing it out might help long-term but disrupt him short-term.
Hitting and pitching relied on habits. Pitchers had rituals before throwing: tugging a sleeve, adjusting a cap brim. Hitters touched their helmet or tapped the plate. These were routines—pre-game actions to relax the body and mind, a self-hypnosis to enter the zone.
After the routine, focus sharpened: pitcher on batter, batter on pitcher. For instinctive hitters like Lee Ho-seok, the subconscious took over for peak performance.
But fixating on an unconscious tell shattered that flow, breaking rhythm and calm. Plenty of slumps started that way.
Yoo Min-hoo sighed inwardly, closed his laptop, and called it a night.
The next day, with the preliminary game between North Myeong High and Daegu High wrapping up early, the players warmed up lightly on the field. Lee Ho-seok kept swinging his bat oddly, head tilted, clearly dwelling on last night's talk.
"What's up, Ho-seok?"
Park Sung-tae, the director who'd been overseeing training, finally asked the uncharacteristic behavior.
"Oh, Director."
"You're doing something you never do. Spill it."
Park Sung-tae looked puzzled, and Lee Ho-seok scratched his head.
"Well, actually..."
He recounted the previous night's conversation. Park Sung-tae muttered, "I've thought it before, but that kid's got eagle eyes."
"You knew too, Director?"
"Yeah."
Lee Ho-seok's face twisted oddly.
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"Wasn't worth sweating over. Overthinking it could ruin your rhythm—especially for a hitter like you."
"A hitter like me?"
"Simple ones."
"..."
Lee Ho-seok's expression soured. True, but blunt.
"Meant as a compliment."
"Doesn't sound like one."
Lee Ho-seok grumbled softly. Park Sung-tae chuckled.
When he'd first arrived at North Myeong High, coaches and players barely joked around. The kids feared pointless authority. He'd worked hard to change that.
"Pitchers have to throw strikes eventually. Overcomplicating hurts more than helps. Swinging simply like you do? That's a blessed trait."
It meant raw talent produced results without thought. In pro ball, patterns got exploited, and that habit could be fatal. But Lee Ho-seok was still a high school prospect—a rough gem. No need to polish non-issues now.
"Just play your game, like always."
Park Sung-tae patted his shoulder and moved on to check the others.
Watching him go, Lee Ho-seok muttered, "Our director's the coolest."
He shook off the doubts with a mighty swing.
Park Sung-tae's eyes caught someone in the Daegu High dugout near the infield stands, drawing stares from their players. She was impossible to miss. With a soft sigh, he headed over.
Daegu High players recognized him, bowing in greeting. He waved back.
Reaching her, Park Sung-tae spoke. "Looking for Roy?"
Awkward, but English. His MLB days had made him conversational.
Ella's eyes widened.
"You remember me?"
"Sung-tae Park?"
She tilted her head, surprised. He laughed.
"You do."
"Wow! Long time no see! How many years?"
She clapped excitedly. He murmured, "Nearly ten, I think."
Ten years ago, he'd been active in the majors. She bounced with joy.
"That little girl turned into such a lady. Time flies."
She beamed at his wonder.
"You've got wrinkles now, Sung-tae. Gonna be a grandpa soon?"
"Hahaha."
He laughed at her wit.
"What brings you here?"
"Didn't hear? I'm director at North Myeong High—your brother's team."
"For real?"
He nodded.
"Wow."
"So, where's Roy?"
"Was warming up on the field earlier. Try the dugout over there."
"Thanks!"
She bowed and hurried off.