VS the Dragons

I climbed the mound and swept my gaze around the stadium in a full circle. Starting from the home-run seats, past third base, home plate, and all the way over toward first.

When I dropped my eyes a little from the first-base stands, I found a wrinkled face glaring at me with a deep scowl.

Right beside him, a middle-aged man was chattering away without pause.

Manager and head coach. I couldn't quite read the head coach's lips, but I didn't need to. I already knew exactly what that bastard was saying.

He's cursing me out to his heart's content, no doubt.

After a few warm-up pitches, the batter who stepped in was the seventh hitter, Noh Gwangmin. A classic slap-hitting shortstop.

Not that he was especially good at making contact either. A pure glove man? Not a chance.

His legs were decently quick, but... was he any good at stealing bases? Nope. Stealing needs speed, sure, but sense matters even more—and that guy was sorely lacking in that department.

So how did he lock down a starting job? Simple. That level of play was the best this team had to offer.

You might wonder how someone like that could be the best on a pro roster, but it hadn't always been this way.

Noh Gwangmin used to bounce between the bench and the second team.

The original starting shortstop was Kim Taegyeong—a guy who hit at least .280 every year and turned in average defense.

At twenty-eight, right in his prime, Kim Taegyeong was ruled out for the season with a knee injury just before Opening Day.

The media spun it as an unfortunate training accident, but no one had actually seen him get hurt.

Injured during personal workouts? I'd thought that once too. But then...

"The manager rode him for days saying his footwork was weak, and that's how it happened. His body was already cooked, but he forced himself to keep up and it blew out."

Hearing that from Taeseong hyung, I finally understood.

The moment I learned the truth, goosebumps crawled over my skin. In the end, the guy had wrecked a player over his own garbage theories.

Anyway, after that mess, Noh Gwangmin won the shortstop job through a brutal competition this year.

I knew exactly how to handle Noh Gwangmin. And Ko Mandeok seemed to be thinking the same thing.

Four-seamer.

Got it.

Pin him down so he can't even twitch.

With nothing but finger signs and a couple of head nods, Mandeok and I finished our conversation.

Crack!

The scoreboard lit up with 152. A 152 km/h four-seamer right down the middle.

Noh Gwangmin barely managed to get wood on it. Naturally, the ball that kissed the bat rolled harmlessly toward the first-base dugout.

His swing was slow to begin with, and the bat got completely pushed back.

Mandeok didn't put down another sign. I went into my windup anyway. We both already knew ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠what was coming. We had zero intention of throwing Noh Gwangmin anything but four-seamers.

"Stri~ke!"

A 152 km/h four-seamer painted just high and outside. This time he didn't even graze it.

The moment Noh Gwangmin stepped back in after taking the ball, I was already winding up again.

Thwack!

"Stri~ke! Out!"

I sent Noh Gwangmin packing without breaking a sweat and turned to face the next batter, Lee Giho.

Lee Giho... the Dragons' starting catcher. In other words, the guy who had worn the mask and caught my pitches more often than not back when I first came up.

As a player, he had some pop but lacked precision at the plate. As a catcher, he preferred textbook pitching leads.

As a person... I honestly didn't know. He was a man of few words, and the two of us barely spoke beyond what was strictly necessary.

Lee Giho stood in the box with that trademark blank expression, staring straight at me.

The sign from Mandeok was a slider.

The ball headed for the zone, then broke away outside. Lee Giho's reaction? Absolute nothing.

He just watched it go by like he'd never planned to swing from the start.

Second pitch: four-seamer inside for a strike. Count 1-1.

Again, zero reaction.

What the hell is he waiting for?

Third pitch: a changeup that just nicked the outside corner for another strike. 1-2.

Still the same frozen look.

Mandeok tossed the ball back and tilted his head at me, puzzled.

For the first time in a while, I shook off his sign. He'd called for a four-seamer, but I wanted to try something else. I was too curious about what Lee Giho was sitting on.

What if he connects? Well... just don't throw it where he can hit it.

So the fourth pitch was a splitter that dropped out of the zone.

Tick.

The ball caught the bottom of Lee Giho's bat and rolled softly out in front of me.

I flipped it lightly to first. Two outs.

He was waiting on the splitter? Why?

A guy with Lee Giho's power ignoring the four-seamer he could actually drive and hunting the splitter instead made zero sense to me.

I finished the bottom of the seventh by getting the ninth hitter on a grounder to short. Nine pitches total.

The top of the eighth started with Yoon Hojung's double.

A hit from one of our position players—finally. And a double at that.

Manager Park Donghoon sent in a pinch runner and chose to move him over to third. Kim Taeseong's sacrifice bunt rolled toward the pitcher, but Yoon Hojung's quick jump got him there safely. One out, runner on third.

Then came the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠pinch-hit call: twenty-two-year-old Na Seungwon. According to Seo Gyeongmin, the kid was born with a gift for putting the bat on the ball...

Unfortunately, putting the bat on the ball was all he did. He made contact, but the high infield pop-up was an easy catch for the shortstop. Two outs.

Next up, Ko Mandeok set down his practice bat, glanced my way once, flashed a big grin, and strolled toward the plate.

"...Why does that make me nervous?"

That smile of his left me with an uneasy feeling for no good reason.

"Mandeok's due for one."

Seo Gyeongmin laughed and told me not to worry.

He was due, all right. Hitting around .250 and still hitless today—yeah, it was about time he came through. Please just hit something.

In the eighth, the Dragons decided to go for it and brought in their setup man, Yoo Changgi.

This was one of those famous ERA-5.00 winning-setup guys, and one of the ones who'd ridden me the hardest back in the day.

I really wanted to watch him collapse... but somehow a runner on second with nobody out had turned into two outs and a man on third.

"Mandeok~ two-seamer, two-seamer. One's coming. Sit on it, yeah?"

Yoon Hyojung, who'd already done his job for the day, was crooning it like some little ditty when—

Crack!

"Wooooaaaahhh!!"

A clean, ringing crack of the bat, and a roar exploded from the visiting stands.

The runner on third had broken on contact and was now jogging home.

"Drop it! Don't catch it! Drop it! Yes—!"

The ball sailed over the center fielder's head, just eluding the glove, and hit the grass first.

Ko Mandeok's RBI double.

He turned toward the dugout and threw a couple of uppercuts in celebration.

"Hoo..."

I was just breathing a sigh of relief that the nail-biting one-run game was finally over at 2-0 when—

Crack!

Another unexpected crack of the bat rang out.

Ninth hitter Choi Mingi's single punched through the hole between first and second. Mandeok launched his heavy frame and slid in safely at home.

The lead stretched to three runs.

"See that? Hyung told you he'd come through, right?"

When? Was he talking about that creepy smile earlier? Whatever—I had to answer.

"Yeah. That was awesome."

I gave him whatever came out of my mouth.

"Aigoo, Hajin's always so stiff."

"Hajin really is like that."

"Sometimes he feels more like the older brother than I do."

"This kid needs to stop with the 'senior this, senior that' first."

Why was everyone suddenly on me? Did they not notice our half wasn't over yet?

"Out!"

The third out went up almost the second I thought it.

Bottom of the eighth.

The Dragons' half started from the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠top of the order. And every single one of the guys coming up now was someone I'd ground my teeth over for a long, long time.

This was the lineup I'd been waiting for.

First up: Kim Gyuyeol. Fast, made a lot of contact—textbook leadoff hitter. And a guy who lived for booze.

I'd started getting pushed out among the Dragons players after the new manager arrived. Before that, I'd gotten the usual senior treatment and given the usual junior treatment in return. We'd gotten by just fine.

But this bastard was different. Right after my first call-up appearance, still buzzing with excitement, he'd invited me out for drinks. I politely declined—and got a face full of curses.

Said I'd disrespected him or something?

From that day on, he was constantly looking for any excuse to tear into me.

Should I just drill him...

Watching Kim Gyuyeol step in and start his little bat-twirling routine, I had to seriously debate whether to plunk him or not.

If I hit him in the head it's an ejection, so no... but the ass or the thigh might be fine...

Mandeok seemed to catch on to my thoughts. Was it that obvious?

He made a calming gesture with both hands, trying to settle me down.

I'm not even that worked up...

Once Kim Gyuyeol finished his routine, Mandeok put down a curve. I shook my head hard.

Next sign was a splitter. Nope.

Mandeok let out a sigh and finally called for a four-seamer. Took him long enough.

Seeing my partner work that hard to talk me down, I figured drilling him was probably off the table. But that didn't mean I was just going to let it slide either.

Thwack!

"Ack!"

A high pitch inside made Kim Gyuyeol leap backward in pure panic. It had been a little too far inside and a touch high—right at his face—but it wasn't low enough to be a real problem.

"Whooooaaa..."

Even the home crowd seemed pretty startled. I caught a few curses mixed in, but I couldn't have cared less.

"You son of a bitch!"

Kim Gyuyeol scrambled up, pointed his bat at me, and started screaming his head off.

Mandeok stepped in front of him, blocking any chance of things escalating.

You don't even need to stop him. Tch.

I showed the home-plate umpire my open hand, claiming the ball had slipped.

The ump pointed a finger at me in warning and that was that.

When the ump says stop, what's he gonna do? Kim Gyuyeol stomped back into the box, still seething.

"Stri~ke!"

A changeup low and away. Kim Gyuyeol's bat sliced cleanly through empty air.

"Stri~ke!"

This time a splitter diving straight into the dirt. Once again his bat flailed at nothing but sky.

Then a pitch that floated high into the air before drifting slowly, lazily down into the strike zone. Ever heard of an eephus?

"Stri~ke! Out!"

A 73 km/h Arirang ball. Kim Gyuyeol just stood there staring blankly as it dropped right down the middle for the strikeout.

Only then did his brain seem to reboot.

He glared at me for a long time before the umpire finally barked at him and he trudged back to the dugout.

I'd half expected him to charge the mound...

Maybe I should've just hit him after all.

He went back too quietly. Kind of a shame.