“Strike! Three Strikeouts!”
In the top of the sixth with two outs and a runner on third, Yoo Min-hoo struck out the opponent's No. 2 hitter, Michael Owen, and stepped off the mound.
Through six innings, Yoo Min-hoo had allowed six hits, four walks, and four runs. His pitch count had already surpassed 100.
Watching the game from the monitor room next to the clubhouse, Michael muttered softly.
“Time for a change.”
Pitching six innings was more than enough for a starting pitcher to fulfill his role. Though he'd failed to notch a Quality Start (QS) with those four runs, Oakland's offense had managed five runs today.
Typically, teams expected their aces—Nos. 1 or 2 starters—to eat up 7 or 8 innings. No. 3 starters handled 6 to 7, while Nos. 4 and 5 were hoped to last 5 or 6.
It wasn't yet clear exactly what tier of starter Yoo Min-hoo belonged to. As a fresh call-up to the majors, there was no data on how he'd fare at this level. But he clearly hadn't reached No. 1-3 starter territory yet.
That said, holding the lead without yielding the win probability through six innings exceeded expectations for Yoo Min-hoo.
“If he keeps performing like this, he'll definitely hold his own in the majors.”
Michael nodded, arms crossed, at the young team scout who'd come along.
“Yeah. At this level, he'd be a huge boost to the rotation.”
“And his consistency is a massive strength.”
Becoming an elite starter required a laundry list of skills. One key trait was the ability to go deep into games as an innings-eater. And that stamina tied directly to stability.
Going deep meant staying on the mound longer. To avoid an early hook, a starter had to protect the lead—a prerequisite.
Even pitchers with higher ERAs held high value if they ate innings, because they enabled steady game management. Players with minimal ups and downs were the ones who logged those bulk frames.
Yoo Min-hoo showed real promise as an innings-eater. Even in Triple-A, early exits were rare for him. Considering most pitchers with shaky command had some variance in their stuff, his steadiness stood out.
“What makes him so consistent?”
The scout voiced his curiosity. Yoo Min-hoo's command and velocity didn't magically improve in jams. Michael tapped his temple with his index finger.
“Mentality.”
Crisis → shaky command → forcing the ball → string of walks → dial back velocity for strikes → solid contact.
Most command-challenged pitchers unraveled in that exact pattern. But Yoo Min-hoo had never been pulled that way.
“His fastball isn't even his biggest weapon.”
Michael eyed Yoo Min-hoo's face on the screen.
“It's that unshakable composure, no matter the spot. That's his real edge.”
Oakland stuck with Yoo Min-hoo through six, then turned to the bullpen in the seventh. The relievers protected the lead to the ninth, securing the win—and Yoo Min-hoo's first MLB victory in his debut.
Having capped off his debut successfully, Yoo Min-hoo drew a swarm of reporters post-game. With the team's schedule demanding an immediate flight back to Oakland, he couldn't even spend time with family.
Only once aboard the team charter did he finally catch his breath.
“What a whirlwind.”
As the plane took off, Yoo Min-hoo sighed. Beside him, No. 1 starter Gabe Gabriel chuckled.
“You blew up with that no-no talk coming up. And you're already infamous for your antics.”
He meant the signing bonus stunt from rookie contract days. Yoo Min-hoo sighed wearily and pulled out his phone.
On the flight, some chatted idly, others slept. As a newcomer, Yoo Min-hoo was still on awkward terms with most teammates. He quietly scrolled sports news on his smartphone—until "Lee Soo-min" jumped out.
A Korean name topping U.S. portal sports sites, and all too familiar. Instinctively, he tapped the headline.
Reading down the long article, he exhaled lightly.
“Starting to make waves for real.”
Gabe caught the murmur, looking puzzled.
“Huh?”
“Talking to myself.”
Gabe peered at the screen anyway, muttering unconsciously.
“Perfect Game?”
Yoo Min-hoo shrugged it off.
“Some high school kid in Korea pitched one in a tournament final.”
“Whoa.”
Gabe perked up, intrigued.
“Know him?”
“Kinda.”
“High school league or not, a perfect game's no joke. Dude must throw gas.”
Yoo Min-hoo glanced at his phone. It wasn't just gas.
Lee Soo-min: 190 cm, 95 kg. Korea's top high school prospect, graduating this year. Top velocity: 159 km/h—99 mph, faster than Yoo Min-hoo's.
“He's a monster.”
Gabe lost interest at that. Yoo Min-hoo silently scrolled on.
Yoo Min-hoo's arrival eased the rotation thirst somewhat, but it wouldn't flip the wild card race. His stable debut hinted at a bright future without overwhelming dominance. Even in the majors, he was still a rookie carving his niche. For Oakland, it was a narrow escape from the brink.
They weren't conceding the wild card, though. The season was charging into its mid-to-late stretch. Most teams had played around 100 games, with 60 left—plenty of variables.
Variables bred crises and chances alike. Oakland still had shots.
For the front office, it was breathing room. For player Yoo Min-hoo, changes abounded.
First: pay. Minor leagues paid weekly stipends as pro ball. MLB minimum salary: $515,000. Rookies got it for three years—team control called service time. Huge by normal standards, even at minimum. Veterans could arbitrate later based on service and performance.
Second: recognition spiked. Fresh to the majors, but his popularity surged. Among Oakland fans, he outshone earlier call-ups Call Klaus and Chambers—despite their solid stats. Surprising, after one game.
But fans had reasons. Oakland stuffed upper draft rounds with college kids yearly—a tradition. So a young—even boyish—Korean like Yoo Min-hoo felt exotic.
Especially with No. 1 starter Gabe Gabriel hitting free agency next year. Rumors swirled of a multi-year deal, $110-150 million total. Oakland's budget made re-signing unlikely. Fans pinned big hopes on the 20-year-old already showing ace stuff in the bigs.
Third: agents hounded harder.
“Can't exactly block agent numbers as GM, right?”
August 1st. Michael visited the clubhouse, tone irritated. Lately, he'd become agent catnip.
GM-agent calls were routine—mostly salary negotiations. Oakland pinched pennies; agents chased raises. Business as usual.
But greetings piled up lately, sly probes if Yoo Min-hoo wanted representation. His dad Jack hung up on them; Yoo Min-hoo changed numbers.
“Roy, thinking of signing an agent?”
“Nah.”
Yoo Min-hoo grinned. Michael tsked softly.
“You didn't come just to ask that, did you?”
Michael visited often, but not idly. Lunchtime—most players out eating. Only four left, including Yoo Min-hoo.
“Of course not.”
Shaking his head, Michael handed over papers.
“Know this guy?”
Yoo Min-hoo scanned the bio.
“Lee Soo-min.”
“Right.”
Michael pulled up a chair.
“Why ask me about Lee Soo-min?”
“You played high school ball in Korea same time as him. Figured you might've faced him.”
“Seen him, yeah. But I doubt I'd help much.”
“Just your player gut on him. No pressure.”
Yoo Min-hoo paused.
“You scouting him for a signing?”