Morning Drills at North Myeong High
North Myeong High's baseball team morning practice followed a pretty standard routine. Compared to the afternoon sessions, where autonomy was heavily emphasized, it felt somewhat out of place. From 7:30 to 8:00 a.m., they did basic physical training. Then came thirty minutes of individual practice schedules, followed by morning roll call. Afternoon training started after lunch.
For high school baseball players in Korea—those aiming for the pros—their school schedule and class progress differed greatly from regular students. Under normal circumstances, Yoo Min-hoo wouldn't have made the team. But Director Park Sung-tae, who had a rough idea of his situation, felt no burden including him in the team's schedule as a member. As a private high school, they could handle exceptional cases much more flexibly than public ones. With just parental permission, plus approval from the principal and chairman, Yoo Min-hoo's entry into the baseball club was complete.
Right before morning practice, the North Myeong High players spotted a unfamiliar student chatting with Lee Ho-seok and exchanged puzzled looks. He wasn't a freshman. And he certainly wasn't one of the existing members. Transfer students joining the baseball team was rare in Korea, so it was hard for the players to make sense of it right away.
As the players gathered, Director Park Sung-tae appeared and calmly announced the news.
"That student over there, Yoo Min-hoo, is a transfer joining us for baseball activities. He's a third-year, position: pitcher."
The players' murmurs grew louder at Director Park's words. A few second- and third-years glanced momentarily at Yoo Min-hoo—specifically, the pitchers.
Amid the slight confusion, Director Park clapped lightly to settle them down and began morning practice. First up: partner stretches in pairs of two. Then running wrapped up the brief session.
Yoo Min-hoo paired with the familiar Lee Ho-seok for stretches.
"Some guys are already eyeing you warily, huh?"
Lee Ho-seok said with a hint of amusement in his voice as Yoo Min-hoo gently pushed his back to help him bend forward.
"Figured as much. Unnecessary worry, though."
"Oh? Confident in your skills, then?"
Lee Ho-seok asked while leaning forward, and Yoo Min-hoo replied flatly.
"Nah. The coaches won't see me as real firepower anyway."
"Why not?"
Lee Ho-seok looked puzzled, and Yoo Min-hoo gave a wry smile.
"My velocity right now is downright pathetic."
Lee Ho-seok's confusion deepened.
"Some personal circumstances?"
"A bit, yeah."
As Yoo Min-hoo answered, Lee Ho-seok straightened up, rolled his shoulders, and stood. Now it was his turn to assist Yoo Min-hoo's stretches. Flexibility was life or death for pitchers. Pros typically clocked mid-to-late 130s km/h for slower guys, mid-to-late 150s for the fast ones. Raw power mattered, but without the flexibility to match, it was impossible. And Yoo Min-hoo had exceptional flexibility for it.
Lee Ho-seok felt it firsthand while helping.
Damn, he's really flexible.
He marveled inwardly as the stretches ended, transitioning into a simple run. "Simple" meant fifteen minutes straight—and at a solid pace, not jogging. Plenty of freshmen couldn't keep up.
Yoo Min-hoo stood out during the run. He stayed in the lead group effortlessly for all fifteen minutes.
Even second- and third-years felt drained after the basic fitness routine. Running was fundamental for all athletes, baseball players included. But not every baseball player excelled at it—especially hitters, for whom speed was just one tool among many. Modern baseball prized five-tool players, but no rule said every hitter had to hit and run well.
The freshmen fared worse. Their fastest guy barely hit mid-pack, highlighting the physical gap with the upperclassmen. Several lagged a full lap behind.
Yet Yoo Min-hoo looked unfazed.
"Hyung, what's that guy's deal?"
Starting third baseman Kang Jae-seong, a second-year regular, panted as he approached Lee Ho-seok.
"Huff... huff. What else? Transfer student."
Lee Ho-seok, slumped and catching his breath heavily, replied.
"I know that much. But how's he so fresh?"
Inside North Myeong High, only ace pitcher Kim Ji-seok and third-year leadoff Kwon Wan matched Yoo Min-hoo's composure.
"And a total stranger. Where's he even from?"
"Transferred from the States, apparently."
"The US?"
Kang Jae-seong looked baffled, glanced at Yoo Min-hoo talking with the director, then at Kim Ji-seok.
"Whoa, America? Ji-seok might have to hand over the ace spot at this rate."
Lee Ho-seok shook his head after a moment's thought.
"Nah, doesn't seem likely."
"Huh?"
Kang Jae-seong blinked in confusion, but Lee Ho-seok just brushed it off and stood. The coaches clapped, signaling the players.
"Alright, time to set today's schedule. Rest's over—up you go."
"Lie around and you'll miss morning roll call. Everyone up."
The players rose. Pitchers headed to pitching coach Han Myeong-hwan; hitters to their hitting coaches. Yoo Min-hoo discussed his schedule with Director Park Sung-tae and Coach Han. A few pitchers, including Kim Ji-seok, eyed him warily.
Morning classes ended, lunch began. Yoo Min-hoo, who ate early and returned to class, found Park Soo-yeon waiting—the first to talk to him yesterday.
"You're on the baseball team, right?"
Her eyes sparkled with curiosity. Yoo Min-hoo nodded.
"Surprised me. Were you on one in America too?"
"Yeah."
As a scholarship player, no less—but he skipped that detail.
"Whoa."
Park Soo-yeon widened her eyes in admiration.
"You like baseball?"
She grinned at his question.
"Love it. My uncle's a pro player."
"For real?"
"Yep."
She nodded, scratched her head, then muttered softer.
"Well, he bounces between first and second team."
Dismissing non-starters was common. Being a pro was huge, but to civilians, it didn't wow. Park Soo-yeon had faced snark before for mentioning her uncle—not famous enough, second-team guy. After a few times, she grew cautious.
"Which team?"
She eyed him curiously. He didn't seem the type to judge.
"Busan Phoenix."
Yoo Min-hoo knew the Korean pro leagues dimly, but team names stuck.
"Position?"
"Pitcher."
"Same as me."
"No kidding?"
Park Soo-yeon chatted brightly. But something felt off in their talk.
"A pro player, huh? Impressive."
She stared, then spoke.
"Kinda weird."
"What is?"
"I'm pretty tight with the baseball guys. Lee Ho-seok and I go way back to elementary school."
She paused, chin in hand.
"Usually, when my uncle comes up, if he's not famous or sticks to second team, people brush it off."
"Hm."
"Not that the team guys do it outright. But they don't act like he's a big deal. Like... just another ballplayer? The cockier ones act like 'I'll be a first-team starter, so pros aren't that special.'"
"......"
Yoo Min-hoo listened quietly.
"But you called him impressive. That's why it's surprising."
He gave a wry smile. Her words hit hard: 'I'll be a first-team starter, so pros aren't that special.' Echoed his mindset exactly one year—or eleven years—ago.
Back then, I figured major leagues were a given.
Pre-injury Yoo Min-hoo feared nothing. Future secured. He even downplayed minor leaguers. But life mocked him: he became one, then got cut as hopeless. Only then did pro weight sink in.
"Stepping on the field as a pro is impressive in itself."
Yoo Min-hoo propped his chin, gazing out the window at the distant practice field.
"The team guys aren't bad. Limits don't show till you're pro. Especially if you're good."
"Yeah?"
"But once you're there, limits creep in. Pros carry them and endure on the field."
He murmured softly.
"How could that not be impressive?"
"......"
Park Soo-yeon gaped at him. First time anyone praised her uncle like that. Felt too sincere for lip service—drawn from real experience she couldn't know.
Yoo Min-hoo turned from the window, smiled gently at her. She flinched, stumbling over words.
"A-anyway, baseball team means train hard. I'll cheer next time."
She bolted up and fled. Yoo Min-hoo blinked curiously but shrugged it off. Outside, she rubbed her cheek—unaware it was flushed.