Why Only Me?
Apparently Korea was going berserk.
They’d figured I’d do well enough, but no one expected me to adapt this smoothly right from the first game.
I wasn’t just on the sports channels—I even made the nine o’clock news.
“Adapt? What’s there to adapt to…?”
This wasn’t something Ho-min and I dug up online. We heard it straight from Jack.
Jack said every kind of offer imaginable was pouring in from Korea. Mostly commercials. If he took every single one that came through the door, he claimed, the only face left on television would be mine. Jack’s exaggeration left me speechless. It hadn’t even been a full day yet…
I put them all on hold for now. I hadn’t been interested to begin with, and with the season just starting, what business did I have shooting commercials?
And Han Song-yi was more than a little excited.
How do I even put this… it’s hard to explain, but…
“I thought my husband was just the best in the provinces, but it turns out he’s the best in the world!”
She kept spouting lines like that, her energy rocketing straight through the roof.
I never once imagined Song-yi might not have fully believed in me…
Looks like she, just like everyone else, had expected me to struggle a bit at the start.
Wait… so does that mean the only person who believed in me completely from the beginning was Ho-min?
Shit.
That thought was creepy in its own right.
The atmosphere here wasn’t any different from Korea. A brand-new player with zero prior information had gone nuclear from game one—there was no reason for the mood to be anything but good.
Except… a few people were pointing out how disastrous the offense had been during my start and arguing that Gordon Perry was needed.
If only Eric had done a little better…
After the game I asked him why he’d been swinging so frantically. He said the ball looked so good he just couldn’t hold back.
Isn’t holding back exactly what a hitter’s supposed to do? If you swing at everything that looks good, what makes you a pro?
If it had been Ko Mandeok or Jeong Jong-seong, they would’ve really laid into him…
My English still wasn’t free enough to chew someone out properly. Stumbling through a lecture would’ve just been funny… and using an interpreter to deliver something like that? That felt even weirder…
Then came the day after my start.
The same lineup that had taken a massive dump the day before suddenly came back to life like nothing had happened. But our starting pitcher got shelled right out of the gate, and we ended up losing 11–9.
Scoring nine runs and still losing? That’s just handing the game away.
We managed a series win, but the result still left a sour taste.
And Gordon Perry.
Gordon Perry went 3-for-3 with four RBI that game and absolutely flew.
It was only one game so far, so no one was saying much yet. But if Eric kept looking that helpless at the plate the way he had yesterday, people were definitely going to start talking.
I’d used the knuckleball as an excuse in the interview, but… how many knuckleballs do you even throw in a single game? It was pure excuse material. Everyone would see through it soon enough.
“Frustrating. So damn frustrating.”
The fourth game after Opening Day. Our second series, against the Pittsburgh Pirates, was also at home.
This was my first start as designated hitter since arriving here. It was also the first game I’d play alongside Gordon Perry.
The old man of a manager had already asked me which spot in the order I preferred.
Honestly the order didn’t matter to me at all, so I’d told him to stick me wherever he needed me…
“Fifth, huh?”
I honestly hadn’t expected to be dropped right into the heart of the order.
The game started. Top of the first.
Crack!
Crack!
Crack!
Crack!
“…You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”
That wasn’t me swearing. That was Ho-min.
As a fellow player, I don’t curse out a starting pitcher just because he gave up four straight hits the moment he took the mound. I just sigh a little and leave it alone.
Ho-min’s different. Right now he was bouncing in and out of the dugout as my interpreter, but at heart he was still a fan. When a game starts this ugly, the swearing comes out whether he wants it to or not.
“Guess he’s just not feeling it today.”
I offered that from a pitcher’s perspective… and Ho-min looked at me like I’d just said the dumbest thing on earth.
“What?”
“I wasn’t even cursing the pitcher.”
“Then who?”
“The pitch sequence is complete garbage. He keeps missing with a four-seamer that has zero command, gets behind in the count, then throws a breaking ball right down the middle? He does that, gets hit, does it again, gets hit again—how am I not supposed to swear?”
Ah… so that was it.
“The guy’s supposed to be known for running a good game. Why’s he doing this?”
“…There’s probably a reason.”
“What reason?”
“What?”
“Why are you taking his side?”
“I’m not taking his side… I’m just thinking maybe there’s something to it.”
He’d clearly expected me to join in on the cursing. But I… didn’t know. I just didn’t feel like saying anything. I figured there had to be a reason and left it at that.
“Something’s off. Last game was a little like this too. And now he’s doing it again today.”
Yeah. It had been pretty ridiculous.
First base open and he still went right after a power-hitting cleanup guy, only to give up a home run.
“Should I casually ask him?”
“Ask him what?”
“Uh… ‘Hey, you’re suddenly pitching like absolute shit—what’s going on?’”
“You lunatic…”
Like hell he’d answer that. I’d be lucky if I didn’t get punched.
The top of the first ended with two more hits and four runs allowed.
The fans were probably already fuming about giving up four in the first, but from where I sat, holding them to four felt like a win.
Their starter took the mound.
A right-hander named Reef Trent—around two meters tall, throwing pure overhand. When a guy that tall with arms that long throws over the top, it feels like the ball’s being driven straight down from the sky.
“His four-seamer touches ninety-eight. But lately he’s been throwing a lot of cutters. Velocity’s almost the same as the four-seamer. Curve looks decent too.”
Having Ho-min around was great for this. He just fed me the info without me even asking.
I’d heard it last night, but hearing it again right before the game locked it in even better.
Apparently he’d come up from the minors last year. I’d never heard of him until Ho-min showed me the video last night…
Watching him throw his warm-up pitches, it felt different from the footage.
The way he threw…
“Is he a javelin thrower?”
“Heh heh heh. Kinda looks like it, right?”
His arm whipped so high over his head you half-expected it to snag on his ear. And he was throwing cutters and curves with that delivery…
Standing in the box against that would definitely feel nasty.
The only reason I wasn’t too worried…
“Just like you said, his command’s gotta be trash throwing like that.”
Ho-min had already told me the guy’s control was garbage.
I just hadn’t realized how garbage…
“Ball. Foul. Ball. Ball. Foul. Foul. Ball.”
Our leadoff man worked a walk and trotted to first.
“…That’s a little extreme, isn’t it?”
“I told you. Garbage.”
“…You said he was Na Hong-gi level. Even Na Hong-gi isn’t that bad.”
If you called a guy whose strikes came right down the middle and whose balls sailed into the next zip code “Na Hong-gi level,” Na Hong-gi would have every right to feel insulted. At least his pitches still came somewhere near the zone.
“But yeah, this is pretty rough. First start of the season—maybe his body’s not fully there yet? From what I saw he wasn’t this wild.”
Thud!
Before the sigh even finished leaving my mouth, the next hitter—Prospect Number One, Alan Thomas—grabbed his side and went down.
He’d been plunked on the very first pitch. Luckily nothing serious; a moment later he got up and jogged slowly to first.
“…He won nine games last year?”
“Yeah.”
“How?”
“Beats me.”
Nobody out, runners on first and second.
Eun-hyung stepped in and leaned way back.
Almost got hit again.
“…He’s not doing that on purpose, right?”
Eun-hyung glared daggers at the pitcher.
If this hadn’t been the first inning, if we weren’t the ones trailing, if it had been late and we were blowing them out, Eun-hyung would’ve charged the mound already.
But right now there was zero reason for the opposing pitcher to be throwing intentional beanballs.
So even while radiating pure irritation, Eun-hyung just stepped back into the box without doing anything extra.
That young pitcher who’d only come up from the minors last year, though, seemed to feel the pressure of Eun-hyung’s stare.
The second pitch came in dead straight, right down the middle of the zone.
CRACK!!
And Eun-hyung was not the kind of hitter who missed a pitch like that.
The ball vanished over the wall in a blink.
4–3.
Just like that the game was tight again.
“This one’s gonna take forever.”
I agreed with Ho-min completely.
Today was going to be a long damn day.
Their pitching coach climbed the mound. He stayed up there a good while—looked like they were already getting the next arm ready.
Even their own coach could see this kid was done for the day.
The coach left. Greg stepped into the box, and I moved into the on-deck circle.
Pop!
“Ball.”
A pitch that sailed way outside.
“Ball.”
The next one missed even farther outside.
The pitcher looked like he’d completely lost his confidence.
Then the next pitch.
From that high release point the ball seemed to float up just a little.
Curveball.
It dropped hard, like it was falling straight off a table.
And for the first time, Greg’s bat came off his shoulder.
CRACK!
“Holy shit…”
Even for a guy known for crushing hanging pitches, that was ridiculous.
He swung like he’d been waiting for that exact pitch all day, and the ball just… disappeared.
There was no other way to describe it. The second it met the bat, it was gone.
Not a single defender on the field so much as twitched.
Back-to-back home runs.
Score was now 4–4.
“…Everyone’s hitting like this, so why the hell did they look like that when I pitched…”
Just thinking about it made me mad all over again.
I stepped into the box.
Normally I’d be deciding which pitch to time up… but this at-bat was different.
First question was whether to swing at all… or rather, priority number one was just not getting hit.
After his signature windup the arm whipped over the top of his head.
The ball launched from way up high and, as it neared the plate, seemed to run away just a little.
It’s going to miss… wait?
“Strike.”
A filthy cutter that painted the outside corner perfectly.
“…What the fuck?”
Why only me…