The Exhibition Game

Coming back after ten days off.

I was definitely taking something off every pitch. No deep reason for it — Manager Park had simply told me to. Don't look too perfectly recovered, he'd said. Keep it like this at least until the All-Star break. So I nodded and threw the way he wanted.

And it turned out to be more fun than I'd expected.

Watching the ball slip past the barrel, inducing soft grounders that dribbled harmlessly even when they made contact — it didn't have the raw, exhilarating punch of throwing with everything I had, but it had a satisfaction all its own.

"Hajin, that's enough for today."

"Already?"

"Yeah. The lead's big enough. No point burning yourself out."

"Who's coming in, then?"

"Hyeon-bin."

"Ah — got it!"

Just like that, six innings. A mere seventy pitches, and I was done. Hyeon-bin took over behind me and closed out the remaining three innings on his own, and that was the ballgame.

I made two more starts after that one.

One loss, one no-decision.

The opposing teams must have studied our battery's pitch sequencing, because their approach was sharp. One run, then another, and I ended up the losing pitcher after six innings and three runs allowed. In the other game I went six with two runs and walked away with nothing to show for it.

Once that happened, the chatter started — people wondering if something was wrong with me. The most absurd take I saw claimed that Manager Min Gucheol's decision had been right all along. Three runs in a domestic league game, they said, and international hitters would tear me apart.

"Just show them next time. Don't worry about it."

"I'm not worried. Everyone else is already doing the roasting for me."

Any post that took Min Gucheol's side had already been buried under rebuttals and hate comments.

"Still, they actually listened to you?"

"I whined long enough that he sighed and gave in. Heh."

"Your manager's one thing — but the other side's manager went along with it too?"

"I can still hit. That was the angle."

The All-Star Game ahead of the Olympics. Normally the Futures League All-Star Game would be played the day before, but this year something different was on the schedule: an exhibition match between the Olympic national team and a combined squad. Call it an evaluation game, if you wanted.

The combined team was built from the best-performing players of the season who hadn't made the national roster, and their talent level was surprisingly high. Personally, I thought they might even be stronger than the national team itself.

The reason it had turned out this way was simple enough. The Olympic roster was loaded with younger players eligible for military service exemptions. Min Gucheol had blustered about building a team that could win, but nobody believed a word of it. The upside was that a lot of high-caliber players had been left off — guys like Kim Jong-su of the Falcons, a top-tier hitter this season who still didn't make the cut. They dressed it up as a veteran yielding his spot to the younger generation, but age or no age, if you wanted to win, you should have taken him.

Then there were the All-Star selections. Between the Dream and Nanum teams, the Raiders had nearly monopolized Dream and our Savers had nearly monopolized Nanum. Since All-Star voting was a popularity contest, the first- and second-place teams sweeping the ballot wasn't exactly shocking. Other clubs still got a few manager's picks, but the available spots were limited.

The result was that solid pitchers who hadn't even made the All-Star roster ended up on the combined team as well.

I was locked into the All-Star Game, of course — I'd led the voting by a wide margin. The problem was that I wanted to play for the combined team more. An All-Star Game was a lighthearted exhibition. On the combined team, I could shove it in Min Gucheol's face.

So I whined to Manager Park. Threw a full-blown tantrum, if you want to be accurate about it.

What did I say? I asked him to put in a word with the Raiders' manager, who was running the combined team — and while he was at it, with the Warriors' manager, who was handling the Nanum All-Stars.

Manager Park made it clear how much of a hassle this was, but after endless visits and relentless pestering, he finally caved. The arrangement: I'd pitch for the combined team and hit only in the All-Star Game.

From my perspective, it couldn't have gone better.

The decision was set, time passed, and at last the day of the national team versus combined team matchup arrived.

The Raiders' ballpark, host of this year's All-Star festivities. Even for an exhibition the night before, the stands were packed.

And off in a corner of the field, the two of us.

"Shouldn't you go say hello?"

"And do what, exactly?"

"He keeps staring at you. Isn't that a signal to come over and greet him?"

"Not my problem."

Ko Mandeok, who'd made the combined team, kept sneaking glances at the national team's dugout. Min Gucheol, he said, wouldn't stop looking my way.

Let him look.

I'd already greeted the Savers guys who'd made the national roster, and a few other players I knew. I had no reason to spare another thought for that dugout. Not when there were more than one or two faces over there I couldn't stand the sight of.

"By the way, the captain's expression looks pretty rough, doesn't it?"

"Yeah. He looked completely drained."

Four Savers players had made the national team: captain Seo Gyeongmin, closer Kang Chanjung, bullpen arm Oh Gyu-shin, and fifth starter Hwang Chan-young.

"The rest of them didn't look great either. You don't think they're getting chewed out by the manager because of you, do you?"

"...No way. He wouldn't go that far."

What a piece of garbage, though. He really would.

"……"

"You already knew. Why the shock?"

"I just didn't think he'd bat me third."

I'd figured they'd only ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠use me as a pitcher. The moment Manager Oh Jeong-geun saw me, though, he'd told me I'd be doing both. The look on his face — like a kid who'd just found a new toy — had given me a mild case of the creeps.

"Still, isn't this something?"

"What is?"

"Not a single Dragons player on the roster."

"Ah…"

"Is that because of you?"

"That one's genuinely not on me."

Manager Oh Jeong-geun of the Raiders hadn't selected a single Dragons player. It wasn't because I'd joined up, the way Mandeok was suggesting — it was because every remotely usable player on that hopeless Dragons roster had already been called up to the Olympic team. Our second-place Savers had four players selected. The Raiders had five. And the last-place Dragons? Also five.

Choe Hojung, the Dragons' face of the franchise, was one thing. But putting Lee Gi-ho in the catcher's spot that Ko Mandeok had been passed over for, and then including my old classmate Hwang Jongdu on top of that — it was a blatant push for the Dragons. Which meant there simply wasn't anyone left on that club worth bringing over.

"That manager really is something else."

"Now what?"

"I mean, think about it. He takes all that heat over his roster picks and still walks around like he owns the place."

"Pfft. Fair point."

"What was it — three innings for you today?"

"For now. They've got someone else lined up too. That big-shot over there."

"Right… Let's get ready."

I climbed the mound, finished a few warm-up tosses, and bounced the rosin bag against my palm while waiting for the start of play. The crowd's roar gradually settled. The national team's leadoff hitter stepped into the box, and at last the umpire called play ball.

The first ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠pitch was already decided, so I went straight into my windup without any special sign exchange.

WHAP!

"Stri~ke!"

The hitter stared at me with a look that said his soul had left his body. Something along the lines of why are you throwing like that, I figured.

I ignored him and turned my gaze toward the national team's dugout.

Min Gucheol, the coaching staff, the players — every pair of eyes was locked on me. Same dazed expression as the guy in the batter's box.

Looking at them like this, I almost felt a little bad for a few of those players.

"You're all dead."

By the time this game was over, I was probably going to catch some heat for it.