Waiting for Them
The win in Game 1 of the Wild Card had bought Gwangju a chance to catch its breath, however brief, and the team was granted a full rest day.
"Right now, recovery is everything! Recovery, above all! No training! Just breathe!"
"Ugh... breathing isn't exactly easy either, you know...!!"
There was no reason to celebrate just because the Wild Card against Daejeon had ended in a single game.
That 8–7 slugfest had forced Gwangju to burn through a bullpen that was already running on fumes.
Song Soo-bin, whose stock had risen somewhat out of the losing rotation, was groaning through his third consecutive day of pitching, and Lim Jin-hong had abandoned even his pre-game routine entirely, devoting himself to nothing but physical recovery.
"...Honestly, would it have been better to just get knocked out at this point?"
"Keep climbing. You know how big the bonus payout is for each round you advance."
Things were rough enough that the battered relievers found themselves weighing their careers against their future bank accounts.
A recovery window of just two days — hardly worth the single-game finish — was never going to restore anyone.
And into this crisis rolled the annual Always WWE debate: who gets to decide what's fair and unfair?
Once again, the ocean of information was circulating the same bait it had been dishing out every year since the postseason was established.
"...It's unreasonable! It's unfair!"
"What now? You barely-surviving losers who at least skipped the play-in game. Can't you rest?"
"Why do you guys get so much rest? We're the ones clawing our way up the hard way."
"...Why does one reporter fall for this idiotic bait every single year? How did you even get your press credentials?"
Such were the times — the world had advanced so far, and yet the Korean baseball scene was still serving the same old bait.
That seasonal cold of a controversy, the one that went around every year, found its way to the Yagurix channel as well.
"What about Japan or the Major Leagues? Ah, never mind Japan. Even the Majors only used to be like that."
It was an answer to a viewer's question: 'Why is baseball so generous to the first-place team?'
"Honestly, well... for anyone watching the Majors in 2051, it probably doesn't make sense."
After all, their own teams were fighting bloody battles right now — they'd wonder why all the fuss.
"Ever since the MLB settled into its current 32-team structure, the postseason has become an absolute bloodbath."
In the States, the eight division winners don't have it so bad. They're playing October baseball either way.
The problem was the second-place teams — the four Wild Card clubs.
"The second-place teams kill each other in a one-game playoff, and then the survivor gets matched against the division winner with the worst record of the four."
Naturally, teams have to grind harder than ever in the regular season.
A division title in a cushy division? Might as well consider that a guaranteed Wild Card berth.
But the second-place teams have it far worse. One game in the Wild Card clincher, one game in the Wild Card round.
Only by pouring their souls into those two measly games and somehow winning both does a real October finally begin.
"And if you win, then no matter who climbs up from the other side, the mud fight starts."
Beat the well-rested first-place team in a best-of-five, and the pennant champion of the other league is waiting.
Another best-of-seven. Only then do you finally earn your seat at the World Series. An absolute hellscape.
"Which is to say, it's only recently become comparable to our own postseason."
"With that many teams, things used to be fairly loose, but once it became four per league, it got brutal."
Japan is even worse.
"Once you hear how the Climax Series works, the advantage our first-place Doubles hold right now is nothing."
The second and third place teams of each league face off in a best-of-three first.
"Then the winner plays the first-place team — who gets handed a one-win head start — in a best-of-six."
With a Japanese-style advantage, beating the Doubles — this year's sole-league first-place team — would be a near-impossible task.
"Even if In-seong and Caleb start twice each out of six games, do you really think a team could take three of them?"
In a short series where Noh In-seong and Caleb take the mound twice apiece, there's no winning.
Yoo Jin-woo, the channel's owner, declared it flatly.
An ace with an ERA in the extreme low ones, backed by a second starter in the low twos — that advantage was simply too enormous.
"Which is why you're supposed to fight harder in the regular season. Crying after you lose is too late."
"Uh-oh, the Gwangju fans are spamming hate. We might need to cut this..."
"This is reality. I'm sure the Gwangju fans felt the same way the year they won the pennant."
Conceding that Yoo Jin-woo had a point, the viewers typed their agreement into chat, while Mook Jeong-ho's face crumpled at the thought of moderating it all.
Yoo Jin-woo's bait alone was a masterpiece, more than enough to shred the view counter.
But pour burning sauce over a delicious meal, and the views don't just rise — they multiply.
A man idly playing games in his room, thanks to the mutual courtesy the two hosts had always shown him.
"And with that, we've invited the person currently at the center of the biggest controversy on this topic."
"Ugh, this crazy bastard of a boss, screaming at me to turn off the comment section again..."
And so Noh In-seong appeared on Yoo Jin-woo's live broadcast via hologram, once again.
"...Wait, you're not SD Noh In-seong this time? I figured you'd be using that now."
"That's for when the stream's actually running. Right now I'm on camera because I'm too lazy to leave the house..."
Hair a bedheaded mess, Noh In-seong conducted the interview sprawled across his own bedroom floor.
"So, what's your take on all the protests? Do the first-place teams really get that many benefits?"
"Hmm, hard to say?"
Finishing first doesn't guarantee a championship, but it certainly helps.
The first-place team's championship rate — still north of 80 percent as of 2051 — proved as much.
"It's 'not bad'? Look, they're giving chances to everyone from second place down to fifth, one way or another."
Even a regular-season pennant means nothing if you slip in the final, winner-take-all tournaments.
In that sense, Korean baseball was 'not bad.'
"What I don't understand is whining when your season record is already locked in. If it bothers you that much, go win the damn thing."
"Yeah, figured you'd say that."
"Yep, honestly, I knew you'd drop that line at least once."
The conversation rolled on — how they'd been doing, when the next training camp was, national team call-ups and the like.
The interview continued in a broadly deferential tone toward a player whose MVP was already all but stamped.
Then, into the cozy Nertube interview, a single donation shattered the atmosphere.
"Oh, that's a fair point, actually."
The two hosts froze at the sight of Noh In-seong responding graciously to a donation that had just taken a shot at him.
Wait, that's not how his character works.
"Uh... Noh In-seong, what exactly do you mean by 'fair'—"
"I mean the part about not knowing how anyone's record will look next year. I agree completely. You lot are going to be freezing your asses off next season."
What the Superstars' new general manager had declared in an interview just yesterday resurfaced in Noh In-seong's memory.
'We're not selling. We're buying ALL of your free agents. Worried about market inflation? So what. Take a look at our salary cap and weep.'
As if to say the stove league had already begun, Jeong Jae-yoon was working behind the scenes.
The teams that would have to run even harder next year, meanwhile, had their own free agency worries gnawing at them.
For a player, a monster FA payday was sometimes worth more than a championship ring.
"Ah, he did say that, didn't he. The inflation does worry me, I'll admit."
"And I agree about running your mouth early too. That's exactly why I'm salt-pouring you all right now."
This was the only window where the winner could lounge around and tell everyone else to hurry up and crawl into position.
The moment second place actually climbed up, today's advantage would evaporate.
And those who couldn't enjoy it while it lasted were the ones taking the loss, no?
"So don't end up on the loser's side, folks. Be like us — gorge on every regular-season win, then take the whole thing."
Noh In-seong, apparently recalling something he'd seen somewhere, raised his glass high — except where Gatsby's had held gin, his held cider.
SPLASH—!
Gatsby had toasted from the terrace, so his splashed downward; Noh In-seong toasted from his bed, so his splashed straight into the blankets.
"Ah, damn it. Mom is going to kill me."
Tap. Tap. BANG!
"In-seong? Mom has to clean and... what are you doing? Is that a drink... Oh my god! You little—!"
Those were the last words before the interview feed cut out.
"...Uh... right. That was Noh In-seong, your near-confirmed MVP."
"...I'm only now truly grasping that he's nineteen. Swear I just heard him getting hit by his mom."
A man whose twentieth birthday wouldn't arrive until long after the fall baseball season ended. Gaping at Noh In-seong's age, the two hosts of Yagurix hastily ended the broadcast.
The semi-playoffs. The moment the curtain rose on the best-of-five series—
"I've never once heard of steroids affecting your personality, you garbage human being!"
"FUCK! You've got a second life tucked away somewhere, saying that?! You old geezer?!"
Two teams that couldn't stand the sight of each other — Gwangju and the Grizzlies — collided spectacularly.
And no, "fierce contest" was not a metaphor here. They literally collided.
An emotionally overloaded blood feud. Teams already at each other's throats over standings were never going to get along, sure.
But as the fans stood there, dumbfounded that things had gone off the rails from the very start—
"Manager, you're ejected!"
"Open your damn eyes! That steroid-pumping punk threw at my kid first!"
From Game 1 of the semi-PO, the Gwangju manager was tossed before the top of the second inning was out.
First, the pitch J-Lo threw that ran up and in became the flashpoint.
[Uh... yes, it did run in on the hands somewhat. Jin Sung-joo was clearly rattled...]
[And from that situation, this is J-Lo — who instead of so much as an apology, shamelessly lifted his chin...]
The Gwangju manager came charging out and lit into him right there — if you're going to dope, at least fix your character.
Because he paid for it with his own ejection, J-Lo's shoulders cooled considerably.
"Ball four! Batter to first!"
"Heh. Is that all?"
Next, the threatened Jin Sung-joo reached base and proceeded to grate at the opposition with glee.
THWACK—!!
"Gahk! You doping son of a bitch, seriously!"
Enter J-Lo's protest — a man who may have juiced, but who defended the Confucian code to the death.
His complaint-based retaliation — 'You people manage your players like garbage, don't you?' — struck home with tremendous force.
The ball slammed into the back of the team's veteran, Jeong Him-chan, and round two began immediately.
"...That's it, you're both gone!"
With the umpire's weary ruling, Jeong Him-chan and J-Lo were ejected simultaneously.
Fortunately, it never spiraled into a full-scale brawl, and both men got off with a one-game ban.
Amid all this, the Grizzlies' manager protested that it was harsh to do this to a starting pitcher—
"And what exactly is this play supposed to be?! The inning's over! You're out of here!"
"Hey! You! You're Him-chan's junior, aren't you! I'll remember this!"
— and instead got slapped with a two-game ejection including guilt-by-association, over one minor bonehead play.
"Damn it. Watching from the clubhouse, of all the miserable fates."
With both managers busy swallowing their rage, the bench coaches took the reins.
Both teams played a headless Game 1. The winner was Gwangju.
[Today's win belongs purely to Oh Yeon-seok. Seven innings, two runs allowed.]
[Jamsil's walls hold fly balls down a little more than Gwangju's do, and he looked comfortable pitching here.]
[Whether this becomes the first flare of his revival remains to be seen, but Oh Yeon-seok's face has finally relaxed.]
At long last freed from his slump, Oh Yeon-seok grinned and said he'd finally done the job asked of him.
The image of him walking slowly off the mound led the sports pages the next morning.
But that photo of Oh Yeon-seok smiling was never destined to illustrate an October baseball explainer.
That win over the Grizzlies turned out to be Gwangju's last — they dropped three straight and were eliminated from the fall classic.
It had been a short happiness.
A Game 1 win means a series win. Gwangju had believed in that ironclad maxim, the one that almost never gets overturned.
"...You're telling me we seriously don't have a single pitcher left to throw? Not one?"
"If you want to watch these kids shaking in terror over dead arms next season, go ahead and use them. It's not happening."
Even the most cutting-edge medical technology won't push a body past its limits.
That kind of strength is granted only by drugs — or by selling your future self down the river.
There are the occasional madmen who do both, but those types just huff even more drugs to cover for the latter.
"Khh... if I go out there even once more, I'm buried in this industry for good. I can't do it."
J-Lo, who had thrown in Game 1, refused the Game 4 start — proof that he could still, at least, do the math.
A short outing, you say? What about the routine? The warm-up throws that come with prepping as a starter?
The manager was irritated, but he understood. Burn your pitcher early and lose him for the next round, and you're finished.
"...Ugh, fine. Cho Hoon. You're starting."
"...I'm the closer?!"
The Game 4 starter the Grizzlies' manager chose in his place was, strictly speaking, not a starter at all.
A chicken for the pheasant. Cho Hoon's Opener Strategy, deployed in place of his foreign ace, worked surprisingly well.
[Using Cho Hoon as the opener, slamming the door for two innings, then running out the three and four starters...]
[Honestly, if Cho Hoon hadn't held up, this could easily have blown up in their faces?]
Plainly put, it was a gamble.
But with insurance policies named J-Lo and Hector still in the holster, it was a gamble worth taking.
Credit to Cho Hoon for shutting down the heart of the order early on.
But the real damage was done to the hitters who came up focusing on the longest-throwing starter — their timing was completely wrecked.
Tick—!
"Ah, shit...!!"
A scrambling stab at a hot shot down the third-base line, and the hopping, stumbling Jeong Him-chan was thrown out at first by a mile.
Even in Gwangju's moment of desperation, the innings slipped away with nothing to show for them.
"Damn it... there's no other way."
Gwangju couldn't just yank their starter the moment he gave up a run.
Short series are a pitching game. The old maxim poked its head out right about here.
No — truthfully, the problems went deeper than any maxim.
The hitting wasn't good either; this was a team that had survived on defense and one-two-three innings clear into midseason.
Digging up a few rookies midseason doesn't magically fix that.
With all these problems stacked up, the foreign starter they'd sent out, Jeremy, had to hold the line until they resolved themselves—
CRACKAAAAK—!!
[High and deep—!! It's over the wall! Yes! Squared up solidly on Kim Seong-ju's bat! High pitches are dangerous, folks!]
[He put his favorite pitch into the second-hottest zone on the field. That's a mistake you pay for.]
The opposing lineup was stacked with hitters sitting near the top of the batting charts despite Jamsil's suppressive dimensions.
They sprayed singles evenly across the field, and even if only a handful could go deep, consecutive base knocks meant runs.
Gwangju, on the other hand, had strengths — but the weaknesses beside them glared all the more glaringly.
At the plate, the Grizzlies simply pitched around Jeong Him-chan; anyone else who reached base was tested against Joo Ji-hoon's arm.
With the opposition striking only at the tenderest spots, the Tiger had no countermeasure and bled out far too much.
In the end, on their own home field, they were forced to watch their opponent raise the toast.
"...Ha. Fuck. Couldn't even make it to a Game 5."
Jeong Him-chan, who had walked off the field without a word the whole way, turned back with a hollow look.
Behind him, a loser's sigh drifted back toward Mudeung Mountain, his territory, soaked in too much spilled blood.
The bear, himself half-dead, had at least bought a little time to lick his wounds.
"Thank god. No final game means four days of rest."
With their clash against Daegu looming, the Grizzlies had earned themselves a moment to breathe.
"Good, good. Now a moderately rested bear and a thoroughly rested lion can chew each other apart."
Having been whacked by his mother and relocated to the neighborhood pub to watch the rest of the game, Noh In-seong gazed at the two emblems that had advanced to the next playoff round, looking positively famished.
The Climax Series was close now. He was waiting for the sacrifices that would fill his hunger.
"Add one yurin-gi to that, please!"
"Yes sir! The large size, right?"
...Or maybe he really was just plain hungry.
Piling his plate with every dish he'd scribbled down as drinking snacks, Noh In-seong ate himself happy.