The First Game
It was just shy of five in the morning, the world still wrapped in total darkness.
In that dead quiet hour, every light in Ko Mandeok's house blazed bright.
"Ugh… I'm so damn tired… I feel like I'm dying."
Ko Mandeok, face puffy as if he'd just rolled out of bed, groaned like a man on his deathbed. Jeong Jong-seong watched him with a wry smile and held out a cup of coffee he'd prepared ahead of time.
"That's why I keep telling you to go to bed early."
"What am I supposed to do if I can't sleep? But seriously, are we gonna be okay like this?"
"Okay about what?"
"We've got a game today too, you know. The team only has two catchers, and both of us are sitting here like this."
"We'll sleep after the game."
"Yeah, I guess… Wait, did none of you sleep? Why do you all look so damn chipper?"
Only then did Ko Mandeok notice Hyeon-bin and Hwang Chan-young behind Jeong Jong-seong, laying out food and drinks.
"We're still young."
"…… Son of a bitch."
The table piled high with snacks and food.
"Looks like it's about to start."
"He'll do fine, right?"
"Who are you worrying about?"
"Yeah… fair point."
Ko Mandeok, Jeong Jong-seong, Hwang Chan-young, and Hyeon-bin all sat in a row, eyes locked on the TV. And then the screen filled with a familiar face standing on the mound.
"It's Kang Hajin. Kang Hajin has taken the mound."
"What an incredible player. The moment he posted to the Boston Red Sox, he locked down the number-two starter spot. That tells you the Red Sox have real faith in him."
"There have been some concerns on the local side, haven't there?"
"That's right. He barely showed anything as a pitcher during spring training."
"Some people even wondered if he was injured."
"That's not the case. After speaking with Kang Hajin, he says his condition is excellent. His body came around early, and he walked into this game with serious confidence."
"Did you get in touch with him?"
Jeong Jong-seong asked Ko Mandeok quietly.
"Yesterday, briefly."
"He wouldn't be nervous or anything… right?"
"Who? That guy? You think he'd be nervous?"
"Heh. No."
"Look at the face on that screen. Does that look like a nervous man to you? Looks more like something pissed him off."
"You're right. Wait—did he just curse?"
"…Even over there, he's still the same."
All four of them snickered together, waiting for the game to begin. A little more time passed, and at last the leadoff batter stepped into the box.
"First pitch is a four-seamer, right?"
"Obviously. Well… we'd do it that way for sure, but who knows if their catcher will."
"I heard they get along pretty well."
"Yeah. That's what he said, anyway."
"Still though… he went to the Red Sox because of Gordon Perry, and now his dedicated catcher is someone else?"
"Who the hell knows what that guy's thinking. Heh."
"Here we go."
"Kang Hajin. First pitch to the leadoff batter. He throws—oh!! One hundred and two miles an hour! A four-seam fastball painted right on the inside corner at 102!"
My condition today was peak.
The reason? Han Song-yi, after being apart for a while, had come at me first with real enthusiasm—so most of my rest had happened in bed. When I woke up this morning, my body felt impossibly light.
Today I was taking the mound as the starting pitcher and batting seventh. Behind the plate, my dedicated catcher Eric would be wearing the mask. With both the catcher's spot and the designated hitter's spot filled, that meant Gordon Perry had no place in today's lineup.
Roughly ten years ago, a Japanese player had declared himself a two-way player in the majors and made it work. After that, quite a few athletes here started chasing the same dream. Some of them even looked like they might pull it off. But the physical overload and the injuries that came with it meant the only one who truly succeeded was that first Japanese pioneer—and even he spent his entire career nursing one injury after another, no matter how good the numbers looked.
Why bring this up now? Because Major League Baseball no longer treats two-way players as some exotic novelty. They're rare, sure, but not unheard of. Back in the day, announcing yourself as a two-way player could draw real heat. These days, people mostly just watch and wait.
Which made one thing strange.
Why, in our own home ballpark—Fenway Park—were there fans holding up signs criticizing me? Not long ago they'd been saying they couldn't wait to see me play. So why?
Rewind a bit, and the answer was simple: Gordon Perry.
Apparently the fans had never truly believed Gordon Perry wouldn't appear in a game. One look at the pickets those critics were waving told the whole story. Every single one of them was scrawled with Gordon Perry this, Gordon Perry that.
They called Gordon Perry the heart of the Red Sox, huh…
So that makes me the bastard who ripped the heart out? Son of a bitch…
Even so—getting booed by the home crowd in my first game? That was a special kind of ridiculous. The irritation got the better of me, and I spat the words out without even covering my mouth with my glove. Who cared? I'd said it in Korean anyway.
"Because of you assholes, I'm throwing a damn masterpiece today."
If I ended up doing interviews after this, I was going to be busy. I'd have to mention that former-catcher guy, and I'd definitely have a few words for the fans who'd gone out of their way to show up and boo me in person.
Baltimore Orioles leadoff man Porta Gosling stepped into the box.
Eric, who'd called nothing but four-seamers throughout the Yankees series, went with a four-seamer for the first pitch again today. Perfect. I decided to pour every ounce of my irritation into this one.
I coiled my body—light as if it might float away—then unleashed it, packing every bit of that force into the ball. The pitch left my fingertips spinning like mad and screamed toward Eric's open mitt.
WHAP!
"Strike!"
The home plate umpire shot a clenched fist into the air. The ball came back to me with real weight behind it—Eric had put something on the throw. When catchers fire the ball back like that, it usually means the previous pitch was a beauty.
As far as I knew, Eric had studied like crazy for this game. Probably because I'd told him I'd follow his lead completely—I'd handed him the whole game. And this was his first start as my dedicated catcher. He'd taken the mask off Gordon Perry's face. If he botched this one… all hell would break loose. Not ordinary hell, either.
Eric's second sign was a changeup. Same exact location.
Hmm…
Honestly, it felt a little obvious. Fastball, then changeup—the classic sequence. Or maybe it just felt different from the patterns Ko Mandeok had drilled into me. Ko Mandeok loved twisted, unpredictable pitch sequences; he lived to catch hitters off guard. Eric, on the other hand, was working by the book.
Obvious, but not bad. Obvious meant it got used a lot, and things got used a lot because they worked.
And if the batter might be sitting on it?
Then you just throw it so the prediction doesn't matter.
THWACK!
The ball that had been heading down the middle broke hard toward the batter's hands and dropped. The bat came around, but it was nowhere near the pitch.
Another fastball here?
My guess was wrong. Eric called for a slider—the one he insisted was a sweeper no matter how many times I told him it was just a laterally breaking slider. Personally, Eric ranked that pitch as my best. I had a rising four-seamer, a changeup Barnett had raved about, and a knuckleball that got more unhinged by the day—and still Eric said the sweeper was number one. Throw it at exactly the right moment, he claimed, and nobody on earth could hit it.
Apparently, this was that moment.
The ball left my hand and fled toward the outside corner, ducking the bat. Eric's mitt snagged it well outside the zone.
"Batter out!"
Three pitches. Three-pitch strikeout. My first out in Major League Baseball, made on three pitches.
Hmm…
For a second I wondered whether making Eric my dedicated catcher had been the right call. I hadn't thought that after the first batter. But facing the second, something felt off.
Why?
"Strike!"
First pitch to the number-two hitter: a two-seamer. Then a cutter for a foul. A curve that got cut. A splitter called a ball. A deathball that just kissed the bat for another foul. And finally a knuckleball that produced a swinging strike three.
Two batters, two strikeouts. On paper, great—
Is he seriously planning to make me throw every single pitch I have?
Hard to deny it when I'd thrown nine pitches and not one of them was the same type twice.
…No way, right? All that's left is the power curve or the slow curve…
Then the power-curve sign came, and my suspicion became fact.
"Strike!"
Second pitch: slow curve.
"Foul."
Alright. I'd thrown everything. Now what?
Eric chose the simplest solution imaginable: start over from the top.
"Batter out!"
A 101-mph four-seam fastball painted the outside corner and dropped Baltimore's three-hole hitter on another three-pitch strikeout.
Top of the first: three consecutive strikeouts. Twelve pitches. Eleven different pitch types.
This guy's actually insane…
Even Ko Mandeok wouldn't pull something like this.
As I came off the mound, the fielders came over one by one with a word each—nice work, looked good, keep it up, the usual short and predictable stuff. Once that was done, Eric, who'd been waiting for me the whole time, grinned.
"You. Come here."
We were going to need a deep conversation.