Game Over?

Stung by Daegu's sudden sneak attack, the two teams could only glare at the Lions while rubbing the backs of their own aching heads.

"?? What are you all staring at me for? You didn't honestly expect me to run my second-stringers forever, did you?"

Faced with an interview from the Daegu manager — whose face was insufferably, rage-inducingly smug — neither team could bring itself to answer.

Fielding the first team had been Daegu's God-given right since the franchise was founded. Blindsiding everyone with a full-strength punch was rude, admittedly. But then—

"Weren't YOU the rude ones, countin' on free meals off of us forever?"

And since this was, in fact, a legitimate and honest fight to the very last out, everyone had to shut their mouths. Not that anyone stopped being angry about it.

"Damn punks, if you'd tried this hard YESTERDAY this thing would already be over!"

Gwangju poured out its sense of betrayal, demanding to know why they hadn't bothered trying in the previous two games.

"And why'd you run your second team against US back then, huh?!"

The Grizzlies, dredging up grievances from even further back, were furious beyond words. The betrayal they'd felt just one day earlier, upon learning Daegu would field its first team, exceeded all imagination.

‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠

"Seriously? They couldn't just finish out the season with the second string? Those sons of bitches dragged the ENTIRE first squad in here?!"

J-Lo and Hector, ground into paste over a full season of pitching, were of course spent too. Sung Ji-chang and Kim Seong-ju, called up for their bats, were one thing — but—

"My knee's going! I'm telling you my knee is GOING!?"

Jeong Han-sol, the old and battered veteran catcher, genuinely, desperately needed rest. Push him any further, and they could forget about using this high-performance old fog— no, workhorse in the fall classic.

The bullpen was even more wretched. Closer Cho Hoon was technically on the roster, but he'd all but completed his conversion into a cyber pitcher.

For the blood-soaked bear, the only road left was beating the opponent in a pure slugfest. Except—

"Pardon? Our team ranks second in the league in batting average."

In the hand of the Lion — who had lolled about and gorged himself while everyone else ran — sat a large and imposing Etiquette Injector.

"Excuse me, sir, what exactly is that you're holding?"

"What's it look like? The loving embrace of a .286 average."

Their formula: the slap hitters peck away as a swarm, and Jong Min-soo finishes the job. At a glance, it looked not so different from the Grizzlies. Except—

"You Jamsil-dwelling punks must have some lovely batting numbers, hmm?"

A park factor of 112. These were men who played their home games in a cauldron comparable to the suffocating hell of high altitude. And surely, batters spoiled by such a hitter-friendly park would fall apart the moment they left it? Well—

"Not much difference, actually. About the same as you guys. Maybe a hair better."

"Tch."

A team batting average of .287, hoisted skyward by the fantastic shit-show of Noh In-seong and Song Jin-wook. Strip away the trap hidden in that average, and in any other year it was a number that could have led the league outright.

Their clubs hurt like hell, the shield meant to stop them stood one blow from shattering — and the opponents they needed to club into unconsciousness came in gleaming and fully rested. The Grizzlies, placed in a deeply lopsided situation, pulled the most pitiful of faces.

Meanwhile, how were things on the other side?

"SHIIIIT—!!!"

"Yesterday was our last chance! If we'd just won yesterday we wouldn't be going through this horseshit!"

Gwangju was, naturally, despairing at somewhere between two and four times the Grizzlies' intensity. Dead even. Genuinely, dead even.

"Unbelievable. Man, I miss the old days."

Apparently even the bygone league — where teams barely catching the last train to October squabbled over head-to-head results — hadn't been enough. This is a sport watched only by dopamine addicts, is it? Then let's make the end of the season hit the dopamine even harder. So they gathered up the teams cut down at October's doorstep, or the ones deadlocked on winning percentage in the race for first—

"From here on out, you start over from zero. Now beat the hell out of each other."

A rule that settled things with one extra, honestly contested game, no matter who had padded their record harder across 144 regular-season contests. And as the tiebreaker rule rolled out to the race for first and then the race for fifth in turn, countless fans thought the exact same thing:

"Hold on, why do the teams above and below us get head-to-head tiebreakers when they tie, but not us?"

Why doesn't the battle for second or third get that treatment? This is reverse discrimination!

And so the Korean baseball authorities — enlightened on this one subject and this one subject only — issued their decree:

"You make a fair point. In that case, let us all go down together."

Thus, through countless meetings and a mountain of botched implementations, the year 2031 finally arrived—

"Excellent! All postseason baseball is hereby liberated from the refuge of Super-Cowards known as the head-to-head record!"

And so was completed the rule that stands in 2051: 'If You're Mad, Win One More Game.'

"Damn it, why does it have to be THAT maniac I run into at a time like this..."

These were games you had to win, period, with every branch of victory and defeat hanging on the outcome. And the fight club of macho men beating each other's faces in at full strength had vanished without a trace — because the team that showed up was the Doubles, carrying as their weapon a lunatic over there spinning in circles and introducing himself.

"How DARE you disturb this body's peace of mind."

Where on earth had he learned ballet instead of giving interviews — this man advancing while executing textbook pirouettes?

"A pleasure to meet you. I'm fWAR 5.4, Pitch-Inseong."

"And I'm oWAR 10.76, Hit-Inseong."

"Please, for the love of god, don't get along."

Combined WAR north of 16. Watching the Doubles bring a machine gun to a fistfight, Gwangju felt death approaching.

He was filming a fun video for Nertube, and the Gwangju players he couldn't stand were watching him. What if I stroll over and crack a joke — would these guys actually laugh? Turns out even a fully improvised one-liner couldn't wring a single laugh out of them.

"......"

"I'm pitching today until the plate-appearance minimum is settled. So everybody give it your best, now."

They at least seemed to understand the words, judging by all the scowling.

Then, with a beaming smile, he raised his middle finger, turned back to the drone, and said:

"You can cut the camera now. Don't forget to settle my revenue share."

"Y-yes... sir. Are you sure this image is okay for you?"

"I'm already a full-time clown. What's one more at this point..."

The cameraman's concern was genuinely touching — but it was far too late. Thanks to the mushy rice cake incident, followed by the chewy rice cake one, he was already a mandatory element of the internet.

"Fuck, why is there even a gif of me throwing a punch in a clip of some guy tripping on the sidewalk?"

Adding one more at this point would just be pissing on his own frozen feet.

Noh In-seong lamented, recalling his long-since-dead public image.

Whatever anyone's feelings, it went without saying that Noh In-seong would be the one on the mound.

PWOENG!

"Swing! Strike three — batter out!"

"...Hah... this bastard really does look a bit off his game today..."

Jeong Him-chan whiffed at air, shaking his head with an unreadable expression as he trudged back to the dugout.

"Whew. Maybe mocking them with the ballet spin was a mistake. That was, surprisingly, a brutally hard movement."

There was a reason people said never to pick a fight with a ballerina. Every single motion strained you, hurt you, tormented you — which naturally made the whole thing elite muscle training.

Having had his lower body wrecked from the very first inning, Noh In-seong's fastball had settled into a state of... let's call it 'adequate.'

The problem was that things did not end there.

"Noh In-seong! Intentional walk! Take first base!"

"...WHAT?! It's his FIRST plate appearance, you bastards!"

"That's right. And you're a pitcher. Go on, run once. Didn't you steal thirty-nine bags?"

Use the 40-stolen-base milestone as bait, and let him burn that stamina to his heart's content.

Joo Ji-hoon had succeeded in avenging his long-suffered humiliations — along an entirely different vector. As if to announce that lower-body training was far from over, Noh In-seong jogged down to first from his very first plate appearance of the day.

Still — a served-on-a-silver-platter meal was a served meal.

Obviously Noh In-seong wasn't about to decline running against a catcher with bottom-of-the-league caught-stealing numbers.

The commentary booth fell silent for two entirely separate reasons. One: at this rate, an even greater record would go completely unwitnessed today. And two—

"You motherless bastards! I will genuinely KILL you!"

"You think I bought tickets to YOUR game to watch this?! You wanna get beaten to death?!"

"We went pretty easy on you yesterday, didn't we?! We learned a thing or two from the Suwon kids!"

The trouble was what the people inside the stadium — furious over this intentional walk — were doing about it.

"Hey! Keep walking him from now on! I want to see how many people get hurt by the end of this game!"

Having abandoned all thought of steals or baserunning from second base onward, Noh In-seong simply laughed out loud.

"...Damn it."

At this rate, before his own spot in the lineup or the team's record, he'd need to worry about his own life. The price of obstructing a record made once in the entire first year of Korean baseball history was proving quite steep.

Noh In-seong: 40 stolen bases, 1 caught stealing — the most miserable baserunner in the league to deal with.

He was irritatingly fast to begin with, but the true masterpiece was what he did whenever he reached base at all.

"Hey! I'm taking third this time! I SAID I'm going for THIRD! Infielders! Eyes sharp!"

Bellowed at the top of his lungs ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠before the pitcher had even come set — since, after all, no pitch had been thrown yet.

"Ugh, shut UP. That damned bastard, seriously."

With no ball in play, there was obviously no balk to call. And since he wasn't hurling abuse — merely devoting himself single-mindedly to scattering the opposition's concentration — this too was technically legal.

The infielders' composure shredded to ribbons, the pitcher too busy wondering is he really going to run? to throw anything decent. And whatever happened to the clause against fraternizing with the opposing team?

"What are you looking at, you pre-crumpled-faced bastard."

Oh, so whispering double-barreled profanity makes you close friends now? At this point you'd call them sworn brothers.

"......"

But fire back with anger and you'd catch a fastball square in the backside, so shut up and endure it.

CRACK—!!

And Gwangju's rattled starter sent his fraying sanity sailing upward to precisely the height the ball had reached.

But baseball is the sport of uncertainty itself.

"Whew, shit. Those bastards really were saving him up just to make ME run, huh."

Noh In-seong paid the full price for the stamina he'd burned at the plate and on the bases.

Think my life's a joke? Want to try dying once? Having received the public's verdict from his first plate appearance, Gwangju gave him a genuine battle the second time around — but the moment one big blast left the yard, they switched tactics entirely.

"Ooh, hey! His bat is alive! Walk him if it kills you!"

"...Wouldn't I be the first one to die, though?"

"...WALK HIM!"

Gwangju's manager apologized to his starter with the most sheepish of grimaces — but they had to win first, didn't they? This was no time to fuss over whether the rice was sitting in hot or cold soup.

Something also seemed to come flying right in front of the dugout, but for the sake of winning, there was nothing to be done.

KHK—!

Though even he never imagined an actual chamoe melon would smack into the back of his head. Being the Gwangju manager, wasn't this tradition too?

In the end, Noh In-seong stepped in for his next plate appearance only to jog down the line yet again.

TAK—!!

Gwangju's batters, venom at a rolling boil, dug in ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠one after another with maddening persistence.

"Haah... just block it with your body at least, you defensively hopeless bastard."

"I'm sorrryyy—!!"

And amid it all, they were suffering equally from the defensive liability of a certain man at first base who couldn't quite catch a ball.

Why would Noh In-seong, armed with a quality two-seamer, insist on a style built around ten-plus strikeouts per nine innings? 'Partly to keep the ball out of play — but mostly because that lunatic can't catch.'

You could not trust the defense. You had to finish it yourself. At least on days Noh In-seong pitched, that was the law.

"Even on a normal day he catches, what, nine out of ten?!"

"He's over ninety percent right now too, you punk!"

Nobody lent Song Jin-wook's nonsense so much as an ear.

Two runs allowed through seven innings. 2-2, deadlocked. And then—

CRACK—!!

"Wow, you guys are really not helping me out at ALL today, huh."

Running on fumes, praying for a single pitch to break his way. And that day, the opposition swung with monomaniacal obsession at nothing but the barely-thrown fading slider.

A batter whose swing traced a bizarre arc closer to a professional golfer's than a hitter's.

Joo Ji-hoon — a man whose accumulated grievances could not have fit on a convoy of 2.5-ton trucks — hopped up and down in celebration.

"...Phew. Last chance."

Top of the ninth. The final swing of the dice for the road-worn Doubles.

With no sign his spot in the order would come around, Noh In-seong folded up his hopes. 343 at-bats. 137 hits. A batting average of .399.

"Well. Can't be helped. This record will have to wait for next year."

Half-resigned — besides, from the next inning on, simply gripping the ball properly would be a chore. Just as Noh In-seong began easing into his cooldown stretches—

a strange nuclear fusion reaction ignited over there.

It started with Lim Jin-hong, summoned from Gwangju's trusted relief corps. First, he's at least stronger against right-handed hitters, so at minimum Jo In-soo has to be dealt with and sent back down! Or so the Gwangju manager reasoned.

CRACK—!!

"It's not over! I said it's NOT OVER!"

Jo In-soo — the Wind Turbine, in the midst of a career-high season, his stroke anything but ordinary since the last game — had done it yet again.

It would have been nice if that were the end of it.

After handling the next two batters behind cleanup hitter Jo In-soo cleanly—

"Ball four! Runner to first!"

—the very next pitcher went and filled the bases with eight consecutive balls.

"Pitching change!"

Scrambling into a committee-closer system, they tried to put away the ninth-place hitter, but—

"Pinch hitter! Ji Hak-seong!"

Ji Hak-seong, the veteran sent up for the lamentable Kim Jun-soo, sliced the very first pitch — and it became the game's great misfortune.

tik—!!

One ground ball mis-hit so badly it produced the effect of a bunt came back around as a butterfly effect.

"Whoa. So we've actually got ourselves a chance, huh?"

The next batter, Noh In-seong, now stood at the plate with the bases loaded.

Even if he took the walk, a run came home — and waiting beyond that was Kim Jin-hong, a closer you could actually trust. Conceding a run without so much as a fight and staking everything on the bottom of the ninth felt far too precarious.

"...His last plate appearance came when the order started from the cleanup spot, so next inning it's the bottom of the lineup."

Easier, at least, than the miracle the Doubles had just staged. Except they didn't exactly have pitchers to spare either.

"...Pitch to him."

The Gwangju manager — his blood pressure already through the roof — raked both hands back through his hair like a man washing his face, and gave the order to his pitcher.

Before Noh In-seong, one at-bat — but everything.

"Get this hit and you're a .400 hitter. Miss it, and you're not."

"Don't strike a pose, punk. You're the one who clawed his way up here blubbering because nobody would give you a plate appear— KHK!"

The final chance had arrived.

"It felt good when you homered off me, didn't it? How's it feel now, huh?"

"......"

Joo Ji-hoon wasn't dignifying it with so much as a reply, just fiddling endlessly with his sign device. So he's nervous too, huh.

"Strike!"

The first pitch came in hard and hugged the outside corner for a called strike. As he tossed the ball back, the batter 'practiced' his grip — sliding his hand up to choke the top of the bat.

"...!!!"

Whether pitcher or catcher, anyone who saw it reacted on pure instinct — and the decoy bobber he'd cast out in hopes of a bite was taken, hook and all.

'They're actually falling for this?'

After the brief back-and-forth of signs, the second pitch was delivered. Perhaps hoping the bunt attempt would fail, they threw the modified fastball — the pitch the newly summoned Song Su-bin had learned only recently. Not as fast as his four-seamer.

'Cutter.'

The cutter, read perfectly, arrived dead center of the swinging bat—

and vanished into the sky.

"...NO!!!"

The ball with which Gwangju would lose the war of scenarios, utterly and completely, sailed clean out of the stadium and was gone.

"Haha. Fuck. So this is how it happens."

Noh In-seong didn't flip the bat, didn't style on anyone. He just stood there, staring blankly after it.

It was a day that reminded him, anew, that records are gifts dispensed by heaven.

344 at-bats. 138 hits. A batting average of .401.

Noh In-seong had succeeded in seizing, with both hands, the fortune that had descended upon him.