Unleashed Velocity
Yoo Min-hoo fiddled with the ball gripped in his left hand for a moment before slipping it into his glove and seizing his grip. His powerful grip strength, now boosted to 80 kilograms, compressed the ball. He wedged it between his index and middle fingers, securing it firmly. A splitter grip.
The splitter was a notoriously tricky pitch to throw. It demanded not just immense grip strength but long fingers as well. Fortunately, Yoo Min-hoo was born with the ideal physique for hurling splitters.
He lifted his right foot high, then slammed it down hard, sending dirt spraying from the mound. Thud! Shifting his weight to the right, he whipped his left arm with all his might. The ball rocketed straight down the middle. The batter swung at it—but as the pitch suddenly plunged downward, the bat sliced through empty air.
"Strike! Three outs on strikes!" The umpire's call ended the inning. Yoo Min-hoo let out a light sigh as he stepped down from the mound.
Tyrone Wed, having removed his catcher's mask, waited for him. He pulled the ball from his mitt and examined it. Three straight strikeouts in the first inning. A perfect start.
In truth, Yoo Min-hoo was a pitcher with exceptional strikeout stuff. He often fanned the side in an inning, so there was no real reason for astonishment.
"You got something going on today?"
"Why?"
"Your fastball averaged about 97 miles per hour just now."
Normally, when Yoo Min-hoo took the mound as a starter, his fastball velocity hovered between 95 and 96 mph. Yoo Min-hoo tipped back his cap as he looked at Tyrone, who was sticking out his tongue in disbelief.
"Really? I felt good, but it's coming out even better than I thought."
Simply feeling in good condition wasn't enough to explain the velocity jump. Moreover, his command had looked sharper than usual during that inning's pitches.
'He mentioned tweaking his delivery—is that starting to pay off?'
In the top of the first, armed with even faster velocity and pinpoint command, Yoo Min-hoo struck out the side. He carried that dominance into the next inning, overwhelming the New Orleans Rapps' lineup with another strikeout, groundout, groundout—three up, three down for the second straight frame.
After being shut down scoreless over two innings, the New Orleans hitters sensed something was off. In their dugout, they huddled to discuss Yoo Min-hoo.
"What's up with that guy today?"
New Orleans' cleanup hitter, 22-year-old Gale Elliott—hailed as Miami's next cornerstone slugger—clicked his tongue in frustration.
"He feels different today. Way more intense."
"He looked shaky in his last few starts, but he's come out guns blazing this time."
Molly Began, the third-hole hitter who'd just been rung up on three pitches, spat irritably.
Their hitting coach, listening in, glanced toward the Nashville dugout and spoke up.
"Today's Roy Yoo is different from the usual."
"How so?" Gale asked, furrowing his brow. The coach stroked his chin.
"He's leaning extremely on raw stuff today."
"The guy's always been a power thrower who trusts his arm."
"If that was all there was to him, you wouldn't hate facing him so much."
The hitting coach's point silenced the New Orleans batters.
If you asked players from the same division which pitchers they least wanted to face, Yoo Min-hoo ranked near the top—not just for New Orleans, but league-wide.
His ERA as a starter sat at 4.86—not bad, but hardly intimidating on paper. Yet hitters dreaded him because of his style.
A lefty with late-90s four-seamers that moved like snakes, an 90-ish mph splitter that dropped right at the zone's front edge, and a changeup that danced between 88 and 89 mph. On the surface, a classic power arm—but really, a crafty pitcher in power pitcher's clothing.
His real weapon? Catching hitters off-guard. Hunt the fastball? Changeup comes. Sit on fastball and change? Splitter. Nibbling at least-favorite zones was standard.
Lately, more and more players were trembling at the name "Roy Yoo."
"You can see it in his delivery—there's a change. Instead of overthinking like usual, just attack aggressively with the bat."
Going simple against a schemer was risky. When they brought "calculation," it meant they were prepared. Hitting mechanics were unconscious habits, weaknesses, strengths fused into a formula—like math.
You couldn't dominate with theory alone, but you could seize an edge.
Yoo Min-hoo knew opponents' formulas cold. Facing him meant deviating from your norm.
But today? He was ignoring them entirely, playing his game.
"So, treat him like any other starter?" one hitter asked. The coach nodded.
"Yeah. Defense, get set—inning's over." He clapped, sending fielders out, then eyed Nashville's dugout again, murmuring inwardly.
'Flipping styles like a switch... terrifying edge.'
Not just talent. Power vs. crafty: extremes because they differed like lefty vs. righty.
'Roy Yoo's a raw gem—why the artificial vibe?'
Puzzled by the mystery, he pondered countermeasures.
Top of the third. Fans at Nashville Ports' home park roared as Yoo Min-hoo climbed the mound. They felt it too—he was different.
"Three up, three down again!"
"We've been dying lately—win this one!"
Their near-shouts barely carried, but Yoo Min-hoo toed the rubber with his right foot, eyeing the righty batter stepping in. Bottom of the order starting with the seventh hitter. Less pressure than the top, but on days like this, beware the tail-end—they follow cues best.
From the windup, he unleashed his first-pitch heat with everything. Crack!
The batter didn't hesitate, pushing a 97 mph offering to right field. The crowd groaned; Yoo Min-hoo narrowed his eyes, tracking it.
New Orleans players leaned from their rail, following the flight. It hooked just foul past the right-field pole.
The runner to first tilted his head back in regret; fans sighed relief.
Hmm. Yoo Min-hoo exhaled softly at the foul homer.
'Instinct play?'
Barreled but off the barrel—pure homer otherwise. Head tilted, he reset and fired another outside fastball. Crack!
Ground foul this time. The batter glanced toward his dugout.
Yoo Min-hoo, feigning routine, noted it. 'New Orleans lives up to the hype. Quick adjustments.'
That look? Seeking signals. When a pitcher's peaking, lower lineup's dangerous—they obey perfectly. Great hitting coaches read pitchers fast, craft counters on the fly. New Orleans' was elite. Yoo Min-hoo knew it.
Today, his fastball reliance was higher—pure power mode.
Staring silently, he glanced at Tyrone. 'Next? Splitter? Change?'
Tyrone signaled. Yoo Min-hoo calmly reset—fastball intent clear. Tyrone, knowing today's condition could induce swings, skipped further signs and set up.
Three straight heat, but viable. Yoo Min-hoo coiled, stomped, whipped left arm. Ball left hand, streaked in; batter tensed—but held.
Waiting per orders. Thwack! Low strike burrowed into the mitt. Strike three.
Batter sighed faintly, retreated. 98 mph heat sent him packing. Yoo Min-hoo turned, adjusted cap.
From the visitors' dugout, the hitting coach tsked softly.
"Unless he comes out, scoring'll be tough today."
Fiercer stuff, laser command. No clue how to crack today's Yoo Min-hoo.