2029 Korean Series: Game 5
It was the off day before Game 5.
We'd wrapped up a light workout and were hanging around the locker room, talking about this and that.
"So is this their big gamble?"
"Gamble?"
"If they were going by the book, it should be Sanchez's turn. Four days of rest, plenty of gas left in the tank. But they went with someone else."
"Jang Hak-woo's numbers at Jamsil aren't bad, though."
Ko Mandeok grinned at that and started wagging his index finger at me.
"I oughta snap that finger right off—"
Ah. Slip of the tongue. For a second I almost said something I only ever said to Ho-min.
"Sure, Hak-woo can pitch well enough. But in a game this big, is he really more trustworthy than Sanchez? There's got to be another reason."
"Which is?"
"You."
"Huh?"
"Even if Sanchez throws a gem, there's no guarantee they win. Just look at Visner in Game 1."
Well… he wasn't wrong, but hearing it out loud was a little embarrassing. Praising me right to my face like that — and not even just the two of us. The younger guys were sitting right there.
Most of them seemed to catch on to what Mandeok was getting at. Only our Hyeon-bin still looked completely lost.
"They're writing off Game 5. The odds are low, so they're cutting their losses clean and planning to flip it in Games 6 and 7."
"Ahh—"
"Even if they drop Game 5, if they go all-out and win Game 6 with Sanchez on the mound… then for Game 7 they can throw Kwon Jong-jin and Visner. That's a fight they think they can win."
"Whoa."
Hyeon-bin stared at Mandeok like he'd just witnessed a miracle. I wasn't sure the conversation really warranted that level of awe, but they both looked happy enough, so I let it go.
Honestly, I didn't fully agree with Mandeok. The broad strokes, sure — but I wasn't about to drag the conversation out just to pick nits. I also just wanted to get home.
Ho-min wasn't around today. Would it be fair to say he'd read the room and made himself scarce?
"Honey~"
When I got home after practice, Han Song-yi was waiting for me. That was it, then. Ho-min had known she was coming over and cleared out ahead of time.
Look at him growing up. He'd finally developed a sense of tact.
"You worked hard. Go wash up and let's eat. We've got a lot to do."
"…"
Was it just me, or had she been unusually proactive lately?
"…Did you not sleep?"
"Ah… you."
"You're starting today. Why do you look like that?"
"…I'm in incredible shape today."
"You sure? Looks more like you've completely lost it."
Mandeok tilted his head, studying my face. I really was in great condition. My face might have looked a little hollowed out, but my body felt peak.
"Sunbae-nim. Ready to head out?"
Jeong Jong-seong came over while Mandeok and I were still bickering.
"Yeah, let's go."
Jong-seong had come to catch my warm-up pitches before the game. He was the one wearing the mask today.
The top of the first opened under a roar of cheers. Jong-seong called for heat right from the start, same as always.
Four-seam. Two-seam. Four-seam. Slider.
Not a single pitch wasted — pure head-on confrontation. I needed only eight pitches to retire the side. No strikeouts, just three infield grounders. Low pitch count, quick inning, nobody on base. In other words: perfect.
Bottom of the first. Jo Chang-jun and Go Yeong-su both squared up balls that carried deep, only to die at the warning track. Park Jeonghun punched a single through the right side of the infield, but the captain's ball was snagged deep in the outfield to end the frame.
"Weird how well we're hitting them and nothing's going out."
The top of the second wasn't much different. No backing down, straight challenge. I mixed in a few different pitches to just miss the barrel and induced grounders and fly balls. Another three-up, three-down.
In the bottom of the second, Shane went out on the first pitch, and then it was my turn at the plate.
Jang Hak-woo, the sidearmer — how to put it. Ordinary, if you were being blunt. Solidly average, if you were being kind. He gave you exactly what you expected: a starter who could reliably chew through five innings without drama. Every now and then, though, he'd catch fire — and on those days, his changeup was always filthy.
So was today one of those days?
"…Nah. Just okay."
It wasn't. More like plain bad luck on our end. Our hitters kept squaring balls up only to watch them die at the wall. Frustrating, nothing more. Today was ordinary Jang Hak-woo — no more, no less.
"Ball."
A 141-kilometer fastball ran away outside.
"Ball."
A timid changeup broke and leaked outside again.
"Ball."
A curve with decent depth, but still running for the hills. He had no intention of giving me anything to hit.
I'd seen this plenty during the regular season, so it barely registered anymore. Early on it used to drive me crazy enough that I'd swing at balls, but these days…
"Ball."
Another fastball rode high for a four-pitch walk. I trotted down to first without so much as a check swing.
One out, runner on first. And that first-base runner happened to have decent wheels — something most people never noticed. Why? Because he was a pitcher.
I hadn't attempted a single stolen base all season. Between pitching and hitting I was already dead on my feet — who had energy left for baserunning heroics? Just playing the bases cleanly was enough.
But this was the Korean Series. Game 5, series knotted at two apiece. And the pitcher was a sidearmer with a slow pickoff move. Too good to pass up.
Then the third-base coach started flashing signs. A whole flurry of meaningless decoys, and then the real one.
"Heh heh heh."
Our manager really was a ghost when it came to moments like this.
Jeong Jong-seong at the plate. One out, runner on first, Jang Hak-woo delivers the first pitch — and there goes Kang Hajin! The catcher can't even throw! Kang Hajin steals second, perfectly timed!
Hak-woo never even looked over. Probably figured since Hajin's a pitcher with zero steals this season, he didn't have to worry about it — but that's fundamental baseball. You can't do that.
A little irritated, maybe? He threw over to second twice in a row — something he hadn't bothered with when I was at first. Casual pickoff throws, nothing more.
Jong-seong, who'd taken that first-pitch strike without a swing, settled back into his stance.
"Ball."
"Ball."
Two balls in a row, and the third-base coach got busy again.
"Wait… seriously?"
After two straight fastballs, the dugout put on a sign born of pure conviction: Jang Hak-woo would never throw three heaters in a row.
Two balls, one strike, the fourth pitch — and there he goes again! Third base!! The catcher can't throw this time either. Kang Hajin is tearing up the Raiders' infield with his legs!
He stole the timing again. Watch — the moment the free foot comes up, he's gone. And it was a changeup. By the time the catcher secured it, Hajin was practically standing on third.
Kang Hajin has walked and then stolen his way all the way to third. Jang Hak-woo delivers—
Crack!
Three balls, one strike — Jeong Jong-seong cleanly drives the pitch that came in looking for a strike. The Savers take the lead!
"Ugh, that hurts…"
The second I stepped into the dugout I got hammered on the head and backside so many times I could barely sit down. Did these guys have any sense at all? Even with a helmet on, the back of my skull was ringing. Were they trying to beat their own starter into an early exit? The sheer mindless violence of it.
At least Jong-seong had driven me in with a hit. If it'd been a grounder or a fly ball, I wouldn't have gotten any rest at all — I'd have been right back out there preparing.
As if to give me a little more breathing room, Choi Min-gi went down swinging, but not before grinding out an eight-pitch battle. Fully back now.
"Alright, time to start getting ready—"
CRACK!
"Oh! Oh! Ohhhh!!! Seung-won!!!"
Na Seung-won's bat came around like a thunderbolt, and the ball he'd absolutely crushed disappeared into the distance. A home run so massive you didn't even need to glance at the wall.
The moment I saw it, I knew. The game was over.
Last year, our team had won the Korean Series too — and we'd crushed the Raiders in dominant fashion. Maybe that was why, heading into the final game last season, I'd felt oddly detached. Nobody had doubted we'd win, and that made it easier to stay calm.
This year, though, the atmosphere was different. We were ahead — one win away — but if we let today's game slip, nobody could say what would happen next.
Was that why the dugout felt so subdued? The crowd had been screaming themselves hoarse since before first pitch, but our own dugout was thick with tension.
Jeong Jong-seong, scheduled to start behind the plate, worried me the most. He looked like he'd eaten something that didn't agree with him — not a drop of color in his face.
"You okay?"
Mandeok finally asked, and the awkward smile he got back… yeah.
The one bright spot was our starter, Barnett — completely unfazed, wandering around chatting up anyone within earshot, same as always. Almost nobody understood him, and he didn't have an interpreter, but that didn't slow him down.
Eventually he made his way over to me. At least I could hold a conversation, however haltingly. I'd been studying hard, after all.
"Hey! Jin! Why aren't you starting again today? Coming off the bench?"
This guy had started out mangling my last name — "Kang," "Kang" — until he decided it was too easy to mix me up with other players, and at some point just started calling me "Jin." I'd tried to teach him "Kang" and "Jin" properly, but it never stuck, so I gave up. Though sometimes I suspected he was doing it on purpose…
"Dunno. If they need me, I'll go in."
"As a pitcher too?"
"If they need me?"
"Ohhh, nice. So if I just lock down six perfect innings, we're good?"
That would be ideal, yes.
"OK. I take six. Jin takes the seventh and eighth. And 'Kang' closes the ninth — then we win the whole thing."
…Huh?
Why was one of them Kang and the other Jin?