A Prodigy's Homecoming
Only after some time had passed and the surroundings had settled down did Lee Yoon-ji finally speak up.
"Min-hoo oppa, you're so kind."
"Hm? What do you mean?"
"You handled all those autograph requests so nicely."
Yoo Min-hoo had signed for roughly thirty people. Taking the time to sign for that many one by one was no small feat—it ate up a considerable amount of time. In fact, the game had already started by then.
Yoo Min-hoo chuckled at her words.
"I'm used to it by now, and fan service is just basic."
In Major League Baseball, there were plenty of opportunities for autographs before and after games as part of fan service. Fans were essential to the existence of pro sports. Beyond that, players often got requests even on the street. Major leaguers earned their massive salaries because the league held such high value—and it was the sheer number of fans that drove that value. Players existed for the fans. MLB was a place where that fundamental truth was firmly ingrained.
Even a whisper of bad rumors among fans could tank uniform and merchandise sales, so teams actively encouraged players to connect with supporters.
"Korean baseball players give out a lot of autographs too, don't they?"
"Sure, but I haven't seen many do it as kindly as you, Min-hoo oppa."
Lee Ho-seok was polite with autograph requests too, but he didn't handle a crowd all at once like Yoo Min-hoo just had. Among the players Lee Yoon-ji had met, some even openly treated fans as a nuisance.
Of course, MLB players weren't universally gracious either. Fan service ultimately tied to a player's character, so it varied from person to person.
"I'm just grateful for the fans. It feels good knowing they're cheering for me."
Before his regression, Yoo Min-hoo had been a third-rate pitcher no one expected much from. Naturally, he had few fans who remembered or rooted for him. It was a harsh reality, but unavoidable.
The first time he truly felt the weight of fans' presence was during his no-hitter no-run game with the Nashville Ports this season. The 15,000 packed into the stands had all been cheering solely for him. That alone made him feel like he'd gained something immense. Honestly, it even proved he was a person of value.
Lee Yoon-ji fell silent at his words, gazing at Yoo Min-hoo as he watched the field. Their eyes met.
"What?"
"Oh, nothing. Just..."
She glanced toward the stadium, murmuring softly.
"I bet Oakland fans love you, Min-hoo oppa."
"Who knows. To get there, I need solid results first."
'Doesn't seem related at all.'
Lee Yoon-ji grumbled inwardly but kept it to herself.
Game 5 of the Korea Series was a total domination by the Incheon Warriors. Busan Phoenix batters couldn't touch starter Kevin Walton. His season max was seven innings; his average was six. On a day like this, with good command, he could go eight or even nine—but at 36 years old, that wasn't easy. He'd spent his career as a bullpen arm, so digesting heavy innings felt foreign. Even in long relief, he never matched a starter's workload. Six innings was his limit.
That said, consistently delivering quality through six was a huge boon for the team. The issue? That limit held even in high-stakes playoffs like the Korea Series. The third inning was playable no matter the score gap. But Incheon's edge wasn't just pitching.
In the second, cleanup hitter Park Chang-sik and fifth batter Lee Ho-seok crushed back-to-back homers, seizing momentum. By the seventh, it was 5-0. As Kevin Walton left the mound, the vibe had fully swung to Incheon.
No further drama followed. Incheon held the five-run lead to close out Game 5. With Games 6 and 7 shifting to Sajik Stadium, Yoo Min-hoo naturally headed to Busan.
November 2nd, North Myeong High baseball team.
Despite the chill of late fall, the players sweated through basic training.
In 2016, scandals had tarnished North Myeong High's powerhouse reputation. The chairman had recruited former MLB player Park Sung-tae as director to reclaim that glory. Two years on, they'd succeeded—top finishes in nationals, internal corruption rooted out.
This year, Park Sung-tae still led.
On the artificial turf, personally knocking fungoes, he spotted someone entering the field and tilted his head. Too far to make out the face, but clearly no school staff.
Outsiders weren't allowed on the field casually. Even reporters coordinated ahead.
Park Sung-tae frowned at the intruder. Outfielders paused training, staring curiously.
The man scanned the area, then strode straight toward Park Sung-tae. The director readied a scolding but froze, dropping the bat to peer at the tall young man approaching. A grin broke as he walked to meet him.
The coaches, initially annoyed, lit up with recognition too.
"Well, if it isn't major leaguer Yoo Min-hoo!"
Park Sung-tae greeted him warmly, hands on hips. Yoo Min-hoo bowed with a smile.
"How have you been, Director?"
"Can't complain."
He clapped Yoo Min-hoo's shoulder. Coaches gathered, halting drills.
The sudden celeb sighting buzzed among the North Myeong players—no one there didn't know Yoo Min-hoo, their star alumnus from two years prior.
Training resumed, though players eyed him longingly, hoping for chats. But Yoo Min-hoo headed straight to the office with Park Sung-tae, leaving some disappointed. A few even fantasized about joint sessions.
"Nothing's changed here."
Seated as guest, Yoo Min-hoo glanced around. Park Sung-tae chuckled.
"It's only been two years—what's to change?"
He fetched sodas from the mini-fridge, handing one over before sitting opposite.
"Ho-seok's doing great, but you're on another level. Majors in your second year? Impressive."
Having played both leagues, Park Sung-tae knew exactly how rare that was for a high school rookie.
Yoo Min-hoo grinned wryly.
"Kim Yong-soo might join next year."
"That monster? Yeah."
Park Sung-tae tsked knowingly. Kim Yong-soo had been roster-bound for September call-ups but suffered a minor wrist sprain late August, delaying his debut. Tampa Bay saw no need to rush their top hitting prospect. Next season it was.
"Heard he threw a fit?"
"With you debuting in the majors same year? Bet he ground his teeth."
Kim Yong-soo's fire made Yoo Min-hoo a natural rival.
"So, what's brought you back to Korea?"
"Ho-seok invited me to watch the Korea Series."
Park Sung-tae nodded, then smiled slyly.
"Perfect timing. Since you're here, help train the kids. Give some advice if you can."
"Advice from a second-year pro? Won't amount to much. You and the coaches have it covered."
"Maybe, but you're an active major leaguer with the glamour. Hits harder coming from you."
He had a point. To high schoolers, coaches were guides, not idols. Pros were the dream. As a school senior in MLB, Yoo Min-hoo commanded unique awe. Sometimes, a word from an admired figure outweighed any coach's lecture.
"Oh yeah—I've been meaning to reach out personally."
Park Sung-tae straightened, tone turning serious.
"Min-hoo."
"Yes?"
"Any interest in the national team?"
