Right Arm Resolve
After a brief lull in the conversation, the clinking of utensils echoed quietly in the silence. In that short pause, Yoo Min-hoo was the first to speak.
"Mom, there's something I want to say."
"What is it?"
Kim Mi-hyun looked at her son with a puzzled expression. Setting down his chopsticks as he gazed at his mother, Yoo Min-hoo spoke with a slightly serious face.
"It's about school."
Kim Mi-hyun paused at his words.
"Is something worrying you?"
"No, not that."
Shaking his head, Yoo Min-hoo met his mother's eyes with a earnest look.
"I want to join the baseball team at school."
"What?"
Kim Mi-hyun's face filled with bewilderment. Yoo Min-hoo had come to Korea for rehabilitation. His rehab program was already perfectly scheduled. In that context, his sudden declaration about joining the baseball team was more than enough to throw her off balance.
"Why all of a sudden? What about your rehab?"
Watching his mother trail off uncertainly, Yoo Min-hoo replied.
"Of course I'll stick to the rehab schedule. I have no intention of overdoing it."
Even so, Kim Mi-hyun's expression remained uneasy.
"Don't worry too much. I won't even think about throwing or swinging with my left arm."
"Huh?"
Her son's words left Kim Mi-hyun looking confused. Lifting his right arm as he faced her, Yoo Min-hoo explained.
"I'll do baseball club activities with my right arm."
"……."
Kim Mi-hyun's mouth fell open in stunned silence. She couldn't quite grasp what her son was saying.
"You mean you're going to throw the ball with your right arm?"
"Yeah."
"Are you running a fever?"
When Kim Mi-hyun asked with a concerned look, Yoo Min-hoo gave an awkward smile. It did sound absurd, especially after major surgery that could make or break his career. She might have already been suspicious when he, who had initially refused to come to Korea, suddenly flipped and chose it anyway. Hearing something this outlandish now, it was no wonder she'd react like that.
Scratching his cheek for a moment, Yoo Min-hoo soon grew serious again.
"I'm perfectly fine. And I'm not just blurting this out recklessly."
Meeting his mother's gaze squarely, he continued.
"I've thought about this seriously. Rehab is important, sure, but a career gap could be fatal. I can't push too hard, though. That's why I'm thinking of switching hands."
"……."
Kim Mi-hyun silently watched her son, who stared straight into her eyes as he spoke. Covering her cheek with her hand, she murmured.
"I just realized... haven't you suddenly become way too mature?"
"……."
Yoo Min-hoo flinched inwardly at her words but didn't let it show. After a quiet moment of staring at him, Kim Mi-hyun spoke up.
"You absolutely can't use your left arm until rehab is fully complete?"
"Yeah. I know."
Busan North Myeong High. Alongside Busan Gyeongsang High, it was one of Busan's two premier baseball powerhouses. The team's history stretched back over 50 years, and it had been a consistent top contender in national tournaments. But for the past few years, North Myeong High's performance had fallen far short of its reputation, scraping by with dismal results. By 2015, they'd shockingly crashed out in the preliminaries of every national tournament.
Considering their rival Gyeongsang High was still dominating nationals, it was a truly pathetic showing.
The root of North Myeong High's slump lay in the scandals hidden behind its glamorous image as a baseball prestige school: rampant admissions corruption. As the 2010s progressed, sports scandals exploded into the open—long-standing under-the-table practices that no one questioned suddenly faced media scrutiny and backlash. Baseball couldn't escape it either. Covert admissions fraud hit the headlines, leading to police investigations of key figures.
North Myeong High took a direct hit. As a powerhouse, it had produced countless pros, with alumni embedded throughout the baseball world. Nearly all past coaches had been North Myeong grads. In Korean society, where school ties wield immense power within groups, corruption scandals there ballooned into monstrosities beyond the ordinary.
Among high school baseball scandals, North Myeong drew the fiercest public outrage. With police and reporters constantly swarming, its image plummeted.
No aspiring pro would touch a team that looked flashy on the outside but was rotten with corruption inside. And that's where the real problem began: top middle school prospects started avoiding North Myeong High.
Unlike pro ball, where individual players prop up teams less critically, amateur—especially high school—baseball often hinges on one star carrying the load. Amateurs rely far more on standout talents than pros do. Korean baseball already suffered from thin high school talent pools. The moment North Myeong became toxic to prospects, its performance tanked overnight.
The school finally drew the knife. They purged the old coaching staff, brought in outsiders unaffiliated with North Myeong alumni, cracked down on corruption, cooperated fully with investigations—all to rebuild trust with parents and students.
"Even so, a trashed image doesn't recover overnight."
A middle-aged man newly installed as North Myeong High's baseball director scratched his head irritably, muttering to himself. He looked early forties at most. Sitting in the director's office chair confirmed his role, though he still carried a youthful air. Park Sung-tae, 41, had just four years of coaching under his belt.
He'd retired young at 35, spending his final 2-3 player years in the minors. His late career didn't scream stardom, but he'd once been Korea's top talent, even gracing MLB fields. The school chairman had pulled strings to hire him, drawing parental and student interest, so Park got to handpick his staff. The current coaching crew was notably young.
Hired hastily after last year's total tournament wipeout, Park Sung-tae hadn't magically fixed everything. His leadership experience was short, and this was his first time as director. Positively, his name had lured some promising freshmen—middle school standouts.
'Still, they're not high school level yet.'
They were just freshmen. Sure, rare prodigies could hang with upperclassmen right away, but that was uncommon. Teens grow fast; the middle-to-high school gap is huge. A few months could transform a player. Adapting to high school ball took time, but the weekend league's first half started in 19 days—next-next Saturday. Expecting freshmen to gel that fast was wishful thinking.
'At least some sophomores and juniors from last year have shown real growth.'
Flipping through an A4 sheet of player stats, Park Sung-tae's eyes stopped on one name.
Lee Ho-seok (C), 3rd year. The team captain was a top-tier catcher, not just in Busan but nationally. Pro scouts already eyed him as a promising offensive catcher.
'First round should be safe.'
There were solid hitters besides. A middle school national batting titleholder among freshmen, even. Park's biggest hope among returners was Kim Ji-seok.
"The problem's pitching."
Park Sung-tae scratched his head in frustration. No freshman pitchers worth banking on—total wipeout. Some hitting prospects had decent mound stats, but nowhere near ace level. Sure, a couple sophomore pro hopefuls showed promise, but overworking them wasn't an option in this era. Last year, despite decent offense, they'd missed nationals entirely due to pitching woes.
No matter the scandal damage, North Myeong was still a famed powerhouse. Even "rich men last three years"—talent still trickled in. Lee Ho-seok and a couple core guys proved it. But pitching? Obliterated. Another legacy of past directors: North Myeong's rep as the "ace killer's grave."
That stigma kept any decent arm away, even if it meant transferring schools. Kids and parents now researched thoroughly, choosing fits wisely. Old-school "don't worry, I'll make you a star" scouting didn't fly anymore.
'Crazy old bastards. There's a limit to the bullshit.'
Cursing his predecessors inwardly, he slammed the papers on his desk, propped his legs up, leaned back, and grumbled.
"Ah~ if only a pitcher would just drop out of the sky."
It was a pipe dream.