2029 Korean Series Game 1
"Whoa... this isn't easy."
Bisner's fastball barely clipped the low inside corner and drew a strike call. Our team had a real problem on its hands. It was still early, but Bisner's stuff today was anything but ordinary. After watching the Hawks rough him up just a few days ago, I'd been quietly hoping for more of the same. No such luck.
"Foul."
I swung confidently at another pitch diving in on my hands, only to foul it off. At least the late-breaking cutter that produced the foul let me see one more pitch. I laid off a curve that dropped out of the zone for ball one at two strikes. Then came the fourth pitch.
Tink.
"Out."
I managed to get the bat on another cutter, but the ball rolled harmlessly toward the third baseman. I took a couple of half-hearted steps toward first before hustling back to the dugout to get ready for the mound.
"You pitch like that and you still think you're going to America?"
I hadn't been thinking about anything in particular when Ko Mandeok decided to start needling me out of nowhere.
"Hey, are you trying to kill your starting pitcher's confidence? You want us to blow this game?"
"As if~"
"If we lose today I'm telling every reporter it was your fault. That you wrecked my confidence so bad I couldn't throw a decent pitch."
He yanked his mask on and jogged out to the plate without another word. The guy was always full of nonsense, but he usually dialed it back once I was on the mound. Today felt different somehow.
Is he trying to loosen me up so I don't get tight?
If that was the plan, it was completely unnecessary. I wasn't nervous—I was buzzing. I'd pitched in the Korean Series last year, sure, but starting Game 1 was a whole different animal. I'd prepared perfectly, and my confidence was sky-high. I felt like nothing they threw up there could touch me. That was the only reason I was quietly going along with Mandeok's ridiculous pitch-calling today.
Two full innings of nothing but four-seam fastballs...
The silver lining was that the madness seemed to stop there. It wasn't just hits I was flirting with—I'd nearly given up a home run. Thank God Na Seung-won tracked it down and hauled it in at the wall.
In the top of the third, the first-pitch sign called for a splitter—the first non-four-seam of the night after nineteen pitches. Lee Jun, who never usually got greedy, had clearly decided this at-bat was the time to sell out after watching two straight innings of pure heat. The way he swung hard enough to nearly lose his helmet said everything. Even a guy like Lee Jun was going to miss if he took a cut like that.
"Strike!"
The splitter ducked under his bat and Lee Jun stepped out of the box. He glanced toward the dugout, took a sign, then stepped back in with a choked-up grip.
"Strike!"
Seeing the shortened bat, Mandeok called for a four-seamer away. The pitch ran even farther off the end of the bat than expected. For the finisher, a changeup that broke hard in on the hands and dropped. Some experts claimed the changeup was the most devastating pitch in my entire arsenal—the kind of pitch you simply couldn't hit unless you were sitting on it. True to that reputation, it floated past Lee Jun's bat and settled into Mandeok's mitt.
Both pitchers are putting on an absolute clinic out there. Through five and a half, the scoreboard shows a single lonely one.
Combined, the two arms have thrown five innings of one-hit, no-walk, shutout ball... and we're seeing this in Game 1 of the Korean Series.
Outside of that one hit by Go Young-soo, nobody has even touched first base.
Ironically, the only hit of the night belonged to Go Young-soo—the guy who had just transferred from the Raiders to our club. In the bottom of the fourth he reached out and flicked a cutter running away from him, looping it cleanly over the third baseman's head for a clean single. It looked like a chance might be brewing, but no productive out followed and the inning died right there.
Bottom of the sixth. Choi Min-gi stepped in to lead off our half. His season average sat at .240. He'd clung to the .250 line by his fingernails for most of the year before finally slipping under it in the final stretch. Some people called him the only real hole in our lineup. Na Seung-won posted a nearly identical average, but the occasional moonshot he dropped kept him ranked a hair higher in most eyes.
That didn't mean we had written Choi Min-gi off in a game like this.
Nobody on this team lays down a bunt better than him.
Before Go Young-soo arrived, Choi had spent years in the two-hole executing countless bunts, and he'd converted almost every single one. No matter what pitch came, he could kill the bat speed and roll it down the line better than anyone on our roster—or most other rosters, for that matter. And it wasn't just sacrifice bunts either.
Tink.
Oh! Choi Min-gi with the squeeze! Third baseman Lee Jun charges, but the ball is dying! He waits... will it stay fair...? It stops right in front of the line! Choi reaches safely!
That was an absolutely perfect squeeze bunt—location and pace both flawless. Pitcher, catcher, third baseman—none of them had a play.
After the dugout finished going crazy for Choi standing on first, Na Seung-won stepped in with the bat already laid flat across the plate. Manager Park wanted the runner in scoring position. Bisner saw it and simply gave him the free bunt.
"Out."
One down, runner on second. With Choi's speed, even a short single would bring him home—our first real chance of the night. And at the plate stood Jo Chang-jun, a guy who made a living putting the barrel on the ball. He'd made outs in both previous at-bats, but the second one had been a well-struck ball. The crowd remembered, and every last one of them rose to their feet, willing him to finally break the zero on the board.
Count: one ball, one strike.
Crack!
"WAAAAAAAH!!"
Jo Chang-jun yanked one that cleared the third baseman and dropped near the line. The third-base umpire's arms shot up the instant the ball landed.
"Foul."
The roar of the crowd collapsed into a collective groan at that single gesture. Manager Park bolted from the dugout to challenge, but the call stood. And after a moment like that, the next pitch usually ends the same way.
"Strike! Out!"
Two down, runner still on second. Go Young-soo—the man with the night's only hit—stepped back into the box.
"Please just get one..."
The desperate voice belonged to our captain. Even a rock like him was reduced to raw pleading by the Korean Series.
And the captain's prayer was answered.
Crack!
"WOOOOOAAAAAH!!!"
"Go Young-soo! Go Young-soo! Go Young-soo!"
Go Young-soo ripped a double into the left-center gap. Score: 1-0. Two hours into Game 1 of the Korean Series, our team finally seized the lead.
We're into the top of the eighth now, Raiders batting. Cleanup hitter Jo In-beom steps in.
Look at Kang Hajin's face—completely relaxed. My palms are sweating just watching, and he has to know exactly what his line looks like right now.
Zero. Every single number next to the Raiders' name was a zero. That's right—I was seven innings deep into a perfect game. But here's the thing: I didn't particularly want a perfect game. Sure, it would be nice. It was the process that bothered me.
Mandeok behind the plate in the catcher's mask, the captain over at first, Jo Chang-jun at second, Park Jeonghun at third, Choi Min-gi in between them—every last one of them was wound tight. Even the three outfielders way out there, faces too far to read, had to be the same. Since I'd joined the Savers, our defense had never been a real strength—until this year. Park Jeonghun taking over third base completely transformed us into the team with the fewest errors in the league. A full season of that had finally given us real defensive confidence. And yet they were still this tense.
I'd almost rather give up a hit just so everyone can breathe.
Cleanup man Jo In-beom crowded the plate. Mandeok's answer was a fastball in on the hands—he wanted to back him off. I threw the first pitch.
"Huh?"
The feel off my index finger was just a fraction off. Sure enough, the ball ran a little deeper than I'd intended. Honestly, it still wasn't a pitch a hitter should get hit by—the kind of ball you could stand still and never get touched by. But Jo In-beom spun his body and casually slipped his leg inward, as if he were just trying to get out of the way and it happened on its own. The ball grazed the very edge of his thigh. The home-plate umpire immediately pointed to first.
And there's the hit-by-pitch! Kang Hajin's perfect game is broken in the top of the eighth.
That inside pitch ran a little deep, and Jo In-beom made no real attempt to avoid it.
Mandeok shot up and started arguing with the umpire immediately—claiming the hitter had stuck his leg out. The call wasn't getting overturned and Mandeok knew it. He was just frustrated. Pure frustration.
Savers pitching coach Choi Sang-yun is heading to the mound.
Mandeok followed him out.
"I'm fine, really."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. Honestly, this is better. Everyone was wound so tight."
"Ha. All right then. You can keep going?"
"Obviously."
The pitching coach barely said two words before leaving the mound. Then Mandeok:
"That son of a bitch... I never thought he'd stick his leg out on a hundred-fifty-nine-kilometer heater."
"Whatever. It's fine."
"Damn... I was already picking out which watch I was gonna get for the car."
"......"
So that was his angle.
First baserunner for the Raiders. Nobody out, runner on first, Gwak In-heon steps in.
This is a classic sacrifice situation, but the hitter is Gwak In-heon. Looking at the way they're playing it, no bunt seems to be on.
Pitcher delivers the first pitch—oh! Bunt! First-pitch bunt rolls right back to the mound! Pitcher fields it, to second! To first! Double play! The Raiders' chance evaporates just like that!
Tough break. Manager Oh Jeong-geun caught them off-guard by having Gwak In-heon bunt, but the location was just too poor.
I was stunned. I never expected a bunt—especially not from Gwak In-heon. Luckily the ball rolled hard right back at me. I scooped it up just in front of the mound, spun, and fired to second. Choi Min-gi was waiting and whipped it to first for the twin killing. Two outs. The stands erupted while the Raiders' dugout went completely silent.
Crack!
It's in the air—high fly ball. Seo Gyeongmin drifts back... and makes the catch. The Savers take Game 1 of the Korean Series, 1-0, and jump out to an early series lead. Kang Hajin finishes with a one-hit-by-pitch no-hitter shutout! Another record for the books.