A Hefty Proposal
Mild sat in the infield seats, stroking his chin as he watched the first inning.
Veteran-like.
He knew nothing about the player named Gu Seung-min. He'd come to Korea solely to scout Yoo Min-hoo, so he had zero intel on other high school prospects. But any team that put a guy in the three-hole had to have a hitter with solid contact skills and power. Just watching that ball he crushed earlier, it was clear he was no slouch at the plate.
Yet here was Yoo Min-hoo handling him with the savvy of a right-handed pro. It was impressive.
Was Roy Yoo always this crafty?
Surprise gave way to bewilderment for Mild. He'd been scouting Yoo Min-hoo since middle school. The kid was a classic power pitcher—didn't care if the batter was a slugger or not, just reared back and overpowered them with raw stuff.
But this Yoo Min-hoo? Pure technician, dripping with guile. Sure, he'd switched arms, but could anyone flip 180 degrees like that overnight? Even after years in scouting, Mild had never seen it.
Whoosh!
Crack!
"Strike! Strike three, you're out!"
The sharp swing of the bat echoed, followed by the thud into the mitt. Top of the second. Yoo Min-hoo struck out leadoff hitter Yoon Jun-seok on six pitches. Yoon had whiffed hard on a nasty righty curve.
With the top of the order retired, Min-hoo mowed down the rest on groundouts and Ks, making it back-to-back perfect innings.
Armed with velocity now, he'd leveled up beyond your average high school arm.
Namwon High's lineup had carried them to the Phoenix Cup title with their bats, but even among them, only cleanup Yoon Jun-seok and three-hole Gu Seung-min could really threaten. Plus, all their star seniors had gone pro, thinning the herd even more.
If they'd had guys like Lee Ho-seok or Kim Yong-soo, Min-hoo would've been on high alert. Luckily, these two didn't quite measure up.
As Min-hoo shut down Namwon's bats, their starter Yoon Jun-seok struggled against North Myeong High's lineup. The new three-four duo, Park Chang-sik and Kang Jae-seong, methodically choked him out.
Bottom first, Park had yanked a fastball for a double; Kang drew a full-count walk. He escaped with a scoreless frame by inducing a groundout from the five-hole, but quality threats like that were pressure enough.
Min-hoo kept it locked down through the sixth: two hits, three walks, zero runs. He handed off the mound.
North Myeong's pen coughed up four, but the bats plated five. Final: North Myeong 5, Namwon 4. They punched their ticket to the President's Cup final.
Postgame, the clubhouse erupted in cheers. After scandals had tarnished their rep, making the finale in their last tourney of the year felt like sweet redemption.
The coaches grinned at the kids. Park Sung-tae watched with a smile—until his phone buzzed.
He checked the screen and picked up. "Yes, Chairman. Did you catch the game?"
It was North Myeong's board chairman.
"No, the boys did it. Yes, sir. Thank you. They'll love that. Right—now we've got to win it."
He hung up with a smirk. "Hey, kids—the chairman says eat whatever you want for dinner."
"Wait, really? Can we do Korean beef?!"
Park Chang-sik's eyes lit up. Sung-tae nodded. "He said anything goes."
"Whoaaa!"
The already hyped squad went wilder.
"So what if we win the whole thing?" Kang Jae-seong asked.
Sung-tae shrugged. "Okinawa training camp over winter break."
"Okinawa!"
"Dude, you can swim there even in winter!"
The underclassmen lost it. Sung-tae calmed them, got them packing for the dorms. They'd scout a steakhouse after.
Leading them out to the bus after cleanup, someone called to him.
"Excuse me, Mr. Sung-tae Park."
Sung-tae turned, puzzled. "Who're you?"
"Nice to meet you. Mild Taylor, Boston scout."
Mild extended a hand with a grin. Sung-tae shook it. "Pleasure."
Major league scout out of nowhere? He wasn't fazed.
"Here for Roy Yoo?"
"Yes."
"Hm." Sung-tae exhaled, then turned to pitching coach Han Myeong-hwan. "Coach Han, take the kids back for me. Grab Min-hoo. Eat without us— we'll catch up."
"Got it."
Han headed off. Sung-tae pondered internally. Call Jack? Or Min-hoo's mom?
◇◇◇◆◇◇◇
Mokdong Stadium café nearby.
"Mild, huh? Nice to meet you."
"Roy Yoo."
Quick intros. Sung-tae watched from the side, eyebrow raised. Kid's not even excited.
Pros usually got stars in their eyes. Not Min-hoo.
Then again, he turned down half a mil.
Mild spoke first. "Great game today. Really impressive."
"Glad you enjoyed it."
Min-hoo chuckled. Mild nodded, smiling. "Oh, I did."
No BS—it was fun for a scout. Switch-pitchers were rare birds.
"Shoulder holding up?" Mild eyed the left one.
Min-hoo shrugged. "Feels good. Velocity's climbing back."
"Music to my ears."
Mild sipped coffee, leaned in. "Straight talk: I want you in a Boston uniform."
He slid an envelope across the table. "Cleared it with ownership and the GM. This shows how much we value you—how bad we need you."
Min-hoo peeked inside. Sung-tae watched, intrigued.
The check's figure stared back. Min-hoo smacked his lips, tucked it away. "Guess dinner's on me, then?"
They all laughed. Sung-tae hardest.
Min-hoo set the envelope down, pondered. Tempting number.
Two million bucks. Near first-round money. Human nature—you'd want it.
He tapped the table, then pushed it back. "Boston's being too generous."
Mild's face hardened. "Not at all. You deserve it. That's why we're offering."
Min-hoo nodded, paused. "Appreciate the offer, but I can't say yes right now."
Mild blinked. "Why not?"
He'd come for a commitment.
"Gotta talk to my folks first. And... before you guys, another team reached out."
"......"
Mild's expression tightened. Who? New York Kingdomz? Some big-market club?
Min-hoo was prime talent anywhere. But that shoulder history? It scared teams off. Boston had moved fastest, he thought—with top-dollar offer to boot.
Yet no reaction to two mil? Maybe rivals matched... or beat it.
"Mind if I ask which team?"
"Tampa Bay and Oakland."
"Tampa and Oakland?" Mild frowned. "They're broke. They offered this much?"
Sung-tae smirked wryly at the shade. Min-hoo shrugged.
"Bit rude, but between them—which pulls you more?"
"If I had to pick... Oakland."
◇◇◇◆◇◇◇
Ring ring. Ring ring.
Oakland GM Michael, buried in prospect files, eyed the buzzing screen curiously and answered.
"Hello? Ben. What's up? Got a player for us?"
-Don't bullshit me. How much did you offer?
Michael yanked the phone from his ear, scowling at it. What the hell is this nonsense?