Beet-Red Harbor
His face glowing crimson, Noh In-seong walked through his front door — only to find no refuge there, either.
"Ahaha! Oppa, your face is so red! You're totally flustered!"
"I've never seen my son this embarrassed before... how fascinating."
That was the combined special attack of the two close-knit women, of course — and on top of it came his father's petty revenge for having his liquor confiscated, delivered in the form of pointed little coughs.
"Hmhm... hmhmhm... khhk, khhk..."
"Ugh, just call me when dinner's ready!"
It wrapped up, at least, with a furiously red-faced In-seong storming off into his room.
"...Damn it. Somebody definitely sent them that photo on purpose...!!"
And he stewed, fuming over exactly who he needed to take this rage out on.
The next day, with Chuseok just around the corner — perhaps in the spirit of holiday gift-giving — Manager Jeong Im-taek handed Noh In-seong a bonus as he dragged himself out of bed for work.
"In-seong, you don't need to play in the Daegu series."
"KIYAAAHOO—!"
The most delicious bonus in the world: time off. The opponent was already using their remaining games as a showcase for freshly excavated second-tier call-ups who'd stripped even the wild grapevines bare, so the Doubles intended to do the same — turning the rest of the schedule into a stage for their youngsters and non-starting backups.
Didn't In-seong rest often enough already? Well, that was precisely why he'd run himself ragged at triple the intensity. He could fill his remaining plate appearances in no time. Grinning, In-seong accepted this joyous vacation with open arms.
"Oh, right. Someone from the front office came by earlier. Said they need you to stop in for a moment."
"...Excuse me?"
"Just take care of that one thing and get your rest. Got it?"
"...Manager. Manager?! Hey! You damn piece of— HE HUNG UP ON ME!"
Whether this actually counted as a vacation, or merely as resting between chores, he couldn't say — but between that and the smear campaign that had been running since yesterday, his face burned hot enough to see the anger with the naked eye.
"Aargh, I'm going to lose it. Fine. Let just ONE person cross me today."
And so Noh In-seong marched to the club's front office, practically radiating fury.
No matter how much the players rested, the organization itself couldn't afford to — not with fall baseball bearing down on them.
"Aagh, I TOLD you to get the ads uploaded in advance! Where are the online mall placements?!"
"I said stock up on the jackets ahead of time! The promotion's been running for ages!"
"Did you secure the players' cooperation? Lock in the interviews early! Who's handling the edits?!"
And for the first-place Doubles, doubly so. The friendly-broadcast partners they needed lined up before the postseason began, merchandising and product sales, the ad packages to send off to their parent corporation, interviews... Being locked into first place was no license to sit back.
Which was exactly when Noh In-seong — a man who'd thought today was his day off and had taken a proverbial frying pan to the back of the head — arrived at the office.
The employee who'd greeted him, naturally, was the one who'd assumed his cooperation was a done deal and started walking him through today's schedule.
"...So you're telling me I have to shoot the ads AND the interviews?"
Like hell he would, you damned bastards—!!
There were no negotiations to be had; only a roar came back. And just like that, the entire front office's carefully projected schedule began detonating on the spot.
The man who ultimately defused everything was the general manager. First, everyone calmed down. Then: what, exactly, was each party's problem?
"...So explain to me why, and for what possible purpose, somebody let that photo get used in an advertisement."
"You did give consent — though of course, we apologize for how much you trusted us with your image..."
They brought in the staff member responsible and had him walk through what had happened.
"Now, per the contract — when the parent company makes a request, the amount, costs excluded..."
"That amount was most definitely provided! And frankly, the money you received was quite substantial, you know?"
"...How much, exactly?"
Simple: appease him with the lavish sum. The parent company had expensed it generously, and since the player was in high demand, they'd padded his appearance fee handsomely too.
An ambiguous payout only fans the flames of rage — but a pile of money like this?
"The amount came to THIS? You're just going to throw away this amount?"
"S-s-s... s-s... *bow*—!"
Surrender on the spot, complete with a deep martial-arts bow. Financial treatment has cured even the most incurable disease of wounded pride, in every era. In-seong had been furious, true — but once it became a matter of immediate, serious money, he simply couldn't sustain the rage to the end.
In exchange for having his shame plastered across a wall, a rice-cake commercial's worth of appearance fees came rolling in. His anger washed away as if it had never existed, replaced by a burning newfound loyalty to work even harder. The interview, and the negotiations for the additional product ads to follow, were wrapped up in the blink of an eye.
"Money is always right. Got it, you bastards?"
"A-as expected of the general manager, sir. We never doubted you."
It was proof that decades of experience are never accumulated in vain.
"Ugh. From now on I'm telling them to check every single photo, one by one, before using it."
The trouble had started with one particular request among his various ad contracts: a deal that would use only still photos from his perfect game, requiring him to do no movement work at all. The offer had come through the parent company, and the club had said they'd handle everything. His condition had been absolutely wrecked in the aftermath of the perfect game, so he'd gone along with a static ad.
He'd assumed the club would send over suitably heroic-looking photos. Instead, what lunatic had looked at a picture of him mid-scream and thought, yes, this is cool? The reward for placing his trust in them was public humiliation in front of his own family. How was anyone supposed to stomach that?
'...So THIS bastard gets to turn me into a rice-cake ad twice over with garbage like that?'
'What the hell? It's fine for me to look like a lowlife thug, but the one genuinely moving moment isn't allowed to look good?'
From the staff member's perspective, hearing that was utterly baffling — but rules were rules.
"Listen properly when someone's talking to you, you punk!"
"Eep."
If you pick and send photos without so much as a consultation, and the subject ends up steaming mad, then it's your fault, plain and simple. And so, as a small and petty act of revenge, Noh In-seong sentenced the man in charge to thirty minutes of standing at attention, holding the hideous photo.
"Beats writing a formal letter of apology and getting strictly disciplined under company regulations, doesn't it?"
"Oh, absolutely, sir. Thank you for your leniency."
Though for the man on the receiving end, even a thirty-minute stretch was something to be grateful for.
The Doubles' final game of the season — Daegu, minus Noh In-seong — wound down in perfect peace and tranquility.
"A game without that lunatic? I love it!"
"You lunatic, that lunatic could still show up, you know!"
...The reason for the peace seemed a little off, but whatever — good was good, so call it good.
One Daegu coach had floated the idea of scouting them properly ahead of the Korean Series.
"Predictable. Why would we burn any more of our data on this?"
The response was pure sandbagging — if anything, the Doubles held out even more of their regulars. What remained was a WWE lovefest of mutual eye contact: I'm going to hit this signature move, so be a dear and sell it.
The battle of first place versus second place concluded as a game only the truly hardcore fans could enjoy.
"I recognize fewer guys out there than ones I don't?"
"Who cares. We won one, didn't we? Go ahead and yell."
One win, one loss — a tidy split, a victory and a defeat banked apiece. And with that, the Doubles turned their attention to their next opponent: Incheon.
"That goddamn bastard..."
Two Incheon players, teeth grinding, finally returned after what felt like geological ages. Incheon's starting catcher, Jeong Mi-ru. And one more.
"Just thinking about that bastard and my ribs still throb like clockwork."
Song Jeong-woo, the second baseman who'd been on the receiving end of a 'relay throw' at second, was back at last, bones finally knitted together. Both men still felt twinges in their sides.
"But even that doesn't measure up to how much I can't forgive that goddamn bastard."
What truly gnawed at them was In-seong thriving — putting up the greatest numbers of all time, no less. They knew exactly how long they'd spent grinding their teeth in hospital beds, listening to that bastard's interviews on the ward TV.
"This time, we take our revenge. Definitely. Definitely, that son of a bitch pays."
Song Jeong-woo's eyes gleamed with a strange, feverish light.
"Two players Noh In-seong injured are finally back from their injuries — how does that make you feel?"
The day after the Daegu series ended, on his way in to work, In-seong got his legs tackled to the ground by a reporter he knew all too well.
"...No, you absolute lunatic, what the hell are you doing tackling me?!"
"Then do interviews more often, if you don't like it! Why'd you dodge the last one?!"
Of all the crazies he knew, the two worst: one was his channel's manager-slash-editor, who specialized in blood-pressure-spiking thumbnails. The other was the man currently draped across his legs.
"So you tackle a perfectly healthy man on his way to work with BOTH ARMS?! Are you insane?!"
Reporter Jeong was throwing every last ounce of strength into snagging a pre-work interview.
"Ugh, let GO! Fine... fine! ONE question. One. Got it?!"
"Four!"
"Don't be ridiculous! Two!"
"Four!"
"Unbelievable! You don't even live in Jongno and THIS is your idea of negotiation?!"
The deal finally closed at three — and while a dust-covered Reporter Jeong beamed with delight, In-seong walked into his interview looking ten times more exhausted than his outwardly pristine face let on.
"...He is genuinely, certifiably insane..."
Meanwhile, the Incheon batters watching that 'interview,' posted before the game, were in a spectacularly foul mood.
"Acting Manager... is this really acceptable?"
"Are we seriously supposed to sit through hearing THAT? What do we even have left to lose?"
Thanks to a failed season, Manager Jeong Yong-jun — who had at least used them well — had been cut loose, and several core players were only now returning from injury.
"Still, you all have next year too... wouldn't it be wiser to close this season out quietly?"
An 'acting' manager, no less — a man without much real authority could hardly rein in his players' thirst for vengeance.
"We won't be helping. Sort it out yourselves."
The pitchers, of course, wanted nothing to do with any of it. Jin Woo-jeong, the backbone of the pitching staff, had been thrown away because of that goddamn bastard, and Jin Sa-rang had finally been worked onto a hospital bed by the abuse. Save for the handful of pitchers who'd never gotten a real chance anyway, resentment toward the situation ran quietly through the entire corps. The team had been torn clean down the middle.
"The batters oppose coddling the pitchers!"
"The pitchers think the batters are nothing but troublemakers!"
The mood had devolved into mutual suspicion — and before the game against the Doubles had even begun, Incheon's clubhouse was darker than the stadium lights.
"Strike!"
"Time!"
"...What the hell, calling time on the very first pitch?"
Noh In-seong had been watching the outside slider barely graze the corner of the zone, thinking, whoa, you insane bastard, look at that filthy pitch, eyes locked on Jin Noh-ryeok — when the freshly-returned catcher kid stormed up the mound and started screaming.
I said I don't like it... You were catching them before... blocking them... 'blocking,' my ass...
The two exchanged angry words, and the acting manager had to jog out and forcibly pry them apart.
The commentators were puzzled too, and the two players separated once more.
"Ball!"
The next pitch was also outside — a completely opposite target. The sight of the catcher desperately flinging his arm out to snag it said everything: something was seriously wrong.
'...This son of a bitch. He's trying to come inside on my body now?'
"You wanna die? This bastard's been playing games from the very first pitch."
Griiiin—
"Was shattering my ribs the kind of joke that was okay to pull?"
Face to face with malice coming straight at him, Noh In-seong simply grinned. He could feel it — danger that, at some point, had stopped being aimed anywhere else.
"Ah. Yeah. This is the fun part."
All the pleasures he never got to feel on ordinary days began coursing through his whole body, one by one.
The Incheon players had split into two camps: those who worried, and those who raged.
"He's beaten half our roster bloody and put them on the injured list!"
That was the whole of the batters' argument, if it could be boiled down — their loud hope that the pitchers would step up and participate.
"And HOW, exactly, do you plan to take down that lunatic?!"
From the pitchers' side, the math was simple: take one comebacker to the ribs mid-delivery, and your season is a corpse. Which was, of course, exactly why the brushback gambit failed.
Noh In-seong drew a four-pitch walk, and the moment he stood on first, Jeong Mi-ru spat onto the dirt, deliberately, ostentatiously.
"Coward bastard."
But the catcher keeping watch over second base was practically drowning in composure.
'...It's not like he won't try to steal. And I'm hardly a catcher with a cannon for an arm anyway.'
Right on cue, Noh In-seong began widening his lead. And standing there, glaring daggers at the man who'd shattered his ribs, was Song Jeong-woo.
Come on. Come ON. Time you got a taste of your own medicine.
Ever since that throw had struck him down, Song Jeong-woo had learned, bone-deep, just how long surgery and rehabilitation truly were.
My throws may be slow, but I know a hundred ways to make sure that goddamn bastard gets hurt on purpose.
'And with the season this close to over, every single plate appearance has to be precious to him.'
Would a man just barely short of qualifying plate appearances really have the nerve to trigger a bench-clearing brawl?
Whether he knew it or not, In-seong's lead kept stretching wider and wider.
The catcher fired the ball to the exact spot where a collision was guaranteed, and the face of that approaching, goddamn bastard filled Song Jeong-woo's vision.
Perfect. This way I take the ball cleanly in midair, and as I come down, I bury this bastard into the ground.
Right on the base line — it'll look like nothing more than a panicked mistake. Let's see that flustered face of yours, shall we...
And in the very next instant, the spot that had broken once shattered with agony all over again. Without any understanding of what was happening, Song Jeong-woo went down hard, absorbing yet another tremendous impact.
...I was... airborne...
His thoughts couldn't string themselves together — only fragments of words were surfacing, one by one—
"Me? I'd rather watch every last one of you crash and burn than just coast along doing fine myself."
Those were the bastard's final words before Song Jeong-woo's consciousness went dark.
Once in the early season. Once in the middle. Once at the end. Three times in a single season, Song Jeong-woo had been injured.