Yoo Min-hoo Takes the Mound
Yoo Min-hoo stepped onto the mound and lightly tapped the dirt with his foot. Every stadium had its own unique mound vibe. It wasn't just the atmosphere of the ballpark— the soil, the height, the footing, all varied from place to place. That was why some pitchers dominated at home with overwhelming power but faltered on the road, unable to match their usual performance. It was deeply tied to the mound's condition, what people called a matter of "mental toughness." The invisible discord born from awkwardness in unfamiliar surroundings.
Well, I've rolled too rough to worry about that kind of delicacy. Yoo Min-hoo muttered to himself as he grabbed the rosin bag on the mound, rubbing the powder into his hand. The batter at the plate was a sleek-looking player who appeared to hail from South America. Yoo Min-hoo silently sized up the prototypical contact-hitting leadoff man, then reached into his glove for the ball and gripped it.
Gripping it fiercely, he stared down the opposing batter. At the same moment, the leadoff hitter settled into his stance, ready to swing. Watching him, Yoo Min-hoo lifted his right foot on the mound. His three-quarters delivery whipped through at the perfect angle. The ball, compressed in his powerful grip, burst free from the release point.
Whoosh! The pitch rocketed forward in an instant. The batter, who had been watching for the first pitch, flinched. Thwack!
"Strike!" the umpire bellowed immediately, as the pitch tore through the strike zone.
In the dugout, Beloit manager Wyndham Evans stroked his chin while watching. "Pitching coach, what was the velocity?"
The pitching coach, clocking it with the radar gun, replied in admiration. "96 miles per hour."
"Ho?" Even in this minor league gathering of top prospects, that was elite velocity. As the coaches marveled at Yoo Min-hoo's heat, he seamlessly moved into his next delivery.
A bit overpowered by the speed, the opposing batter hesitated, then panicked slightly at Yoo Min-hoo's quick tempo. Soon, Yoo Min-hoo unleashed another pitch, and the batter flailed at it in surprise. A whiff—two strikes. Completely overwhelmed by the stuff.
Wyndham Evans burst out laughing. "That's the spirited look of a high school rookie."
Of course, that was just the manager's take. Having nabbed two strikes on a whiff, Yoo Min-hoo adjusted his cap and thought, The average time between pitches is about 22 seconds.
He'd shaved it down to the low 20s—two seconds faster than average. And this was deliberate on his part. Eyeing the batter now cornered at two strikes, he gripped the ball between his index and middle fingers. The opponent tensed up. Getting fanned on three straight would be humiliating. Once a batter thought like that, impatience set in.
Seeing it, Yoo Min-hoo went into his windup. His arm whipped around, the ball left his hand. The batter swung—but the pitch suddenly dropped dead at a certain point.
Splitter. By the time the batter realized, his bat was slashing empty air.
Swish! Thwack! The sound of the bat cutting nothing was followed instantly by the ball smacking the mitt. A clean three-pitch strikeout. Without hesitation, Yoo Min-hoo turned from the dazed batter and prepared for the next one.
This guy's no joke. Tyrone whistled inwardly at the faint sting penetrating his thick mitt. He'd worn the catcher's mask since Little League neighborhood ball. Simple reason: no one else wanted the tough job. Whatever the start, he had talent for it, making it to pro as a second-round pick.
Through Little League, high school, college—he'd caught for countless pitchers. And Yoo Min-hoo's fastball ranked in the top five hardest he'd ever handled. Even his lone breaking ball, the splitter, packed serious bite.
This is a fun one to catch. Eyes gleaming, he thrust his mitt toward Yoo Min-hoo as the next batter stepped in.
Three up, three down. Even in an exhibition, Yoo Min-hoo had opened his pro debut flawlessly. Wyndham Evans was impressed. "No wonder the front office signed a high school kid for once..."
Wyndham Evans was a minor league lifer. Six years with Oakland's affiliates. In the grinder of coaching turnover, that was rare longevity. Oakland wanted coaches who fit their mold to develop prospects their way—and Evans was their guy.
He'd handled countless draftees and trade-ins, so Yoo Min-hoo stood out as an anomaly. Oakland prioritized control above all in pitchers—stability, consistency. But Yoo Min-hoo was a classic high school arm needing command work. Didn't fit the philosophy. Evans had wondered why he got this kid—until seeing him pitch live.
"This one's the real deal."
At 58, he was old for coaching. No big-league staff experience, not elite—but decades in the trenches honed his eye for talent. To him, Yoo Min-hoo was a diamond in the rough. It wasn't just velocity. The aura was different.
Any player buckled in a strange environment around veterans, especially green high schoolers. But not Yoo Min-hoo. He acted right at home, brushing off teammates' teasing jabs with cool indifference. That vibe kept others from underestimating him. Pure charisma.
Like the aura only a battle-hardened pro can exude. Evans might've nailed it. But even he hadn't pierced the kid's true value.
Can't wait for the next pitch.
Beloit went down 1-2-3 too. Back on the mound, Yoo Min-hoo faced the next inning's leadoff: Single-A's hottest hitter. Kim Yong-soo. The Asian power bat wowing major league scouts, with precise hitting to boot—Tampa Bay's top prospect.
Power pitcher vs. power hitter. A matchup to stir any baseball soul.
Meanwhile, in the opposing dugout, Kim Yong-soo burned with resolve. Half a year in America, English still rough, but his easygoing nature won over teammates. Backed by snatching the cleanup spot outright.
"Finally, a matchup worth my time." He strode to the plate spouting novel-or-manga lines, aura blazing. A teammate asked the interpreter, "What'd he just say?"
"'Finally, a matchup worth my time.'"
Teammates' faces twisted oddly. What'd he eat for breakfast?
Ignoring them, Kim Yong-soo stuck to his pace. First glance at Yoo Min-hoo, he'd pegged him as a gimmick guy. But after eating three pitches, he'd honed his edge for revenge homers. No chances since coming stateside—until now.
Come on! With that stuff, you won't dodge the showdown! Bring it! He gripped the bat handle tight.
Yoo Min-hoo eyed the flaming intensity. What do I do? I wasn't planning a showdown.
Thwack-thud-thwack-thud!
"Ball four!"
No hesitation—an intentional walk. Even regaining elite velocity hadn't changed his style. No way was he facing a .300 hitter with .500+ slugging against 90+ mph arms.
Kim Yong-soo was speechless at the blatant dodge. Not just him—everyone stared in disbelief. Yoo Min-hoo's move was alien to them.
But to him, it felt right. This was his self-forged style, born from trial, error, wandering—when conventional ways failed. Others might not get it, might call it failure. But he didn't see it as wrong.
Step by step, my way. His eyes sharpened on the next batter. That's how I build results.
He crushed the ball in his glove and fired. Thwack!