Taking the Mound
Yoo Min-hoo stepped onto the mound and lightly rotated his left arm, eyeing the opposing batter settling into the box.
Today's opponent for the Nashville Ports was the Round Rock Mavericks, the Texas Rangers' Triple-A affiliate. The leadoff hitter in the sixth was their fifth batter, Belly Crove. At 22 years old and in his third pro season, he was a left-handed 5-tool player, drafted in the first round by the Texas Senators in 2014. Despite his youth, he'd made it to the majors last September during roster expansion, giving him big-league experience.
Yoo Min-hoo fiddled with the ball in his left hand, watching Belly Crove take his stance. Typical 5-tool player. Power, hitting, baserunning, defense, arm strength—nothing lacking, all elite. Such batters shared one key trait.
They don't resort to trick plays.
With strengths across every tool, they had no need to catch pitchers off-guard with gimmicks. In other words, they weren't comfortable in unorthodox battles of wits.
Of course, mastering the unorthodox meant dominating the fundamentals. But fundamentals could be subverted by the unorthodox too. And Yoo Min-hoo excelled at that subversive style.
He tossed the ball lightly into his glove—thud, thud—thought for a moment, then rubbed some rosin on his hands and prepared to pitch. Behind the plate sat his familiar catcher, Tyrone Wed. Yoo Min-hoo flashed a sign.
Splitter right out of the gate?
Tyrone read the sign with a puzzled frown. With Yoo Min-hoo's stuff, starting with a fastball to grab the count wasn't a bad call. Even if it got hit, his velocity often led to weak contact or bats that couldn't keep up.
Tyrone usually led aggressively against power hitters, swinging early. But not with Yoo Min-hoo. Sometimes he'd fire fastballs relentlessly; other times, like now, he'd avoid the matchup entirely. Or throw something ambiguously in between.
Tyrone often questioned Yoo Min-hoo's patterns, but he never complained. Last season had proven that irregularity was Yoo Min-hoo's edge. And in batter-pitcher chess, Yoo Min-hoo outclassed him.
As Yoo Min-hoo went into his set, lifting his right foot off the rubber, Belly Crove tensed up. Yoo Min-hoo's right foot dug into the dirt, his left arm whipping forward powerfully. Belly Crove swung aggressively in response—but the ball dipped sharply just before the zone, slicing empty air.
Belly Crove furrowed his brow at the first-pitch splitter. Tyrone pulled the ball from his mitt, tossed it back, and muttered to himself, Last season I noticed it, but this guy's pitching reads minds.
Having caught for him all last year, Tyrone had seen plenty of batters flailing at unexpected pitches.
Yoo Min-hoo caught the return toss, adjusted his cap, rubbed more rosin, and blew on his left hand—whoosh.
Perception could be a scary thing. To the world, Roy Yoo was a lefty fireballer topping out at 97 mph. Two-seam fastball and splitter. Changeup still raw. Control iffy, but he attacked the zone confidently with that fastball movement.
That was the public profile—and Yoo Min-hoo leaned into it. Easier to pitch when expectations aligned that way.
He gripped the ball in his glove and eyed Belly Crove again. No panic despite the surprise pitch. A calm deep breath, and Yoo Min-hoo fired the next one.
His pace between pitches—around 21 seconds last year—was back to league average. Muscles tensed, he gripped hard and unleashed. The ball rocketed toward the mitt.
Crack! Belly Crove didn't hesitate on the inside fastball, pulling it foul down the left-field line. His swing lagged the velocity just enough to miss solid contact.
Belly Crove clicked his tongue softly, resetting his timing. Yoo Min-hoo, sensing he'd adjusted, ignored it and fired again—same four-seam.
Crack! Another inside heater pulled, this one sailing down the right-field foul line past the pole. Better timing, but still foul.
He's locking in quick. In good shape today.
Yoo Min-hoo analyzed coolly, face impassive. Last year, guys timing my fastball like this gave me hell. That was why he hadn't stuck in Triple-A.
He stared blankly at Belly Crove. Failed to crack Texas's 25-man roster, sure—but major-league experience meant top-tier in Triple-A. Holding your own against him proved you belonged here.
Grip set, Yoo Min-hoo pitched. Belly Crove, timing matched, swung—then froze.
"…!"
Perfectly synced for fastball heat, but this pitch was untouchable. Too slow—way too slow.
Changeup!
Belly Crove's full swing whiffed wildly; the ball sailed leisurely through the zone.
Thwack!
"Strike! Strike three, you're out!"
The ump called it crisply. Belly Crove tsked and trudged away.
Yoo Min-hoo fanned the next two as well, wrapping the inning with three straight strikeouts.
Changeup that polished? Night and day from last year.
Michael watched from the dugout, inwardly impressed. Whiffing Belly Crove was huge—especially with a changeup that had been too raw for games before. This version was battle-ready.
Deception looks sharp too.
Yoo Min-hoo obsessed over hiding the ball. "Incredible growth rate," Michael murmured, stroking his chin as Yoo Min-hoo headed in.
"…."
In the bullpen, Chambers watched Yoo Min-hoo finish the inning with a stiff expression. It had hardened the moment he'd struck out Belly Crove.
Bullpen mate Cole Cloud whistled. "That guy's a whole different animal from last year, huh?"
No sign of the kid who struggled against Triple-A bats. Scratching his head, Cole eyed Chambers, back to normal. "Is that what they call a real genius?"
Cole had been drafted by Oakland in the third round in 2015. He figured he had talent—but pro ball humbled that quick. Monsters everywhere. He'd seen so many rocket up levels in blinks; lingering in the minors eroded his confidence.
As Cole grumbled, Chambers resumed practice tosses from the pen.
"Hm. Impressive."
A middle-aged man around forty murmured at the screen. His companion looked puzzled. "Who're you watching?"
"Roy Yoo."
"That weirdo?"
This was the headquarters of Baseball Research in New York. The older man was Vet Corr, the magazine's vice president.
Reporters pegged Yoo Min-hoo as an oddball. Solid debut last year, but not quite spotlight material. Still, the "weirdo" label stuck—kicking away a fat signing bonus to sign with Oakland.
"Eh, weirdo? Looked like a smart pick to me." Vet Corr shrugged, pausing the footage. The other man chuckled. "What did a fresh high school kid know back then?"
"Then why turn down a million bucks?"
"…."
The man scratched his head at Vet Corr's retort. "Maybe daddy's advice. Or just wanted to stand out."
"You don't ditch a million to 'stand out.' No idiot does that." Clicking his tongue, Vet Corr stroked his chin and turned back to the monitor. "My gut says big things. Smells like a star."
His eyes gleamed at Yoo Min-hoo.
"What're you two doing in the screening room?"
"Oh, Marsha."
The door opened to a young-looking brunette. The companion grinned warmly, but she gave her senior a perfunctory nod before eyeing Vet Corr. "VP in here? Must be something up."
"Perfect timing, Marsha. No schedule, right?"
"Yeah."
"Run a feature piece."
"Feature on who?"
Marsha tilted her head. Vet Corr smiled and pointed at the screen. Her face twisted oddly at the player's image.