Draft Crossroads and the Left Arm's Revival
Despite Lee Ho-seok's absence, North Myeong High reached the quarterfinals in the Blue Dragon Cup, posting excellent results as expected. Unlike the Golden Lion Cup where they drew a tough bracket, they had fairly good luck with matchups this time, which played a big role. Having delivered strong showings in both the Golden Lion Cup and the Blue Dragon Cup back-to-back, North Myeong High was gradually reclaiming its status as a powerhouse.
Five days after the Blue Dragon Cup wrapped up, the President's Cup National High School Baseball Tournament kicked off right away. For this event, Director Park Sung-tae focused on building a lineup centered around the third-years for the first time since taking the helm. He also ramped up one-on-one meetings with the upperclassmen.
The reason was simple. The third-years were standing at a major crossroads.
"The team's been pretty chaotic lately," Kang Jae-seong muttered under his breath.
Yoo Min-hoo replied calmly, "Can't be helped. It's a sensitive time."
Kang Jae-seong nodded in understanding.
August brought the pro baseball rookie draft's second round. For high school seniors, career paths weren't all that different from any other student's on the surface—some went pro, others headed to college. In the Korean pro baseball rookie draft, exactly 100 players were officially selected, from the first round to the tenth, with picks going in reverse order of the previous year's standings. High schoolers, collegians, overseas talents—they all waited to be chosen by pro clubs. Sure, 100 seemed like a lot, but it was a narrow gate in reality.
Rarely, developmental players joined without official roster spots, earning salaries on potential alone—"just in case," as teams put it. These were mostly token picks with slim odds. Once called "trainees" or "invited players," a few occasionally broke through to stardom, but that was the rare exception.
At North Myeong High, Lee Ho-seok was already a first-round pick. Core players like Kwon Wan and Ha Tae-hoon were likely to go in the upper rounds and turn pro. The rest would probably get late-round nods or head to college to hone their skills before challenging the pros.
Of course, Yoo Min-hoo wanted nothing to do with any Korean pro team or college right now.
He'd been pitching since his third year with scant info out there, and his velocity wasn't impressive. He could mix in a variety of breaking balls, but that didn't make him stand out to scouts.
"You're pretty chill about it, hyung?" Kang Jae-seong asked, puzzled.
To him, Yoo Min-hoo seemed like the third-year most up in the air about his future. Yet the guy didn't act pressed at all.
"Eh, worst case, I'll try out or something."
"So you are aiming for pro," Kang Jae-seong said with a nod.
The Yoo Min-hoo he knew was a total grind machine. Never skipped conditioning, always gripping a hand dynamometer. Lots of teammates trained harder because of his influence, knowingly or not.
But can Min-hoo hyung actually go pro? Kang Jae-seong wondered.
The President's Cup concluded, and North Myeong High entered summer break. For the baseball team, though, vacation meant little. The Phoenix Cup started mid-August, leaving no room for slacking.
But the coaching staff was busier than ever—not because of the Phoenix Cup, but a thornier issue: the third-years' futures.
In the director's office, Park Sung-tae pored over documents, deep in thought. He was wrestling with a headache bigger than expected.
"This is more of a pain than I thought," he grumbled lightly, but without real irritation.
Eleven third-years on the roster. Guiding all their paths would give anyone a migraine. He sipped his coffee silently, staring at the papers, then let out a heavy sigh.
Ho-seok, Wan, Tae-hoon—no worries there. They're stars; the pros will snap them up. The mid-tier guys have the skills colleges or lower rounds want, so short-term, fine. But two or three are shaky.
Pro ball was ruthless. No talent, no spot. But Park Sung-tae, who'd thrived as a pro, wasn't hardened to that cold reality. His own career had been a blaze of glory.
A first-round pick as a rookie left fielder, he'd debuted spectacularly. A five-tool phenom in high school, he'd shone in international youth tournaments, drawing MLB interest. He lived up to the hype, claiming a starting spot in year one. Year two: .300 average, 20-20 club. Then consistent 20+ homers annually, Korea's premier left fielder. Posted to Seattle via the posting system, he made the majors. Power dipped stateside, but his rookie year— .282 with 17 homers—looked like seamless adjustment. He'd been tight with Jack Brown, Yoo Min-hoo's dad and then-teammate.
What halted Park Sung-tae's rampage? Injury. Year three in MLB, a ball to the finger caused a fracture, sparking decline. Aftereffects sent him back to Korea, lingering in the minors before early retirement in his mid-30s.
Early exit or not, his legacy was untarnished, his path smooth.
Yoo Min-hoo should be fine on his own.
No Korean team or college wanted him. Decent showings in Golden Lion, weekend league, Blue Dragon Cup—but velocity too low. Not scout bait.
Yet ironically, he'd gotten an offer from Tampa Bay: $500,000 signing bonus. The overlooked guy at North Myeong had the best deal.
Not a weird amount, considering the name value.
Min-hoo had jetted to the US for break. Korean by blood, but after a decade there, that was home. Not just vacation, though.
Something about detailed rehab scans?
August 7th. A park in Seattle.
Yoo Min-hoo walked silently. Spotting a public baseball field, he headed in. Sweltering summer heat kept it empty. Meant for neighborhood kids, it was modest but nice—dugouts, artificial turf.
He stepped onto the diamond and sighed lightly. August scorcher, but he'd come from the hospital.
Today brought detailed exam results on his condition.
Expressionless, he picked up a battered ball rolling in the corner with his right hand. Toyed with it, gripped a fastball. Then circle changeup, two-seam, slider, curve—each in turn.
These pitches had sustained his brutal pro life before regression.
Damn, that was rough.
Top prospect with blazing heat, failed rehab, half-crippled. Pity from others, media buzz—all felt like mockery. He'd nearly quit baseball.
Why didn't I? he murmured.
Memory fuzzy. Switched to righty, clawed survival with ugly grit. Style shifted—from lion on the mound to hyena nipping weaknesses.
He released the grip, flexed his right hand, relaxed. Stared at the callused palm, then switched the ball left.
Left felt awkward now. He mounted the mound, wound up. First time in ages—Is this even right?
Muscles tensed, gripped hard, gritted teeth.
Crack! Support leg that never pushed off slammed the rubber.
Three-quarters left arm whipped. Released—ball rocketed straight, slamming the chain-link backstop dead-center.
"……."
Control off, form rusty. But velocity dwarfed his right. Shoulder stiff, no pain.
Staring at the ball, Yoo Min-hoo's lips curved into a smile.
Ten years. A decade's wandering over.
The resurrection of Roy Yoo, the ace all scouts raved about.