The Maw of Ruin (Part 2)

Bottom of the 3rd inning — a collision between the starting pitchers. The physical kind.

Both the one who plowed in and the one who got plowed went over backward after the impact, sure. But the shock landed very differently on Noh In-seong — born with bones like rebar, the man who'd sworn he would never, ever miss an opportunity when it came halfway to him — than it did on J-Lo, who absorbed the full force of the impact into his body and thereby proved Newton's third law in living color.

One rolled backward on pure recoil and got up on his own.

The other rolled backward onto a stretcher.

There were those who argued In-seong had rammed into J-Lo on purpose, but.

"Still, if a starting pitcher collides with another starting pitcher and you whine about it that much, don't you risk taking a fastball for it?"

The truth is always far away, and the baseball always closes the distance at speeds approaching 170 km/h.

"...Probably, yeah. I doubt that guy's rolling around without a scratch on him."

He was, after all, the shameless type who'd snarl 'You're blaming an ACCIDENT?! Die!' — so nobody could even raise the complaint. The man was slathering himself in painkiller patches and kicking up every fuss imaginable; he had no room to talk.

A starter who needs to throw deep, gone after eating just two innings — and gone via a freak accident, no less. The Grizzlies dugout was on the verge of losing its mind.

"Unbelievable. We barely have any arms as it is."

When one pitcher inhales the whole game by himself and saunters off patting his belly, or when two reliable arms can cover seven or eight innings — a team without that luxury has no choice but to run its bullpen into the ground.

They'd gotten the bullpen warming during the chaos, but the price a rookie long reliever pays when hurled out there with almost zero preparation time is steep.

"Ball four! Runner to first!"

A rookie reliever who'd been quietly eating up mop-up innings all season — suddenly thrust into a game that could be the last of the Korean Series. What were the odds he'd drive his pitch confidently into the heart of the strike zone?

"OH! SHIT! You little—!"

"Wait! Wait, wait! It wasn't on purpose!"

The correct answer was: 'No such luck — I just misfired inside, and now my life is in danger.'

Choon-sik, second only to In-seong in sheer hot blood — the instant the ball strayed anywhere near his head, his reaction bordered on a full seizure. He hurled his bat into the dirt and began advancing on the mound, slow and deliberate.

"Hold it! Hold on, just breathe! He's a rookie! A ROOKIE! NEWBIE! Argh, why is this kid so strong!"

On the forehead of Jeong Han-sol, desperately wrestling back the fuming Choon-sik, a single bead of sweat slid down.

'Damn it. There's no way to buy time using a half-pint who can't even throw a strike.'

Barely calmed, Choon-sik squared back into the batter's box — and the rookie's already paper-white face somehow went whiter still.

Pale enough that In-seong would've sneered, 'Oh, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠what's this — White-washing?' The pitching coach and manager climbed the mound again, practically begging him to just hold on until the next arm was ready.

Watching this sorry spectacle, the Grizzlies faithful were coming apart at the seams.

Shaking in his cleats, throwing even one honest strike to Choon-sik was far beyond the rookie's ability. Another walk. One out, runners on first and second.

And so a banquet was laid out before the whiff-machine himself, Jo In-soo.

Craaaack—!!

No matter how anemic his batting average, a rookie pitcher's fastball had plopped down fat and happy over the middle of the plate. Jo In-soo smiled — for the first time in ages, a ball off his bat carrying not a trace of that unpleasant, stinging feel.

Struck dead center on the sweet spot, the ball rocketed high into the night sky.

Somewhere in the outfield seats, a dazed Doubles fan traded a chicken drumstick for the moment.

"Who cares if I skip a meal! Hell yeah, we're winning this today!"

Caught between sacrificing part of dinner and feeling fantastic while holding the lead, the fan chose the latter and roared his approval. The Doubles had drawn first blood.

"Ah..."

The Grizzlies dugout had gone funereal.

Ever since J-Lo was carted off, they'd been staring at a scoreboard that refused to change, and hope was bleeding out of them by the minute. Little by little, they could feel their own weight lightening — as if some great scale measuring victory were slowly tilting, their side rising into the air.

If they'd at least been trading blows — hitting and being hit in equal measure — there might at least have been hope to cling to.

"...You're kidding. Even in THIS situation, he walks him?"

The despair in the Grizzlies manager's mutter was absolute. That cunning bastard — bottom of the sixth, with a runner on first, he'd refused to budge an inch and simply passed Kim Seong-ju.

Kim Seong-ju's face, as he trudged toward first, had flushed the color of rusted iron.

In-seong just twirled his grin in lazy circles.

"Well, you're not in a coffin yet, good Master Kim. What business brings you to first base?"

It was the sort of farewell that would have sent Kim Seong-ju charging the mound with a bat in hand, had he heard it.

"You spineless coward! Face me! Don't you DARE run!"

The loser's howl carried all the way down from first base. Mm. How soothing.

"Yep~ Rather than give YOU a chance, I'd rather eat a homer off some other bastard~ Eat dirt~"

Delivered it wearing the most insufferable expression I could manufacture, and he nearly popped a blood vessel with delight.

Huh. First time I learned a human face could go that red. I genuinely thought it was a traffic light.

...But why are you cursing me out? Shouldn't you be off whining to your own manager? How come you're the only one getting walked? I've been straining you out like a showerhead filter this whole game.

"Damn it, not a single at-bat in sixteen plate appearances — is that even legal? You bastards!"

One time he marched up there without even carrying a bat. I still walked him.

He stared at me with an expression of pure incredulity, and I answered with a serene little 'Yep~ not falling for it~' face.

"If Coca-Cola got strained like I strain him, it'd come out as plain water. You bastards."

To be fair, by this point part of why I kept walking him was that I wanted to see how this ended. 3-0, the gap holding, breathing room to spare — I could have given him his duel, but.

"Now I just plain hate you. Eat dirt, garbage truck."

A cracked seal doesn't re-seal itself. I want to watch you suffer.

The next batter swung through two flavors of 150 km/h slider, back to back. With the count suddenly full, I caught Hyung In-soo flashing the two-seamer sign, and the corners of my mouth drew a slow arc.

'This guy gets more diabolical by the inning. He wants to establish the pattern, then break it. Classic.'

It's the garbage-truck legion anyway — wind up with total peace of mind.

The pitch looked like it was boring straight into the heart of the zone, so I swung with complete confidence — and the sneaky two-seamer dove under the barrel, sending the ball skittering back toward the pitcher with a deeply pathetic sound.

Tik!

"You people will NEVER score, not if the sun burns out! Go warm up your cars in the parking lot and get lost!"

In-seong crowed it from the mound, marching off in triumph, while the Grizzlies runners filed slowly back to their dugout wearing the faces of the damned.

Bottom of the 8th. The Grizzlies' final chance was at hand.

A golden lineup turning over starting from the nine-hole — with plans to burn a pinch hitter and a pinch runner in the same at-bat.

"This is the last chance. Chip away this inning, then start pulling the bullpen. That's ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the play!"

In-seong still looked fresh as morning, but that bastard was quietly up to 101 pitches. His fastball velocity was sagging, and unlike the early innings — when the tunnel on his breaking balls was utterly invisible — by the seventh they'd degraded to pitches you could actually sit on and swing at.

'That bastard's walking me right now, which means he's got his precious justification all lined up for walking me!'

'But if we actually face him, we might cough up even MORE runs!'

'I'm telling you I can hit him! Trust me for ONCE!'

Perhaps because Kim Seong-ju, face crimson, had screamed himself hoarse at his manager — pleading, bargaining, begging — the 'do we face Noh In-seong' feud that had raged through the dugout was finally laid to rest for the sake of one comeback shot. And Noh In-seong, collecting his first hit in seventeen plate appearances, walked off first base cradling the ball from his first postseason hit like a sacred relic.

The Grizzlies had hated watching every second of that circus — but either way, the era of mutual walking was officially over.

'Now it is truly, finally time for the showdown.'

The manager made his final call and pulled the team together.

"Last chance, boys. All together now — one, two, three! Grizzlies, fighting!"

One, two, three.

"""GRIZZLIES, FIGHTING!"""

The losing bears set out on the last leg of their journey, hunting a one-swing miracle. Off in search of the three runs they needed — they who were not yet ready to let the Korean Series die.

3-0. The bottom of the 8th began.

When the nine-hole pinch hitter stepped in, In-seong still had plenty left in the tank.

"Never, ever giving the leadoff man a free pass."

Tik! He gobbled up the dreary grounder churning toward him and fired on the run to first.

The only problem: the man standing on first was a time bomb with an unpredictable fuse.

"Argh, you can't even catch THAT?! You insane Song bastard...!!"

"Ahhk! Sorry!"

Song Jin-wook, on the receiving end of a boot to the rear that came dangerously close to a punitive substitution, was pulled for Sung Hyun-tak.

Then — perhaps deliberately hunting the momentary chaos — the pinch runner swiped second on the very first pitch of the next at-bat.

Right up until the runner slid into third, hope still seemed visible for the Grizzlies.

Jamsil's generous dimensions had handed the runner all the time in the world.

He did burn an extra out tapping the sacrifice fly to send the runner across — but this was, after all, the game's first genuine runner-on-third situation. One run looked no harder than a tap-in.

"Now I can finally have a real duel. You're dead. For real this time."

Only after the long, exhausting pageantry of the intentional walk did Kim Seong-ju at last stand across from Noh In-seong in a chance that mattered. His face was stuffed full — of agony, and of confidence.

"Acting like you've already won it?"

Kim Seong-ju bristled at the abuse Jo In-soo delivered in the tone of a friendly greeting.

"You're not walking me anymore, are you?! So cut the garbage and face me!"

His head had been throbbing for a while now, and it was no small ache. The ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠window of time the drug allowed him was shrinking by the minute — and this bastard was still milking the clock?

Kim Seong-ju, who could no longer even roughly gauge how much time he had left, was careening toward desperation.

"...Whew. Fine. I don't care anymore. This isn't on me. Right?"

Jo In-soo pressed the PitchCom, heaved a long sigh, and raised his mitt.

The drug Kim Seong-ju had taken sharpened every sense he had.

Sounds that should have drowned beneath the crowd's chants, beneath the noise of his own body, now rang out clear as bells.

For instance — the stalking, predatory footsteps of the opposing catcher creeping in toward his body.

Sasa-sak...

If the footsteps approached from his inside half, the pitch was coming in; if the sound faded away, it was breaking out. Simple as that.

'...Inside, then. He's coming in on me.'

With his ears telling him where the pitch would live, divining the location was child's play.

Next — the fingertips of that damned bastard cradling the baseball.

Ever since the concept of "deception" entered the game, the received wisdom had been that hiding the ball until the last possible instant is a virtue, and In-seong too, quite naturally, buried the ball to some degree with every throw.

But with his eyes now operating at this razor pitch—

'...Two fingers. Seamed together at the bottom... four-seam.'

He could now make a fair guess at what pitch was coming before it existed.

And last of all — the incoming ball itself, arriving as though film were being spliced frame by frame in slow motion. He could see it peel off the fingertips. See it traveling toward him. All that remained was to hang his ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠swing on that image.

'All that's left is for you to eat one homer off me and trudge off that mound nearly caught, crying your eyes out!'

It was 3-2 — still dangerously close — but taking his chances against the bullpen had to be easier than facing In-seong.

The rest was on the other guys, not him. Hadn't he done his part?

The trouble was, this pitch's trajectory was different — not by a shade, but in its very geometry — from every ball he'd watched from first base all night.

'...Huh?'

The four-seam was aimed at his ribcage. It had just left the pitcher's fingertips.

He twisted violently to escape — but his body was already committed to the swing. Far too late to get out of the way.

Only now did he get a clean look at that son of a bitch's face. He was grinning, round and round, ear to ear.

"You... son... of... a..."

Lagged between his mouth and his mind, the words crawling out one syllable at a time — and before they could even finish leaving his lips—

The ball lodged in his torso, turning slowly, slowly — the sensation of it sinking, dimple by dimple, into his flesh.

The pain of a ball burying itself in his body stretched on and on, far, far longer than it ever had before.

'AAAAAHHH!! It hurts... it hurts so much...!!'

Only now did Kim Seong-ju understand: heightened senses meant the pain arrived with matching, magnificent force.

"Like I'd ever give you a proper showdown."

From where the junkie bastard stood, I'm sure it read as 'We finally faced you — so now you face US!' But.

This inning is almost certainly the last. After me, it'll be Jinho hyung.

"And you thought I'd make a normal trade just because you scratched out one hit? In this situation?"

"How dare you... propose a deal... with me?"

I don't do business with dopers. Wake up and smell the pine tar.

The moment Kim Seong-ju, dropped by the pitch, pushed himself back up, he was coiling to charge this way. His face was even redder than it had been in the bottom of the sixth. Good lord. So THIS is the "broadly benefiting all humanity" Grandpa Dangun was talking about.

"You son of a bitch...!!"

He'd flung his bat aside and was walking out toward the mound, slow and terrible — so I, in turn, tossed my glove to the dirt.

"What are you staring at, you pathetic junkie bastard?! Want me to walk you to the Lord myself?!"

I was advancing, all set for the imminent 'man-to-man conversation'—

"...Ugh..."

Thud.

The junkie's eyes rolled back in his skull, and he dropped face-first onto the grass.

What. Is this a win by forfeit? Or did the Lord actually come collect? Did this bastard just ascend?

"......What is this."

Stretcher—!! STRETCHER!! Get in here, NOW! This is a real emergency!

This was no bench clearing. This was a situation requiring an ambulance.

Once again the ambulance rolled onto the field and hauled Kim Seong-ju away.

The rest of the game went, quite naturally, to defeat — for a Grizzlies team that had lost absolutely everything.

The pitcher they needed to hold the line was gone. The only bat they had left to lean on was gone.

In-seong did come off the mound without finishing the inning — but Joo Hak-soo climbed up and swept away the leftover runners, and then Kim Jin-hong took the hill to close it out.

"Swing! STRIKE THREE! BATTER OUT!!!"

The Grizzlies burned their last pinch hitter in one final act of defiance — and he snuffed it out, ripping the final out from the air.

"IT'S OVER!! Hell yes — we're champions!!"

The players came swarming in to pile onto Kim Jin-hong, who was bouncing off the mound itself with joy.

"First, a smack! Smack him good and throw him HIGH!"

"Ahhk! You bastard! That's Noh In-seong, isn't it! Ah! Ah! My ribs! AH!"

As Kim Jin-hong rocketed skyward, the announcer raised his voice in pure delight.

The announcer's gleeful screams — and the fireworks, blooming to life as a section of the stadium roof slid open.

"Ladies and gentlemen, your 2051 champions! The Seoul Doubles salute you!"

"...Ha. Hell. Yeah. THIS is baseball."

Watching the fireworks climb past the open ceiling—

Not once. Not in his school days, not in his pro career, not a single time—

the old regret of his Jung In-seong days, a life forever divorced from championships, felt like it was soaring up into the high sky and burning away into nothing.

Shwaaaaah—!!

"Ah, dammit! It's freezing as hell!"

"Hey! You! Quit moping around over there! Get over here, NOW!"

"Ahhk! Kim Jin-hong! What is this, revenge?!"

But today was championship day — the people around him were in no mood to overlook anyone's moping.

The Doubles players came surging in a mob and bound up In-seong, already helpless and shivering in the cold water.

He had thrown the first punch, after all — so they had all the justification they needed. With Kim Jin-hong at the head of the pack, they began hoisting In-seong into the air.

"GGAAAAHH—!! You sons of bitches!! Just you WAIT till I come down!!"

"Our mad dog hasn't had enough sky-time yet, you see! Throw him HIGHER!"

"Captain's orders. Nothing we can do about it!"

Hryah! GGAAAHCK...!! Jo In-soo...!! You damn bastard...!!

High, high into the Jamsil night sky, Noh In-seong soared.

The Doubles roster — absurdly, criminally overstocked with freakishly strong men — dredged up a full season's worth of old grudges and, again and again and again, sent their trophy-in-human-form rowing through the air.