The Deceptive Splitter
Yoo Min-hoo fiddled with the brim of his cap, muttering to himself inwardly.
'I could throw the splitter because he was convinced it was coming.'
A two-pitch pitcher with a four-seam fastball and splitter. That was the current intel on Yoo Min-hoo.
And with Yoo Min-hoo's deception skills, fooling Joey Barton's eyes was no easy task. The only way was to flip the entire framework Barton thought he knew.
Yoo Min-hoo's changeup wasn't battle-ready yet. But if Barton mistook it for a splitter, it transformed into a perfectly viable breaking ball.
'Those sharp eyes are his downfall.'
Barton's elite plate vision—spotting pitches in a flash—and his somewhat relaxed approach to the game had made the one-off strategy a perfect hit.
Two strikes, three balls. Barton calmly settled into his stance.
Yoo Min-hoo didn't hesitate, going right into his next delivery.
A changeup shines when the hitter can't distinguish it from a fastball. But not in this spot anymore. One changeup had been enough.
After seeing a slow pitch, a sudden fastball throws off the timing. A locked-in Barton would scoff and crush it for extra bases without a second thought.
'But right now, he's still ramping up.'
The key to the at-bat hinged on whether that last pitch had stolen Barton's timing. Yoo Min-hoo couldn't know for sure.
The ball left Yoo Min-hoo's hand, streaking toward the mitt.
Barton flashed his eyes at it and unleashed the bat. Whoosh!
The swing sliced empty air, chasing the ball's path. But the spot the bat swept through was already history.
He'd read the location perfectly. The timing, though? Just a hair off.
Thwack! The crisp smack of ball meeting mitt rang in Barton's ears.
"Tch."
He retracted the bat with a low tsk, stepping out of the box. The umpire bellowed at the same instant.
"Strike! Strike three, you're out!"
On a full count, Yoo Min-hoo had fanned Joey Barton.
He followed by striking out the next hitter too, wrapping the inning with three straight K's and ending the game right there.
Marsha, watching it all, went wide-eyed. Not from the three straight strikeouts.
When he'd whiffed Barton, her eyes had already turned to saucers.
'What kind of magic was that?'
Even as an expert, Marsha couldn't make sense of it. Yoo Min-hoo had just overpowered Barton with raw stuff.
A rookie with barely two months in the pros. Talented pitcher, sure—but nowhere near ready to dominate a vet like Barton.
It made zero sense, no matter how she sliced it.
'Gotta talk to him.'
Arms crossed, she made up her mind and stood.
Navigating the familiar player paths in the stadium, Marsha waited for the Beloit squad to pass.
A few players strolled by, mood brighter than yesterday. They glanced at her lounging in the corridor, but she pretended to scroll her phone, ignoring them.
As the group thinned, footsteps approached. She looked up.
There was Yoo Min-hoo, walking with catcher Tyrone Wed. Same vibe as their last encounter.
Marsha rose. "Roy."
Yoo Min-hoo paused mid-chat with Tyrone and turned. Tyrone shot her an odd look.
Hot girl calling his teammate. He nudged Yoo Min-hoo's ribs with his elbow.
"Said you weren't into dating, but when'd you meet a babe like that?"
"Not like that. I'll catch up—go ahead."
"Gotcha."
Tyrone grinned slyly and kept walking.
Marsha, used to the misunderstanding, didn't flinch.
Tyrone gone, Yoo Min-hoo shouldered his bag.
"Great game today. You were dealing."
She flashed a friendly smile. He nodded flatly.
"Thanks."
His face showed zero spark. Marsha eyed him curiously.
'This guy's way too chill around me.'
Marsha was stunning. Her job threw her around players constantly. Perk: they all jumped at interviews. Downside: most hit on her.
Some were blatant, pissing her off plenty.
So Yoo Min-hoo's non-reaction felt refreshingly novel.
He met her silent stare with a puzzled tilt. "Something on my face?"
"Nah, just... nothing."
She shrugged. "Mind a quick interview?"
"Sure. But can't be long."
Away games meant hustling to the bus. Marsha knew, cutting straight to it.
"How'd you fan Joey Barton?"
"Hm. How I got the K..."
Her directness made him trail off, then answer.
"Pure luck."
"No way that's luck—he's not that guy."
She pouted. He chuckled.
"Explaining it'd take forever."
"That's what I wanna hear."
Her eyes gleamed at his dodge. He met them evenly.
"Then let's call it trade secret."
"Huh?"
She blinked blankly. He shrugged.
"Nothing that special anyway."
"If it's not, spill it."
She grumbled. He just smiled.
Reading the refusal, she pursed her lips.
"Got a question."
"Shoot."
On the bus, Tyrone quizzed the chilling Yoo Min-hoo.
"First pitch to Barton—why bury it right in the zone?"
"Oh, that?"
He smirked casually. "Knew he wouldn't chase."
"What?"
Tyrone gaped. Yoo Min-hoo shrugged.
"How'd you know?"
"Hasn't swung first pitch once this series."
Tyrone paused, pondering. 'Huh, true.'
Impressed inwardly, but not fully satisfied.
"Still, that's gambling big."
"Nah."
He shook his head, explaining briefly why, then added,
"Instinct matters, but I avoid gambler's plays."
"You make baseball complicated."
Tyrone whistled. Yoo Min-hoo laughed.
"That girl earlier—what's the deal?"
Tyrone asked casually. Flat response.
"Met her three days ago."
"Ooh, sparks on first sight?"
"Just a reporter."
"Hitting on the reporter, then?"
Tyrone wouldn't drop it. Yoo Min-hoo shook his head, popped in earbuds.
Tyrone scratched his head awkwardly.
Major difference between majors and minors: travel.
Big leaguers flew private or chartered, comfy. Vast U.S. demanded it.
Minors stuck regional? Buses. Sometimes all-night hauls across sprawl.
Post-Bowling Green series, the Beloit bus rolled hours, hitting the home hotel at dawn.
Players dragged to rooms. Manager Wyndham headed home to family.
But at Beloit's field, an email from Oakland GM Michael awaited.
Wyndham read it, smiling wearily. He turned, calling to Yoo Min-hoo and Tyrone grabbing bags from the bus.
"Roy, Tyrone."
"Yeah?"
Yoo Min-hoo paused, bag half-shouldered, puzzled.
"Pack your stuff at the hotel."
They exchanged glances. Wyndham grinned meaningfully.
"You two are Midland players now."