Michael Want's Discovery
Michael Want was 39 years old this year and served as the owner of the Oakland Athletics. Among general managers, he was on the younger side. His scouting career dated back a decade. Michael had been a college league player, but unfortunately, he lacked the talent to make it to the pros. He'd started playing baseball purely as a hobby and had never been an athletic scholarship student. Still, his passion for the game led him to enjoy analyzing players. After graduating college, he bounced around from one company to another until he stumbled into a scouting job with Oakland by chance. There, he caught the eye of the former GM, Les, and rose to become the team's top scout. Two years ago, when Les stepped down, Michael naturally slid into the GM position.
Last season, Oakland had clinched first in the league and advanced to the American League Championship Series, but Michael still had plenty of headaches. It wasn't because of their current standing—this year, they remained a powerhouse, holding onto first place. No, what worried him was the team's future. Oakland was a quintessential small-market club in the American League. That meant they couldn't afford to chase big free agents, and they often lost their star players when those contracts expired. Every draft felt like a high-stakes gamble; they had to nail top rookies to stay competitive. The catch? Good performance meant lower draft picks.
Why can't they just let the small-payroll teams pick first? Michael grumbled inwardly before clapping his hands lightly. Complaining wouldn't change Major League Baseball. As GM, his job was to build the best team possible within the rules.
"Asian players have been making waves lately, especially the Koreans."
Leaning back in his chair as he stared at a world map, Michael snorted softly.
"There was that rush of Korean rookies from the late '90s to the early 2000s. Most washed out early due to injuries, though."
Plenty had reached the majors, but injuries often caused rapid declines, stranding them in the minors. Some blamed weak Eastern physiques; others pointed to the brutal physical and mental grind of the minors after being coddled as top prospects back home. Still others cited overwork from high school in Korea. Playing baseball in a place where you barely speak the language isn't easy, Michael thought with a shrug.
Whatever the reason, many Korean prospects had set foot on American soil, but few crossed the major league threshold—and even fewer left a mark. Proportionally, there were quite a few success stories, but the problem was their signing bonuses. Nearing a million dollars. In a league where multi-million-dollar salaries were routine, that was steep for rookies. For that money, you could snag two or three South American talents instead—and those guys had far higher success rates in the majors. Interest in Korean prospects had quickly waned.
Now, over a decade later, players crossing over from the Korean league were thriving in MLB, reigniting attention on Korean high school stars. Michael muttered to himself as he watched minor league footage on his monitor.
"This kid who signed with Tampa Bay is already up to Single-A."
It was Kim Yong-soo's video. Early that summer, he'd inked a $1.3 million deal with Tampa Bay and started in rookie ball, as most high school signees did. But he'd dominated there and rocketed to Single-A in mere months—a stellar sign. Double-A was the real wall where prospects truly felt the pro grind, but talent was talent.
"Doesn't seem like the finesse type, though."
Kim Yong-soo was crushing hits in rookie league footage, and Michael nodded thoughtfully. The minors' harsh environment often broke delicate personalities. Baseball demanded physical and mental stability for peak performance, so a rugged, environment-proof mindset was a huge edge. Kim Yong-soo had that in spades.
"Damn... should I have pushed harder for him?"
Oakland had shown interest in Kim Yong-soo, but when his price topped a million, they'd backed off. Seeing him adapt so well now sparked regret.
"Korea, huh."
Michael murmured softly, scanning videos of Korean high school players on his computer. After watching for a while, he froze.
Wait. What's this?
He was viewing tournament footage featuring Kim Yong-soo. But something caught his eye.
Righty? Similar face?
Frowning, he shook his head. No, my eyes don't lie. That's Roy Yoo. Hmm.
Michael knew top prospects' faces cold. He was certain the right-handed pitcher on screen was Roy Yoo.
Why's he in a Korean high school league? Oh, right—his biological parents are Korean. But a right-handed Roy Yoo? Unbelievable.
He chuckled, but curiosity surged. Oakland's traditional draft philosophy, passed down from past GMs, was simple: no high school picks. So Michael had ignored Roy Yoo entirely. But now, watching Yoo Min-hoo's pitches out of pure curiosity, his expression grew serious. The more he saw, the faster his mind raced. He picked up the phone.
"Hey, it's me. You know Roy Yoo? Pull everything—where he is now, surgery records, rehab history. ASAP."
Hanging up, Michael's eyes gleamed as he stared at Yoo Min-hoo on screen, muttering to himself.
"Intriguing."
The second round of the rookie draft had wrapped up. North Myeong High saw five students, including Kwon Wan and Ha Tae-hoon, selected by pro teams. Counting Lee Ho-seok from the first round, that made six. All were starter-caliber talents, forcing a major lineup overhaul.
North Myeong High had bowed out of the Phoenix Tournament in the round of 16—a solid run. Without Lee Ho-seok, they were still strong, but their offense lacked its former firepower; that was unavoidable.
After the Phoenix Tournament, Kim Ji-seok was selected for the World Youth Baseball Championship national team in early September. The sophomore phenom had skyrocketed into pro scouts' darling.
School resumed, kicking off the second semester. Ella returned to the US as break ended, quieting the once-bustling house.
September 1st. On a crisp autumn morning where summer's heat had finally broken, Yoo Min-hoo stepped out and bumped into Lee Yoon-ji emerging from next door.
"Heading to school early today?"
Lee Yoon-ji nodded at his question.
"On duty today."
Noticing her unusually bright mood, Yoo Min-hoo spoke up.
"Heard Ho-seok hit a homer yesterday?"
"How'd you know?"
She looked amazed. He shrugged casually.
"Internet news. Pro debut homer, right?"
"Futures game, but yeah."
She beamed and nodded. As Yoo Min-hoo chuckled, she frowned worriedly.
"Our school's baseball team has me concerned, though. Association Cup's end of September."
The senior starters had departed en masse. North Myeong High relied heavily on hitting, so losing Lee Ho-seok, Kwon Wan, and Ha Tae-hoon from the core hurt bad.
"Don't worry. Our school can still win it all."
Lee Yoon-ji blinked at his smirking confidence.
"Where's that coming from?"
"I've got you covered."
"Eww, so cheesy."
She stuck out her tongue playfully. He burst out laughing.
"Oh, right—practice game at Gyeongsang High this afternoon, yeah? Who's starting?"
"Me."
"You?"
Her eyes widened. He nodded with a grin, clenching and unclenching his left fist lightly.
"Yeah. Got something to test today."
Lee Yoon-ji just tilted her head curiously.