12. Winners Get the Last Word

Two games into the season, and the Doubles had buried the Phoenix at the bottom of a two-game losing skid.

And I, for my part, had sunk into a quagmire of my own — interviews. Well, to be fair, I was also the player of the game.

Apparently the way I'd barked at that bastard out on the field had made it onto the broadcast.

"Noh In-seong, what on earth possessed you to give Jung In-woong a Potato Fist...?"

Oh, that's what this was about? And here I thought it was something else.

"After the first game, one of our players came asking me — on that guy's orders, apparently — when I was planning to come over and apologize..."

"Ah, yes. So did you go apologize?"

Good grief. There are still reporters out there who don't understand me at all.

"No, I gave him a Potato Fist as a present. Same plant, after all. I don't apologize to ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠anyone who isn't on my team."

Still, with hands sized for a pitcher or a shortstop, I hoped he'd at least savor the jumbo potato.

"I... no, that is, well. He's a senior, so traditionally, when a junior causes a problem, the junior should be the one to go and apologize..."

"Now that's a weird take. Why exactly do you think it's a given that the junior apologizes? Genuinely curious."

No, seriously — what even is a junior? Was that bastard on my team? My school sunbae? Neither.

"The arrogance of assuming an apology is owed to him is disgusting enough on its own, but a grown man his age acting like a fossil is even worse."

So: instead of waiting around for apologies, lose some weight and fix that moronic glove work. Not being able to field first base isn't exactly a non-issue, is it?

The interview wrapped up in a scramble right after that last line — you could tell they were panicking. They clearly hadn't expected me to go this far.

Works for me. Let the Broadcasting Commission ride them for a while; then maybe they'll stop bugging me.

Of course, after that interview, I enjoyed phenomenal popularity out on the streets of Daejeon.

It was a day game, so before we boarded the bus for the overnight trip, they rounded up volunteers to go buy bread, and I tagged along...

No, seriously — they were booing us over buying bread?

"Whoa, In-sung hyung. We are here to buy bread, right?"

"...No way, this is your damn fault!"

Thanks to Dustin — the man who burns two hundred thousand won on bread, a human carbohydrate resupply unit — and yours truly, we made it to the famous bakery just fine.

Somewhere along the way, though, our coordinates got leaked. Guys in Phoenix uniforms were tailing us.

"Well, that's about all they've got."

I held up ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the fried red bean bun — the bestselling item at the legendary bakery.

"So THIS is what you call booing?!"

CRUNCH!CRACK!

Gone in exactly two bites. It's the kind of bread that crumples up nice and neat when you cram it in, anyway.

"...There's none left! Your booing? So what are you gonna do about it, huh?! Booing is all you've got! Chewing takes care of the rest!"

What are they going to do — hurt my career? Dent my replica jersey sales? Yeah. Absolutely nothing.

"Hahaha! I know damn well you were never going to be my fans anyway! My loyalty belongs to our team's fans and my own personal fans, and nobody else!"

You're not our team, are you. Vanish already, you losers of an opening two-game sweep!

...Saying it with that much swagger was all well and good, but those people's eyes were seriously rolling back.

Was there a bubble tea shop nearby or something? Bubble tea, bread, and even foul balls — plenty came flying at us.

We grabbed 300,000 won worth of bread and hightailed it out of there in a full sprint.

Oh. Right. And I'd forgotten one small thing — even non-fans can do me harm.

"In-sung, here's your fine notice."

The front office handed me the paperwork. Provoking fans obviously isn't a fineable offense, but...

"Then why'd you let the game cameras catch the Potato Fist? You should've just said it with words."

Ah, and there goes a million won of my salary...

Damn you, Jung In-woong. Next time we play, I really will have to hit a home run off you and moonwalk all the way down to first base.

Riding high on back-to-back wins, the Doubles were in a great mood.

Sure, one lunatic had churned the stomachs of countless baseball fans across the country — but that was just the losers' whining.

In pro sports, only the winner gets to run his mouth. That's gospel. And among the winners, the ones with bad numbers get put through the wringer.

But a winner whose numbers, right there in that very game, were flat-out brilliant? Say no more.

...So yes, there are players who stand out so badly that even their own fans can't raise a shield for them — but that's a minority.

Now, on the flip side — unlike the battered Phoenix, what do you suppose the mood looked like for the other team that had banked its second straight loss from opening day?

Especially when the starters had been reasonably decent, and the bats hadn't done badly either.

One game where they gave up eight-plus runs in the eighth inning alone.

One where the starter blew up early, they chased the whole way, and never got the lead back.

The people raging online were, if anything, the tame ones.

"...I TOLD you not to let those damn wreaths through!"

"But sir, if the vendors can't deliver, they don't get properly paid..."

"Quiet! Go back to every vendor and tell them not to send that stuff! And tell that truck company too!"

Offline, the person who walks right into the team office carrying a wreath reading—

— that's a genuinely angry person.

Thankfully, all this was still just the product of a failed draft and some early botched trades, so it ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠ended at roughly this level.

The last time a Tragic Number was set, just a year ago, there had been an attempted team bus overturning. An attempted team bus arson.

"Ahh... honestly, I just hope this season passes by quietly."

So thought every single staff member clearing away the funeral wreaths —

none of them knowing that the firewood meant to truly burn this club down hadn't even made it into the furnace yet.

I sat there spacing out while waiting to go on air.

Today the network wanted me on before the game, appearance fee included — they'd come all the way to the team lodging to ask.

Still, hauling myself to the studio was a hassle, so I agreed to a remote interview and nothing more. I've got a perfectly good camera anyway.

Well, given who the opponent was and the things I'd already said, they must have figured the ratings bump was guaranteed.

If I'm going to talk anyway, I should at least get paid for it. That's simply the correct way to live.

After a while, a network staffer who'd dropped by the lodging told me the show was entering the live queue soon, and to get ready.

Three, two, one. The red light blinked on over the camera, and the lighting ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the director had dragged in turned blinding.

"Pleasure to be here. Doubles player, Noh In-seong."

So. What do you want to know, friends?

Once the ritual greetings, the ritual praise of my stats, and the light small talk — you're so young, you're so good — were out of the way, the very first thing they asked was this:

"Uh... what did I say again? It wasn't exactly one line, so my memory's a little fuzzy on it."

"Ah... right, I think I did say something like that."

I took a sip of water, cleared my throat, and began.

"Hmm, back then I said that without really knowing any better, I suppose."

"No. I mean, someone did try to throw a firebomb at the team bus last year, and Busan's record was already in the gutter anyway."

"Saying unnecessary things to a corpse — I realized that later on. So for wasting energy on it back then, I sincerely apologize."

"Oh, that's right — Reporter Joo So-young, you're a Busan fan, aren't you? Your teeth must be hurting by now. My apologies for that."

Judging by the way the other two panelists were cracking up, I'd say that landed well.

"Well, when I heard that the player they'd picked over me had Dead Arm, I just recited what popped into my head right there on the spot."

Ooh, this one's fun. Poke her once and the reaction pops right out — a genuinely entertaining person.

Alright. Time to open the floodgates of my heart and let it all pour out.

"Honestly, I don't understand that manager's reaction at all."

"Getting that worked up over something so tiny — looking at the monument Busan built last year, he should've already been hospitalized with hypertension."

"What is Media Day for, exactly? Isn't it a day for giving the fans a good time?"

"In comedy, everything is permitted for the sake of a laugh. Failing to laugh along at a Roast — honestly, some people..."

"I couldn't even say everything I wanted, actually. I was planning to joke that Busan doesn't need a three-foot rule, it needs a six-foot rule."

"Oh, what does six feet mean? Six Feet Under — the depth you dig to bury a coffin."

"He was already fuming before I could even land the joke, and I figured if I stuck around any longer I'd end up slapping him across the face like that movie actor, so I bolted."

From the absurd Media Day remarks of that day,

"The draft should be run lottery-style — hand out extra picks based on how bad your record was. Automatically giving the number one pick to whoever's worst is exactly why they can't climb out of the basement."

"What lunatic prospect wants to join a team that collects losses like sweet-and-sour pork coupons as a reward for all his hard work? Going to the majors, or to college — that's the right call."

"Keep it up, and every prospect leaks out. Then the club either dissolves entirely or squeezes whatever's left dry to scrape together a decent season."

"Give the losers something sweet, and they'll do it all over again — getting themselves off on 'we landed another franchise prospect!' while deceiving their own fans. So no, I don't think they deserve more chances."

"Me? I'm happy with the Doubles. At least they seem to understand what a retool actually is, and actually execute it."

— all the way to a berserk takedown of Busan's entire draft philosophy.

Midnight Baseball Friends posted its highest ratings since the show first aired.

At the price of one female reporter's deeply wounded heart.

But hey — a cable show cracked 3 percent. A toast, then, to beautiful ratings.