Practice Game (3)
There aren't many East Asians who've made it big in Major League Baseball. But among them, only a select few are ever called the best.
For example, Japan's top contact hitter who swept Rookie of the Year and MVP in the same season. The MLB unicorn who shocked everyone with his successful two-way play. And the Korean genius slugger who dominated with overwhelming power hitting during the same era as that unicorn. Those were the ones hailed as the greatest.
Right. The last one's my dad. Anyway, even in our era, there were East Asian players bold enough to challenge their legacy. And leading the charge were me and Kang Gihoo.
No need to explain me—I've got five career MVPs under my belt. I was the best player, and right before retirement, everyone nodded along when they said I was even better than my father.
In contrast, Kang Gihoo's MLB career was a bit underwhelming if you called it the best. After winning Rookie of the Year upon debut, he steadily racked up Silver Sluggers, and that was it. And yet, he was still counted among the top hitters of his generation.
Why was a guy who never won MVP considered one of the elite? Because his competition was me.
As my dad once grumbled, a successful two-way player having a great season is basically a natural disaster. If you don't give MVP to someone dominating both pitching and hitting, who the hell do you give it to?
'If it bugs you that much, try doing both yourselves.'
Having me in the same league and era was bad luck for Kang Gihoo. But.
He was thrilled to have another Korean in the league with him. Even though my nationality was American back then, and we were on different planets entirely.
For a guy with such a monstrous build, he was surprisingly sociable. Friendly enough to warm up to me, despite my sharp edges. However.
'...We've never actually talked until now.'
The one who was buddies with Kang Gihoo was pre-regression me. The current me hasn't exchanged more than a few words with him.
'I could tell he was swamped with his first spring camp.'
Acting all chummy out of nowhere would've been awkward anyway.
Kang Gihoo, the power-hitting prospect hyped since draft day, passed his military service with the Sangmu team right after signing. He returned to the team this year after discharge—his first time even at big-league spring camp. No wonder he was frazzled.
Anyway, the reason I had high hopes for Kang Gihoo—who's just a mid-veteran rookie in the KBO right now, future be damned—was simple.
—"Yuha, right after I finished my service and debuted in the majors, I swept Rookie of the Year and Gold Glove, and suddenly all the other fans were begging me to go to MLB."
I'd heard it from him a million times.
—"Shut up."
That was usually my response.
CRACK!!
"Whoa."
At least pre-regression Kang Gihoo wasn't lying. His swing wasn't perfect yet—he was still young—but the raw power was insane.
"Clean rip."
Too bad he wouldn't snag Rookie of the Year this time. What can you do? His competition's me.
Bottom of the third. One homer broke the scoreless tie.
"...Huh? Whoa... WHOOOOAAA!!"
It was such an out-of-nowhere homer that even the hitter looked stunned.
THWACK!!
"Strike!"
The Dodgers' starter, Andrew, didn't waver even after serving up a homer to the KBO doormat team's bottom of the order.
Tick!
"Foul!"
He kept dealing against the next batter, solid as ever.
THWACK!!
"Strike three!"
Andrew fanned our nine-hole guy, Jeong Hanseong.
Tick!
Then he induced a grounder from leadoff hitter Jeong Suyeong with a cutter.
WHOOSH!!
Fielded it himself.
"Out!"
End of inning.
"Tch."
Andrew clicked his tongue as he stepped off the mound and headed to the Dodgers' dugout. That's when I stood up from the Titans' dugout and took the hill.
Time to protect that 1-run lead courtesy of Kang Gihoo.
Three innings in, I'd faced nine batters. Now it was the second time around the lineup. Meaning.
'They're getting a little familiar with me.'
Not enough to solve me, though. I'm not that easy. But.
'Get complacent, and they might tag me.'
Last year's World Series champs. Top-tier lineup even in the bigs—no room for slacking. Of course.
THWACK!!
I wasn't about to get careless up there.
"Strike!"
My four-seamer jammed up and in on the lefty. He flinched, but it was a strike. With the machine calling balls and strikes, arguing with the ump's no use.
"Haa..."
Dodgers' Johnson knew it too. He sighed softly, shook his head, and reset in the box.
Tap tap.
Hanseong tapped the PitchCom, confirming. I nodded. And.
WHOOSH!!
Threw it. Same spot as the first pitch: up and in on the lefty.
BUZZ!!
Johnson swung as it came in hot... but.
'You sure about that?'
Just like every other hitter I'd faced.
"Ugh."
The pitch darted in hard, then showed late horizontal break toward his body at the plate.
'If you're getting comfy with me, time for a new weapon.'
Cutter it was.
Crack!!
Johnson flinched at the unexpected pitch but, credit to his contact skills, managed to fight it off into play. But.
Roll roll.
Not all in-play balls are hits. Especially off a crappy swing.
Plop.
I scooped the slow roller and tossed it lightly to first.
"Man... damn..."
Kang Gihoo fielded it and whistled.
"Good thing we're teammates. Facing you? Scary as hell."
His mentality was still soft—probably from low service time. His physique? Hardcore.
The Dodgers' two-hole hitter, Wild, was.
'Fuck! Fuck!'
cursing inwardly.
'He throws cutters too?'
Jin Yuha's arsenal had just gained another pitch.
'Damn Meteor! Damn Meteor's kid!'
A lifelong Dodgers fan, Wild approached this practice game differently from his teammates. The opponent was that Jin Yusung's son.
—"I'll gift a homer to Meteor's kid."
But he never dreamed he'd get shut down. Yuha was just Jin Yusung's son—nothing more. Not an MLB vet, not even KBO-tested.
Once-in-a-generation prospect? He'd been called that in his amateur days too. But.
First at-bat: three pitches, three strikes. Same as the leadoff guy he'd mocked, Johnson.
Wild admitted it. Yuha wasn't nothing. Plenty good enough to earn that prospect hype. But.
"This ain't just prospect talent..."
Upper-90s fastball? Plenty of minor leaguers touch that.
Sweeper with nasty horizontal break? Sure, elite prospects need one polished off-speed.
Changeup that mirrors the fastball? Essential for any starter dreaming big against opposite-handers.
But now a cutter too? This wasn't prospect level anymore. Prospects have elite raw talent but are still raw. Yuha was a finished product. Killer command and velocity aside, how many high-quality breaking balls did he have?
What drove Wild nuts was.
'That guy's holding back even more...'
He was sure he hadn't seen Yuha's full arsenal. So.
THWACK!!
"Strike!"
He zoned out in the box for a sec.
THWACK!!
"Strike!"
Count ran deep in a blink.
"No fear at all... You calling the shots?"
Wild called time, stepped out, and griped at the catcher.
The young face behind the mask stayed stone-cold.
"I don't know English."
That was it.
"Ha."
He'd forgotten for a sec—the monster on the mound aside, this was a Korean team.
'Fine...'
Wild scratched his helmet with the bat and stepped back in.
'I ain't going down easy.'
Tap tap.
Catcher hit the PitchCom the second he settled. Mound nodded. And.
WHOOSH!!
Here came the pitch.
'First two were four-seamers.'
This looked like one too. But.
'Nah, not a four-seam.'
Then.
'Changeup...!'
A changeup's toast once the hitter reads it.
'Gonna make that pretty boy face scrunch up!'
Wild delayed his swing a beat. Weight back, uppercut to loft it. Perfect changeup counter.
WHOOSH!!
If it'd been a real changeup, he might've yanked it out of the park.
"...What?!"
It arrived later than fastball speed and dropped, like expected. But.
'Fast?'
Way quicker than a changeup. And as it sank, it broke horizontally toward his body—as a righty.
'What the hell pitch is this!'
Wild flailed to make contact, but.
BUZZ!!
No dice.
"Swinging strike three!"
Thud!!
He collapsed mid-swing, ass-first, staring at the board in shock.
— 92 mph
A dropping breaker about 3-4 mph faster than a changeup.
'High-velocity splitter? Sinker? Or... splinker?'
Whatever it was, one conclusion.
'He is hiding more...!'
Wild knew he'd have nightmares tonight.
5 IP, 58 pitches, 2 hits, 8 Ks, scoreless. My final line for the day.
"...Gotta admit it."
Pitching coach Kim Pilsun conceded defeat right away. I didn't need his help—I was that pitcher.
"Haha! Kim's a great coach, but the world has geniuses who don't need teaching."
Gordon grinned and patted his shoulder.
"Didn't you say you taught him?"
Kim surprisingly spoke English.
"Ah, that was a white lie."
Gordon admitted it casually.
"Wha—what?!" "Hahaha! Good ending, so all's well, right?"
But while my outing was solid, the game wasn't.
After I exited, the Dodgers' bats took out their frustrations on our bullpen. Final score:
Busan Titans 3 : 11 LA Dodgers
Inevitable, really. No one's feelings got hurt.
Just.
"Why the hell did that guy grace our team?" "Heh. The rook does 5 scoreless, I can't even get outs and cough up 4. I'm trash. The rook's a god."
Awe for the guy who owned the Dodgers' lineup.
. . .
After first spring camp wrapped, we headed to Japan for the second camp. After a few more practices, exhibition games loomed. One day.
"Yuha, you won't be starting any exhibitions."
Manager Jeong Hyeonho dropped a bombshell.