The Mop-Up Pitcher

August 16, 2027. Roughly a month after the All-Star Game.

"Ah! It's going! Three-run hooome run! Bottom of the fourth. The score sits at 7-0 as the KY Jaguars pull far ahead against the ST Dragons."

"Starter Jung Hwan-yong has had nothing for the Jaguars' hitters. From the first inning on he's been pitching around them. You simply can't expect good results that way."

"Exactly. The Dragons' pitching coach is heading to the mound. That's it for Jung Hwan-yong. The next pitcher will be—ah! Kang Hajin is coming out of the bullpen."

"…Kang Hajin. He came in yesterday too and threw two innings. Thirty-five pitches. He did give up a solo homer, but he shut them down for six outs."

"Kang Hajin this season: no decisions, two holds, ERA 3.09."

"This kid throws a really good ball. Right-hander, average velocity only around 141 km/h, but his command is his strength. On top of that he throws a big-breaking slider and a changeup at a high level."

The moment Kang Hajin appeared, the pro baseball community boards caught fire.

While the boards burned, Kang Hajin methodically retired hitters.

"Swing and a miss—strike three! Kang Hajin comes in again today, racks up two strikeouts, and shuts them down clean for two innings."

"Really good pitcher. He paints the corners with the fastball and the off-speed stuff and freezes the hitters completely."

"Yes. That should be it for Kang Hajin today, right?"

"Thirty-five pitches yesterday, thirty-one today. Coming in mid-game and throwing that many, I expect a change."

But the Dragons' manager sent Kang Hajin back out for the next inning.

And the first batter.

"Jaguars' number six, Go Jae-yeol. First pitch—it's deep! Deep! Back! It's goooone! Solo home run by Go Jae-yeol! Jaguars stretch the lead to 8-0!"

"Ah. Finally the pitching coach is coming out. He's taking the ball. That's it for Kang Hajin."

Kang Hajin walked off the mound. Everyone assumed a guy who'd just given up a solo shot would be in a foul mood. The truth was different.

So I only get pulled after I get hit, huh. Next time maybe I'll throw clean for about twenty-five and then serve one up.

Coming down from the mound, Kang Hajin—well, I—was busy fighting the smile that kept trying to climb the corners of my mouth.

I started playing baseball in elementary school. My dad, a total baseball nut, played catch with his little kid one day and then bellowed,

"My son's a baseball genius!"

The very next day he transferred me to a school with a baseball team, and just like that my life as a ballplayer began.

Truth was, I didn't care much about baseball.

Dad told me to do it and he loved it, so I did it. Once I started, people kept patting me on the back and saying I was good, and that felt nice enough to keep going.

The first real problem showed up in middle school.

When I moved up, my position was hitter. I ran wherever they told me—infield, outfield, didn't matter.

Then one day I overheard the manager say something terrifying.

He was talking with a coach about using me as the permanent shortstop.

I'm screwed. Shortstop is brutal. You have to run all over the place the whole game.

The positions I actually wanted were first base or left field—somewhere you didn't have to move quite so much.

I had zero desire to run a lot while playing baseball. Hot days, baking under the sun, scurrying around on my feet—I hated it.

Yeah. I was starting to find baseball annoying.

I fretted and fretted over what to do, but no good answer appeared.

I couldn't exactly walk up to the manager as a first-year middle-schooler and say I didn't want to do it.

Quitting baseball crossed my mind, but then ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠I'd have to study, and that was off the table. Even as a middle-schooler I could tell I had absolutely zero talent for books.

Forcing myself through studying would be worse than running a little more on the field.

So I put on an unwanted show of diligence, became the starting shortstop, and time passed until I was just entering my third year.

Early in the season we had a practice game against another school. That day our pitchers threw like they'd all been drinking—walk after walk after walk.

Change. Change. They ran every third-year and second-year out there, but the game was already a disaster.

The manager was wondering whether to even try a first-year when the coach beside him tossed out something random.

"Putting first-years out there won't help. They won't even throw strikes."

"Then what? Leave the guy who thinks home plate is the catcher's mitt out there forever?"

"Uh… put Hajin on the mound."

"…What? Hajin?"

"Hajin's got a good arm. Better to stick him out there and just plug the leak than throw first-years out and wreck their confidence…"

The coach didn't actually expect the manager to listen. He was just frustrated enough to float the idea on a whim—

"Pitching change. Shortstop Kang Hajin to the mound."

The manager waved me in. I stood there staring at the sky for a second, then climbed the mound without even knowing what was happening.

He handed me the ball.

"Throw."

"Huh?"

"You're the pitcher. Just aim for the middle and throw."

"……Are you serious?"

"Hurry up and throw a few. I'll watch a couple and then head in."

The middle-school baseball manager waved his hand like the whole thing was a nuisance.

I figured I had no choice. I took the ball and fired it toward the catcher's mitt held out in front of his chest—just pure, mindless heat.

Thwack!

"!!!!!!"

The catcher sat there holding the ball, completely blank.

"What the hell is that kid doing?"

I stuck my glove out for the ball from the suddenly catatonic catcher; only then did he toss it back.

"You… been practicing pitching?"

"No. First time. Oh—wait, I threw a few times back in elementary school. Back then it was just…"

"…Then why didn't you pitch?"

"Nobody ever asked me to."

"Crazy… Throw again."

Thwack!

Thwack!

Thwack!

The manager left and the game resumed.

That day I threw nothing but fastballs. I gave up a few hits, but I finished the game without any more runs scoring.

And just like that, my position changed to pitcher.

Once I reached high school I settled in fully as a pitcher.

I realized right away that pitching was my perfect fit.

Best part of all: you barely had to run.

Stand on the mound and just throw the ball—that was heaven for someone who hated moving around.

Catchers barely run either… but I'd known for a long time that catching was not a job for human beings.

Even better was our high-school manager.

Unlike the other schools that ground their aces' arms into dust for championships, our manager strictly protected pitch counts and ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠shoulders.

We never won a title, but I never cared about that stuff anyway.

As a third-year I started the big games as the school ace, put up solid numbers, and used that as a springboard into the pro draft.

I reached the first team in my second pro year. Nothing flashy, but I carved out a solid role as a middle reliever.

The problem hit in year three. The manager who'd treated me pretty well was replaced by the current one, and a whole different world opened up.

First trouble came during spring training. The manager made every pitcher throw like a maniac. I was a little rattled, but I did what I was told.

The ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠real issue was that even after regular practice ended, he kept a few of us back to throw more.

Especially me—because of my velocity. From day one I had to throw until my arm felt like it would fall off.

Naturally my shoulder throbbed and my irritation climbed without limit.

Next day. Day after that. Training that never stopped.

My shoulder only got worse as time went on. I told the manager and coaches over and over; they ignored every word.

Finally I snapped. When the manager tried to keep me after practice yet again, I executed the grand decision of desertion.

Result: the very next day I was shipped back to Korea and had to start the season in the Second Team.

Around midseason of year three the team was bouncing between last place and second-to-last.

The rotation was a mess, but the bullpen was worse.

The one middle reliever who'd been earning his keep got run into the ground every day until he went down with an injury, so they called me up.

The role they handed me was "chase group."

In name only. The games I entered were already gone, written off—but still early enough that they didn't want to burn anyone else. Pure mop-up duty.

My numbers were solid. I did my job quietly and waited, but the role never changed. At some point I just stopped wanting to throw. Who the hell wants to come into a game that's already lost and empty the tank?

Part of me wanted to quit cold… but then I'd be unemployed, so I couldn't just refuse to pitch.

So I reached a conclusion: throw for real only up to thirty pitches.

Up to thirty I'd pitch with my actual stuff. Past thirty I'd start serving them up.

Command was the one thing I trusted, so all I had to do was put the ball in a nice hittable spot.

My ERA ballooned, but I didn't care. After I did it a few times, everyone reached the exact conclusion I'd wanted.

Kang Hajin throws well up to thirty pitches. After that he turns into a batting-practice machine.

A mop-up guy giving up a few extra runs shouldn't have been a big deal, but from the manager's seat it apparently was. After that he started matching my pitch counts to thirty.

Once I went past it I got hit like clockwork, so even ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠he had no choice.

And that was how my baseball life continued. Now I was in my fourth year as a pro.