Personal Training
"They shortened the posting period! Down to five years!!"
"······ What?"
"From seven years to five. They're going to let clubs and players apply for posting by mutual agreement."
"All of a sudden? Why?"
"Why do you think? So they can send someone, obviously. Isn't it obvious?"
"Send? Who?"
"Lee Gijun!"
"Ah···"
"I kept thinking no way, no way, but I never thought it'd actually happen···"
"Come to think of it, you···"
An old memory surfaced. I squeezed the hazy recollection until it came into focus—probably back when I'd been spouting nonsense about how Lee Gijun was too much for the current me to handle and that I should just filter him out.
That conversation between me and Ho-min···
"Just go to the Majors already instead of farming easy wins here. Tch," I'd said.
"Think he won't go?" Ho-min had answered.
"He's in his fifth year now," I'd told him.
"Huh?"
"What?"
"Uh··· never mind."
"Hey! What is it!"
"It's nothing. Later."
"What the hell, man."
He'd been mulling something over and then just mumbled his way past me. At the time Ho-min did that sort of thing more than once or twice, so I'd let it slide.
Looking back now, though, this bastard was acting weird.
"Don't tell me you already knew?"
"Huh? Ah, no?"
"You did know, didn't you? What is it? How'd you find out?"
"Ha··· I didn't know for sure either. There are people I know through my analysis work, and one of them works on Lee Gijun's team. I can't go into too much detail."
"And?"
"He mentioned it in passing. Said the Stars GM seemed to be meeting with other teams' GMs to try and get Lee Gijun to the Majors. And that the only way Lee Gijun could go to the Majors under the current setup was by adjusting the posting rules. Then he said Lee Gijun might leave after this season···"
"··· Who is this guy that he knows that kind of stuff? And why would the Stars GM want to send Lee Gijun to the Majors? They could still use him for a few more years."
"Just··· that guy isn't the important part. As for what the GM over there is thinking··· I don't know either. Anyway, back then I just heard the story and moved on. It wasn't solid, so I didn't tell you. But looking at the articles that came out today, I guess that guy was right."
I was dying to know who that Stars employee was, but he clearly wanted to keep it quiet, so I let it drop.
And I was a little surprised to learn he had that kind of network in the first place. I knew he chatted with people sometimes, but I'd figured they were all amateurs.
"I don't care whether Lee Gijun goes or not. The important one is you."
"Me? Why?"
"You've put in three years as of this season, right? Next year. The year after. Just two more years and posting becomes possible."
"Ah···"
"If you put up good numbers as a starter for two years··· there's a real shot."
The Majors, something I hadn't even been thinking about yet, suddenly started to come into view.
The shortened posting period threw everything into chaos for several days. Every baseball section on the portals was nothing but articles about it, and the communities were completely wallpapered with the same talk.
Every article and post reached the same conclusion: Lee Gijun would be the one to benefit from the rule change.
The press had already coined the term "Lee Gijun Rule."
But public opinion hadn't swung negative because of it.
Lee Gijun's own team, the Stars, was in a send-him-off-with-our-blessings mood after all his hard work.
And the other teams? They were practically throwing a parade and begging him to get lost already.
"Weird."
"What is?"
"They ought to be mentioning you at least a little. There's nothing at all."
Ho-min was browsing the communities, tilting his head.
"Are you insane? Why would they mention me?"
"Come on, you know. Two years from now posting opens up for you too."
"Yeah, so why would people be talking about me? What have I even shown them?"
"Well··· ah! Right. People still don't know you switched to starting, do they?"
"······"
"Shame. If word got out that you'd moved to the rotation, the whole mood would've been different."
"··· Don't even think about posting that anywhere."
The way that bastard casually averted his eyes told me he'd at least considered it.
Or maybe he'd brought me up in the first place as a deliberate build-up because he was already thinking about it.
I could never fully trust this guy.
And two days later—the final day of posting registration.
Articles announcing that Lee Gijun was challenging Major League Baseball blanketed the portals.
"Alright~ That guy's that guy, and we've got our own work to do, right?"
On the day the noise about Lee Gijun's Major League challenge was still ringing, Ko Mandeok, Ho-min, and I headed to a training facility with Taeseong hyung.
Naturally it wasn't the club facility—it was a private training center in Jeonju.
"But Coach, is it okay for you to be here?"
Ko Mandeok looked at Taeseong hyung as he spoke.
He had a point. This was clearly the inactive period, team training was banned, and while personal training was fine, having a coach involved could definitely raise eyebrows.
But would Taeseong hyung have joined our session without thinking that through? I already knew how it worked, but Ko Mandeok hadn't heard yet, which was why he was asking.
"Heh heh. I saw this coming from the start and prepared for it."
"Prepared···? What do you···"
"I'm not registered as a coach yet. Eheheh."
"What?"
"I'm not your team's coach yet."
"What? But you went to camp with us···"
"I didn't go as a coach. I went as a bullpen catcher."
"··· Excuse me?"
Just as Taeseong hyung said, he hadn't gone to fall camp as a coach. He'd signed a short-term contract as a bullpen catcher and gone along.
Once he got there he'd basically functioned as a coach, but··· who was going to know? And even if they did, so what? An older bullpen catcher shared a little know-how. Nothing wrong with that.
Of course it was a stretch. If someone really wanted to pick at it they could, but on paper he'd clearly contracted as a bullpen catcher, so he had an answer ready—that was Taeseong hyung's thinking, and Manager Park had agreed.
And if anyone wanted to dig, they'd first have to find out what Taeseong hyung had actually done at camp. Who was going to care enough to look?
"Alright~ Let's loosen up first and get started."
Under Taeseong hyung's direction we slowly worked through our warm-up, then I stepped onto the mound.
I heated up with the pitches I already had, then even threw the curveball I'd tossed here and there this season without really focusing on it.
"The curve looks solid too. Because of the delivery it used to lag a bit behind the other pitches, but this is good enough."
"Really? Think I can use it next season?"
"Yeah. The velocity's there and the break is plenty usable. It still snaps a little early sometimes, but that'll clean up with work. Alright, next. Mandeok, step out for a second."
Taeseong hyung pulled Ko Mandeok up from catching, strapped on the gear himself, and settled into the crouch.
"It's been a while. Heh heh."
Seeing Taeseong hyung sitting there in the catcher's mask again put me at ease. Was he the person who'd caught my pitches more than anyone else since I turned pro?
"Quit smiling and focus on throwing. Try to keep the delivery consistent as much as you can."
"Yes sir!"
I dug my fingers into the ball and threw with the care for my form that Taeseong hyung had asked for. Luckily the first pitch flew out pretty clean.
The spinless ball drifted and fluttered on the light breeze, then at the last moment tried to drop sharply down and to the right.
Pop!
"Oh!"
"Wow!"
"Got it."
Taeseong hyung shifted the mitt with almost no effort and snagged it perfectly.
He looked even more comfortable than Park Byeong-seok, the guy they'd brought in earlier claiming he had experience as a dedicated knuckleball catcher.
"Tsk. It's been a while so it's not coming easy. Throw a few more."
Not coming easy after a long break? If that was him struggling, how clean had he been catching it when he was sharp?
"And pay attention to your command while you throw!"
"··· How am I supposed to pay attention to command? Isn't the whole point of a knuckle that neither the guy throwing it nor the guy catching it knows where it's going?"
"Who said perfect command? At least try to get it inside the catcher's body. Like just now."
"Ah··· that never really works for me."
Pop!
"Again!"
Pop!
"Command!!"
Pop!
"That one had spin on it!"
Pop!
"That one was good!"
I threw fifteen pitches to Taeseong hyung.
Except for one that sailed absurdly far off into the distance, he caught every single one clean.
In particular, the way he leaned just slightly and still hauled in a pitch that was way outside the strike zone left everyone clicking their tongues in amazement.
"Coach. You want to be his personal catcher?"
That was how far Ko Mandeok went.
"You want to watch a .050 hitter? Enough. Those last five were good. Feels like you're starting to get the hang of it. Keep throwing with that feel for a bit. Mandeok, come talk to me for a second."
Taeseong hyung took Ko Mandeok off toward the back. Figuring he was about to give some advice, I turned to throw at the empty target when···
"What are you doing?"
Ho-min was strapping on the catcher's gear Taeseong hyung had taken off.
"I'll catch for you."
"Bullshit. Putting that on doesn't make you a catcher."
"I catch fine, man. On my team they go crazy about how good my defense is."
That bastard··· he played on an amateur adult baseball team. He was probably talking about that.
"You know my knuckle is faster than your team's ace's four-seam, right?"
"······ Yeah, of course I know! Just wait."
He finished gearing up, pulled the mask on, and settled into the crouch. He'd clearly seen it somewhere—the way he even tucked his right hand behind him looked halfway decent.
"Throw it!"
"··· Want me to throw a four-seam?"
I figured if I took a little off a four-seam with less movement it might be okay.
"Hell no! Throw the knuckle. The knuckle."
Our Ho-min had way too much confidence.
"Sigh. Whatever."
Even if I told him to get out he clearly wouldn't listen··· better to just use the chance to teach him a lesson.
So I dug my fingers in properly, went through a full windup, and focused on the pitch.
The ball left my hand and floated out, bobbing.
It weaved left and right, then as it neared Ho-min's mitt it suddenly broke sideways.
"Aaaagh!"
That idiot.
"You could at least try to dodge, you moron."
He'd cleanly taken the ball off his thigh.
"Ah shit! That fucking hurts···"
"At least pretend to follow it with the mitt. Or dodge. You closed your eyes, didn't you?"
I'd guessed from the way he just sat there with the mitt planted dead center and took it.
If he hadn't, he would've snapped back even through the pain. Watching him roll around on the ground groaning confirmed it—he'd shut his eyes.
"Khkhkhkh. Go spray some heat cream on it and rest. Good work. Heh heh heh."
Ko Mandeok, who'd been watching from the side the whole time, cackled as he nudged the writhing Ho-min with his foot.
"Alright! Let's go! I'll catch everything—throw it!"
And just like that the little comedy show ended, and Ko Mandeok's knuckleball catching practice began.