Right-Handed Tryout
While pitching coach Han Myeong-hwan climbed up to the bullpen and chatted with Kim Ji-seok, director Park Sung-tae turned his gaze toward Yoo Min-hoo and spoke.
"Throw a few light ones. Grab one of those gloves over there."
Park Sung-tae pointed to the spot where the coaches kept their practice gloves. By then, Kim Ji-seok and the first-year pitcher had come down, leaving the bullpen empty.
"Hey, Coach Han. Hand me the speed gun."
At Park Sung-tae's words, Han Myeong-hwan, who had been exiting the bullpen with Kim Ji-seok, approached with the speed gun in hand. Spotting Yoo Min-hoo rummaging through the pitcher's gloves, he gave a puzzled look.
"Who's that kid?"
Park Sung-tae glanced briefly at Yoo Min-hoo and replied flatly.
"A hopeful trying to join."
"A joiner?"
Han Myeong-hwan stared at Yoo Min-hoo with the same baffled expression. Meanwhile, Yoo Min-hoo had found a glove that roughly fit and slipped it onto his left hand. The right-handed pitcher's glove felt awkward yet strangely familiar.
Gazing silently at the glove, Yoo Min-hoo turned and headed to the bullpen. Watching him, the corner of Park Sung-tae's eye twitched.
Right-handed?
Puzzled by the nagging question for a moment, Park Sung-tae let out a low whistle.
"Good balance."
He was newly realizing that Yoo Min-hoo had remarkably solid physical balance for a pitcher. His arms were quite long, too. In hand sports, longer arms were always an advantage. Even up to the early '90s, MLB teams had often drafted players in upper rounds purely for good proportions, ignoring amateur stats. That'd get you fired nowadays. Still, body balance mattered—better ratios made generating power easier.
Everyone in the indoor gym turned to watch Yoo Min-hoo.
This much attention is a bit awkward.
Yoo Min-hoo gave a wry smile, loosened up lightly, and assumed his pitching stance. He took a deep breath and went into windup.
With hands in his pockets, Park Sung-tae watched and muttered inwardly.
Not a fastball guy, maybe.
He'd gone into windup but hadn't raised his hands high. It looked vaguely midway between windup and set position—ambiguous. For pure velocity, you needed tension in the body, stretching muscles like rubber bands. That's why hard throwers often had exaggerated windups. Of course, a compact windup wasn't bad. You had to check runners from set, and a big gap between windup and set could disrupt rhythm. Plenty of pros kept windups modest.
Yoo Min-hoo loaded up, pulling his arm back and lifting his leg into the kick. His left foot snapped down, rotating his body. His right arm whipped forward in sync. He released at the perfect spot. The ball flew straight into the makeshift strike zone square, smacking against the net behind it.
Yoo Min-hoo relaxed his follow-through and exhaled lightly. Everyone in the gym thought the same thing.
Not that fast, huh?
Director Park Sung-tae, holding the speed gun, voiced his doubt.
Pitching form's a little off.
He checked the readout: 109 km/h. Impressive for a civilian, laughable for a high school ballplayer. Yet something nagged at Park Sung-tae.
Yoo Min-hoo threw for another minute. Each pitch felt smoother, velocity climbing. Peak hit 117 km/h. Still low-tier for high school—uncompetitive.
"……."
As Park Sung-tae stared silently, Han Myeong-hwan approached.
"How fast?"
"Not very."
Park Sung-tae reset the gun curtly and handed it over. Watching Yoo Min-hoo remove his glove and wipe sweat, he thought.
Form's solid enough. Feels unfamiliar to him, though. And not full effort.
Even at full throttle, no big velocity upside. From this brief look, Yoo Min-hoo lacked standout merit. Yet Park Sung-tae couldn't shake him from his mind.
Simple physical tests followed. The coaches were stunned—all metrics hit top high school marks. Hitting was skipped. Coaches wondered, but Park Sung-tae brushed it off as personal reasons.
A few team players eyed Yoo Min-hoo curiously, intrigued.
After tests, Yoo Min-hoo left. Han Myeong-hwan, who'd watched, approached Park Sung-tae puzzled.
"Who the heck is that kid?"
"Transfer student. Lived in the US."
"US?"
Han Myeong-hwan looked surprised.
"Played high school ball there?"
"Yeah. Pro path from young, professionally trained."
Park Sung-tae recalled Yoo Min-hoo's ease with the tests.
"Why transfer at such a key time...?"
Senior year was pivotal anywhere—final stretch to adulthood, proving your path. For pros, it meant college drafts or direct entry. Coming to Korea now was odd.
"Who knows. Everyone's got circumstances."
"Pitcher for us? Lucky break."
"Nah."
"...?"
"Peak velocity was just 117 km/h."
"What?"
Han Myeong-hwan gaped. Unwinnable in high school. But those tests... suspicious.
"What now?"
"Can't stop him if he wants in. That athleticism could help somehow. Plus..."
Park Sung-tae shrugged, trailing off, then narrowed his eyes.
"He's got something."
He was sure of it.
Scrub of dishes echoed from the kitchen.
Yoo Min-hoo sat on the living room sofa, gripping hand strengtheners in both fists, watching news. Offseason everywhere—no real baseball yet. Just spring training schedules.
Kim Mi-hyun finished and entered.
"How was school?"
"Eh? Not bad."
Yoo Min-hoo looked from the TV.
She nodded. No rough edges—he'd fit with friends fine.
"And the baseball team?"
Delicately probing her worry. He set down the grippers, scratched his head.
"Eh."
Just over two weeks practicing right-arm throws. Intense training, form tweaks. Still too soon for velocity. Pro body base plus past knowledge kept it decent, but not high school competitive yet. Park Sung-tae hadn't seemed negative, but not thrilled either.
Kim Mi-hyun sighed softly. Doorbell rang. She moved; Yoo Min-hoo said, "I'll get it," and went out.
Opening the door: neighbor Lee Ho-seok.
"Yo."
Cheerful wave.
Yoo Min-hoo blinked.
"What's up this late?"
"Told the director I'm your next-door neighbor. Said ask me. Morning practice starts tomorrow—be there by 7:30."
"Cool."
Relief hit; he grinned.
"Thanks heaps from now on."
Lee Ho-seok laughed, clapped his shoulder, headed home. Yoo Min-hoo called.
"See ya tomorrow."
"Yup."
Post-training, alone in his office, Park Sung-tae pondered results and upcoming league lineup. Lineup solid—even freshmen shone. Ace Kim Ji-seok's form change and velocity jump risked injury, but growth was clear. Polish it, he'd surpass last year.
Final thought: Yoo Min-hoo. He pulled up a US portal site. English rusty but workable. After digging, he chuckled dryly.
"Holy crap, a monster."
Name was Roy Yoo, but photo matched. Glorious record followed. Last bit: shoulder injury.
"……."
Office chair creaked as he leaned back. Staring at the screen, he sighed.
Left shoulder only? Instant North Myeong ace. Why Korea for a top US prospect? Obvious: can't pitch left. Today's right-arm confirmed. Rehab motive.
Fun idea, though.
Throwing with the unused hand? Bold. Motives unclear, but training while watching? Smart.
A monster pitcher drops in outta nowhere.
Recalling his daytime gripe, he chuckled. Didn't fix everything, though.