Just You Wait
"This is clear evidence that Kang of the Red Sox is finally feeling the physical strain."
"Exactly. We've seen plenty of two-way players over the years. They put on a spectacular show early in the season, raise everyone's expectations—then inevitably collapse under fatigue and the injuries that follow."
"Kang may have finished a full season as a two-way player in the Korean league without getting hurt, but that's the Korean league. It doesn't even begin to compare to Major League Baseball."
"Everything is different—from the number of games per team to the travel distances. And the level of the opposing players is simply incomparable."
They were going completely nuts.
"Even so, I think we still got a glimpse of Kang's true level in this game."
"What do you mean by that?"
"None of the pitches Kang threw were listening to him. Even his greatest weapon—his command—wasn't cooperating. And yet he still managed to grind through six innings and hold them to four runs. That alone is solid proof that he's one of the absolute elite pitchers in this league."
"I see… So how do you think the rest of Kang's season will unfold?"
"If it were me, I'd give him rest. And for the remainder of the season, I'd have him pitch only. It's time to start managing his workload."
What a load of bullshit…
Beep.
I shut off the TV I'd been watching.
The reason those panelists on the screen were making such a circus of it was simple: I had taken the loss in my first start after the All-Star break.
Four runs allowed total.
Eight hits. Three walks.
It was easily my worst outing since coming to the majors—and that included every start I'd made back in Korea. Well, every start after meeting the Hooded Woman, anyway.
That day really… nothing went right. Absolutely nothing went the way I wanted.
My condition hadn't felt that bad. Eric had even looked satisfied during warm-ups.
But the moment the game started, I knew something was off.
Hard to put into words, but… it felt like my arm was just flying away from me.
Even though it was our home mound—the one I'd stood on more than any other—it felt exactly like pitching on the road in Colorado.
Command that kept leaking. Velocity a tick lower than usual. That signature rising sensation on my four-seam completely gone.
The changeup was flat, the slider wasn't biting, and the curve was ordinary.
Total disaster.
The only reason I still somehow lasted six innings and gave up just four runs while getting lit up was Eric. He kept wringing every last drop of brainpower into pitch sequences that somehow coaxed weak contact out of hitters even with stuff that wasn't working.
But we still lost, and I took the L.
As if the whole day was cursed, the offense stayed quiet too—and my own at-bats were no different.
After the game, the Korean media that had been treating me like a god, plus every outlet over here, all gleefully piled on with articles.
That damn "stamina decline" narrative.
Because my velocity had dipped that day too, they latched onto it completely.
And eventually it even made it onto television…
"They're having a real party, aren't they. A real party."
Honestly, I wasn't thinking much of anything. The idea that something might actually be wrong with my body never even crossed my mind.
Sure, I'd taken a loss, but one rough outing happens. How is a pitcher supposed to be perfect every single time?
And it felt a little unfair, to be honest.
"Anyone watching would think I gave up ten runs. It was only four…"
Come on—starting and allowing four runs in a game isn't exactly the end of the world.
There's a reason they invented the term "quality start." Six innings and three runs is already solid, and I'd only given up one more than that.
Yet they were treating me like this…
"Just you wait. You sons of bitches…"
Five days had passed since that start.
In that entire stretch I hadn't set foot on the field even once.
Because our dear old manager—Grandpa Gordon—had genuinely forced me into mandatory rest.
Even after I insisted nothing was wrong, I still had to obey the order to rest. Thanks to that, I got to spend three full days with Han Song-yi for the first time in a long while.
After the rest, two more days went by, and my next start finally arrived.
Ever since the perfect game, something had shifted. Eric—who had been on an absolute tear lately—came walking over.
He'd been crushing it at the plate too, so he was getting more opportunities than before.
That let Gordon Perry step in as designated hitter, which only made the lineup even more dangerous…
"Ernie Witt…"
That kid really needed to get comfortable in left field already.
He was a good kid, honestly.
A few days earlier I'd given Eric a watch as a gift.
I didn't know much about them, so I'd asked Rondo for advice, bought one, and handed it over. Eric had been completely overwhelmed.
Cried his eyes out again…
I hadn't realized the kid was such a softie.
Before giving him the watch, I'd actually asked just in case.
Whether he might want something else instead of a watch.
Like a car… for example.
Eric had looked at me like he had no idea what I was talking about.
Then he'd said he didn't even need the watch…
Yeah, Ko Mandeok was the weird one after all.
Asking me to chip in for a car. Unbelievable.
Today's game was a home matchup against the New York Mets.
The team where Rondo—our former ace—had pitched through last season.
They'd traded for him in a 1-for-3 deal and gotten solid early returns, but then he cratered, and the team cratered right along with him.
Apparently the Mets GM was catching absolute hell from the fans these days.
In a way, the guy might have a right to feel a little wronged.
Considering Rondo's age and the injury history, being skeptical about a full comeback had been completely reasonable.
But then Rondo had come to us and resurrected himself completely…
Fans only care about results. They never bother with the process that came before. So of course it had turned out like this.
It would've been fun if Rondo had been starting today.
Unfortunately he'd started the previous game, so he was sitting out this series.
"Play ball."
The Mets' leadoff hitter stepped in, choking up on the bat.
Not a guy we had much information on.
The Mets had flashed briefly early in the season, then gone into freefall, and it looked like they'd already written this year off.
They'd started aggressively calling up prospects from the minors, and the hitter currently in the box was one of them.
Because of that, Rondo—who'd been with them through last season—had almost no intel, and Ho-min was in the same boat. We had to rely entirely on the scouting reports the team provided.
Ho-min was still doing good work.
As a translator he barely had anything left to do these days, but the original role—advance scouting and analysis—he kept handling solidly.
He still hadn't quite reached the razor-sharp, detailed level he'd shown back in Korea, though.
Honestly, that was inevitable. In Korea the information was easier to get, there were fewer teams, so you could dig all the way down into the second team. But this damn Major League had so many clubs, and the minors were several times larger still. Checking everything was basically impossible.
Even the majors were a lot, and below that you had Triple-A, Double-A, High-A, Single-A, Rookie ball…
You could only check so much.
For that reason, analysis on established or well-known players was nearly perfect, but information on a guy like the one currently at the plate was pretty thin.
At least the team's own scouting reports were decent, so that was something…
According to the packet they'd given us, this guy liked to cut his swing short and had a habit of starting his body early at contact.
In other words, a slap-and-run type who just wanted to put the ball in play and haul ass to first.
"Guys like this… I've faced plenty of them back in Korea."
Whap!
"Strike."
First-pitch 101-mph high fastball. His bat cut through empty air.
Crack.
Just as expected—another high heater, fouled off.
Whap!
He laid off one that sailed a touch high.
Whap!
"Batter out!"
High heat all the way.
If he wanted to just poke something on the ground and take off for first, all I had to do was make sure nothing got on the ground.
The moment the umpire's out call rang out, Eric fired the ball down to first, then looked at me and nodded.
Meaning the stuff was good today.
I'd felt it too.
Honestly, I'd known from the very first pitch.
This was different from last time.
Today I was back.
Back to my real self.
All those reporters who'd been running their mouths. All those "experts" blathering on TV.
Just you wait.
Something interesting had happened after the All-Star Game.
That game had been an absolute festival of insane bat flips.
I hadn't planned it, but I'd started it, and then that Miura bastard had blown it up into something huge.
Yet after the game, every hitter who sat for interviews had nothing but good things to say.
They admitted they couldn't go that far in a real game, but said it had been a hell of a lot of fun…
Even the pitchers' reviews hadn't been all that bad.
A few of them said they never really cared about bat flips to begin with and wouldn't mind seeing them in the regular season either.
And then there was that absolute weirdo, Rafael Anderson, spouting nonsense about how "hitters should practice even cooler bat flips and show them off more."
Yeah. Dodging that guy had definitely been the right call.
Maybe because of all that, when I stepped in after the All-Star break and flipped my bat, the opposing players barely reacted.
Even when I flipped it on a mere single instead of a home run, they just seemed to shrug it off.
Crack!
The Mets' second hitter punched the third-pitch outside offering the other way.
A single that just cleared the first baseman's reach.
What surprised me more than giving up the hit was that the guy immediately flung his bat the second he made contact.
Watching him shake out his hand after reaching first, it was obvious the ball had stung him pretty good…
And yet he'd still thrown the bat. That meant he'd already decided to do it beforehand, right?
The runner on first, still shaking his hand, looked over at me and grinned.
The expression looked so much like he was asking "That cool?" that I gave him a big thumbs-up.
Was it that great? The kid started laughing like a maniac.
I watched carefully for a second, half-expecting him to step off the bag in his excitement, but sadly nothing of the sort happened.
Still… at this rate, was bat flipping actually going to take root in the majors?
"Kang Hajin, the man most responsible for establishing the bat flip in Major League Baseball."
I wondered if that was how they'd introduce me someday.
Crack!
"Out."
"Out."
I got the next hitter to bounce a two-seamer to short for a double play.
That one didn't flip his bat.
Shame…
Bottom of the first.
The opposing pitcher completely lost it from the jump.
He walked Arthur Burgart on four straight pitches, then needed seven more to walk Alan Thomas as well.
Then Eun-hyung greeted him with a first-pitch double, and Greg drew yet another walk.
"Ugh… what the hell is going on here?"
Already two runs in the first, nobody out, runners on first and second…
Putting up a lead like this on my start.
The pitching coach climbed the mound in the first inning, tried to settle the guy down, and headed back.
Probably just told him to throw with composure or something.
As I walked toward the plate, a few fans in the stands stood up and mimicked a bat flip.
That little wrist-snap toss right after the swing.
I was the face of the major-league bat flip, and they were giving me that kind of cheer. No way I could refuse to show them one.
Crack!
Whoosh.
"Out."
Even on a fly ball, you've got to flip it. That's a real bat flip.