The Noh In-seong Shift, Phase 2

While Noh In-seong was scheming like a madman to dodge every bit of work he possibly could,

the two rookie pitchers were busy reeling in agony, receiving their baptism into the brutal reality of professional training.

"Hah... hah...!!"

You thought being a pitcher would mean taking it easy? Yeah, right—as if.

If individual training were that comfortable, people would be asking why anyone bothered turning pro in the first place.

This was a championship team, no less, with the reins being yanked to the breaking point.

'I have to win. I have to win the survival race!'

'At the very least, I know I'm less crazy than that lunatic over there...!!'

The position players had their eyes spinning in terror, since they had to fight tooth and nail for starting spots on top of everything else.

The starting pitching corps couldn't afford to relax either.

First, with the established foreign aces Andy and Noh In-seong locked into the rotation, only four spots remained.

And in the middle of all this, there was no way they could deny a roster spot to a mercenary they'd gone out of their way to acquire.

That automatically left three spots up for grabs.

"I eat innings! I'm great at home! I can even be your fourth starter! Please, spare me!"

"I'm young, I work hard, and I showed promise last year! Use me as your fourth starter, sir!"

"Excuse me, you little—?!"

The Jeong brothers were the first to throw their hats into the ring, insisting they had the credentials to start.

"Wasn't I brought in as starting rotation depth?!"

Just as Kim Jeong-mook, the starter acquired from Busan in a three-way trade, was wondering whether he'd be shoved down to sixth starter—

"Hey now, you think I'm just going to sit quietly?"

Jin Joo-hyuk, the only pitcher in the minors with a usable evaluation, threw his name into the contest as well.

His own path to the high-leverage relief corps was already hanging by a thread ever since Kang Ji-hoon had arrived, after all.

"If it's come to this, then I shall claim a spot in the starting rotation...!!"

A power pitcher who could throw over 150 km/h, armed with a slider, four-seamer, curveball, and changeup to boot.

He was only in his fifth year, a young product of the farm system, so he had every right to the opportunity.

"""Hahaha! Look at this guy! Hahaha!"""

There weren't enough rotation spots to begin with, the starters and relievers had all been dragged in from everywhere, and now rookies were bursting onto the scene too.

In any normal organization, this would be a situation to celebrate—yet it only gave Manager Jeong Im-taek a splitting headache.

With one of the two Jeongs on the verge of being demoted to swingman duty, competition was inevitable.

And since one of those two would automatically drop down, the bullpen was locked in a savage contest of its own.

Submarine specialist Joo Hak-soo was untouchable—irreplaceable—so he was safe,

and Cho Hyo-jin and Kim Jin-hong were already locked in as setup man and closer respectively, but...

"You all know the bullpen runs on eight men, or seven. And this team, mind you, carries six starters."

""""!!!!""""

The moment Jeong Im-taek made his declaration, a miracle occurred: everyone's training attitude improved overnight.

Six men on the roster, plus the minor league players, fought a bloody war of attrition for the four remaining spots.

"Run! RUN, you lazy bastards! You showed up fat, and I'll wring every ounce of it out of you!"

"Running! Strength work! Analysis down to the microscope! I will rule over my pitchers!"

This was, after all, a manager who was a legendary former pitcher, who had served as pitching coach before taking the helm.

Jeong Im-taek kept up his campaign of terror, wielding the threat of losing a first-team roster spot like a weapon deadlier than any gun.

"If you want to survive, you'll improve over last year! Too old?! Nobody's cutting you slack for being old! Get lost!"

"GRAAAAGH---!!"

Some who endured Jeong Im-taek's magnificent training regimen ended up face-down on the ground, inspecting what they'd eaten.

"What are you puking for?! Eat more! Rest up—I'll just make you work even harder later!"

"Damn it, skipper. I hate you...!!"

Ironically, since the curriculum was the very one from his own playing days, it worked wonders for conditioning and arm strength.

He never pushed anyone past their limits, but a single session was intense enough to make your heart scream, 'You son of a bitch, just kill me instead!'

"Hell, this is interval training measured in single days...!!"

Exhausted and running on fumes, anyone who wanted to stay on the first-team roster crawled along after him anyway.

A manager who had already won a championship could wave his authority around and force his own doctrine on the team.

Last year he'd lacked that authority, and the aging pitching coach had kept him in check—which was the only reason he hadn't done it before.

It was going to be a delightful spring camp for Jeong Im-taek.

A coach like Jeong Im-taek, who built his methods on solid theory and his own playing experience, was actually a good coach.

"You just swing it like this, see? Nice and easy!"

"Oh for god's sake, you dimwit Song Jin-wook. Who the hell is supposed to copy that?"

WHACK--!!

"KEEYAAAK...!!"

Spout that kind of lunatic nonsense so shamelessly and you get a boot planted square in your backside.

Lazy geniuses fundamentally hate teaching anyone.

Truthfully, most people simply can't teach, or can only explain things in a language only they themselves understand.

But the worst of the bunch, the absolute worst, is the genius who hits without theory.

Imagine exchanges like this:

"No, you just watch and hit it. How is that hard?"

"You bastard, what exactly am I supposed to be watching? Are you telling me you can actually see the ball? Is predicting it easy for you?"

"...You can't see it? What on earth are you talking about?"

"...What?"

Two people who can share neither their experience nor their database.

The genius gobbles up data—'Oh! That makes perfect sense!'—but hands back nothing but gibberish in return.

Within the Doubles, Song Jin-wook was the textbook example of ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠this type.

This is why great players so rarely become great managers.

Play baseball long ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠enough and the day inevitably comes when you lament that your body no longer keeps up with your mind.

'Ah! My technique and my eye have matured, but my body can't follow anymore! What's the point of playing on?!'

And then, armed with that sharpened eye and elite technique, he turns into a bastard who snarls, 'Why the hell can't you do this?'

"Hell, if you can't speak the alien language, you're just a hopeless kid to that coach or manager."

Even if you do understand, every body is built differently, so there's no telling what will actually happen.

You want to tell him, 'Don't get cocky—go home and practice on your own time,' but...

"His numbers back when he played were so good that nobody can say a word."

So you clutch your aching chest and mutter, 'Please, God, let that dog of a man get cut soon...' That's all you can do.

"That's actually why I used to stand in the on-deck circle ahead of you so often, by the way."

"...Wait, that's why?!"

Half true. The other half was that he was so slow his value as a baserunner converged on zero.

In-seong was a man whose input processing worked just fine, so there was no problem while he was in the on-deck spot.

But if he'd tried to "help" Song Jin-wook with garbage like 'just watch it and go yard,' he figured he'd have been beaten to death mid-game.

"...But you curse me out all the time during games anyway."

"I was saying I'd curse you out twice as much. You'd have gone to the DL with a butt injury."

It would have been the first incident in baseball history of a player landing on the injured list due to friendly fire.

"But wait, doesn't that make you the exact same type?"

A slightly aggrieved Song Jin-wook launched his drowning-man gambit, dragging In-seong down with him.

"...Remind me—who was it giving you pointers while you were hitting like a complete dog?"

"...Ah."

Song Jin-wook promptly lost the argument and shriveled into a corner.

Noh In-seong was lazy in his own right, so teaching people wasn't exactly his favorite pastime either.

He was selfish by nature—the type to say, 'Who do you think you are, demanding I teach you something?'

Even as a first-year player, watching him subdue the entire roster through fear and tyranny, most players found it hard to approach him.

On top of that, some players simply gave up preemptively, thinking, 'Isn't that bastard just another cold, unhelpful genius?'

"Which is why that idiot Song Jin-wook was designated a special management case. His talent was obvious at a glance."

"...Gee, thanks a whole damn lot."

The deciding factor was that rather than acting like a proper senior, In-seong operated more like a neighborhood big brother who'd smacked him around a few times—nothing more.

Classic Noh In-seong behavior: he treated people who got close to him reasonably well.

'I'm no genius. It's all grind and... raw physical talent, if I'm honest.'

He'd had talent good enough for pro ball in his past life too, so it wasn't like his gifts were small.

But he wasn't one of those freaks born knowing and exploiting everything from the moment they drew their first breath.

'Hitting, pitching—all of it~ took a proper learning process before it settled comfortably into my body.'

The software was the same as back then, but the overclocked, fast-learning brain of a young body had been a massive help.

Thanks to early English education—'you'd better learn foreign languages properly,' his mother had said—he ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠could read English research papers.

He'd mastered lightning-quick swing data and cutting-edge, science-backed pitching mechanics.

In his past life, he'd lost his pitching and picked up hitting on the fly while being converted into a defensive specialist, so his form had been sloppy.

This time, until he grew comfortable with a pitching motion and batting form that actually fit his body, he should have had to grind through the same painful process...

"So this is what they mean by 'a good body saves the head all that trouble.'"

The talent of this body had simply steamrolled right past the agonizing, stair-step growth pains he was supposed to endure, and hoisted him straight to the top.

Noh In-seong offered yet another silent thank-you to the mother and father who had passed down this magnificent physique.

"Of course, that's one thing—but the swine who smacked my backside, even if her ladle quality was one grade down..."

Or was it? If he didn't want another whack on the back, maybe he should just buy her the absolute best one from the duty-free shop?

With the lingering afterimage of the ladle still glowing faintly across his back, Noh In-seong contemplated a small act of revenge.

Filing filial piety away in his temporary folder like the absolute scoundrel he was, he attempted to lie back down in the shade—

"In-seong! Are you lying down again during fungo drills?! Get out on that field, NOW!"

"Ugh, insane. Why would I ever volunteer for that..."

Skipping out for a grand total of three minutes before being hauled back up felt exactly like chugging the whole packet of instant noodle seasoning.

The midday sun was merciless.

The reason the defensive coach was hounding Noh In-seong—despite him having completed every basic training drill—was simple.

"You're going to do 'that thing' sometimes, aren't you?"

"...'That thing'? Mind including a subject in your sentences."

"Oh, for— the Noh In-seong Shift."

It was written Noh In-seong Shift, but it read making life miserable for anyone he happened to dislike—that was the In-seong deployment doctrine.

"Doing it is fine by itself. But if we're going to do it anyway, it'd be better if you could rotate into different positions."

The idea was: if the outfield was short a pinch defender, send him to the outfield; if the infield was short, send him to the infield.

"Besides, whenever you pull that stunt, Song Jin-wook has to cover left field anyway."

"Hell, so I might end up as the center fielder plugging that bastard's hole? This is a nightmare."

If the left fielder fumbled a ball in the field and stood there fumbling like an idiot, someone had to boot Song Jin-wook out of the way and make the catch.

The realization that he could be that someone made Noh In-seong's head spin.

For all his sulking, though, Noh In-seong played defense at an absolutely monstrous level.

"Come on! Center field!"

"Oh, come on—normally that's a left fielder's catch!"

His reads on batted balls were lightning-fast, and the moment he heard the crack of the bat, he was already locked onto the ball's trajectory.

For the first time, he began to understand what the natural-talent freaks of his past life had meant by 'Why can't you just see it?'

'These bastards... were their basic physical senses just built differently from mine?'

The instant the ball entered his field of vision, he had a rough prediction of where it was going.

So he tracked it, gauged the remaining distance—

Lock-on—!

Launched his body and stretched out his arm to full extension—and the ball arrived precisely where his glove was waiting.

"Wow...!! Great catch! Great catch!"

"Song Jin-wook, you absolute lunatic! From your spot that ball was a hair's breadth away!"

"Exactly! But it was center fielder's call!"

Noh In-seong spat out the mouthful of grass he'd eaten diving and lodged his protest, but there was no winning.

It was just like that viral clip of the scrawny shortstop covering for some third baseman's absurd defensive range—

except this time, the same scene was playing out in the outfield.

"Hell, this bastard is literally just 'standing' out here, isn't he."

Call the outfield coverage 100%, split evenly: center fielder and right fielder each covering 45% of each other's territory.

In this extreme alignment, incumbent center fielder Song Joo-in and right fielder Pi Jeong-doo had been running themselves into the ground.

While those two golden retrievers, slobbering after every ball, lay panting and spent in the shade—

"I'm losing my mind. We should probably only do this once a week, at most."

"Whew--- In-seong! Forget hitting and just pitch, please! I'm dying here!"

Noh In-seong, Jin Joong-seok, and Jin Seong-min had sprinted themselves ragged covering the entire outfield.

"Wow. So defense was always this easy?"

"Oh, you son of a... you're DEAD!"

THWAAACK--!!

Noh In-seong bringing his foot down on the leisurely resting Song Jin-wook's backside marked the end of the day's outfield defense scheme.

Truly, a man who contributed nothing to the team except his bat.

Meanwhile, spring camp was also a trade market.

Granted, far more trades actually happen once the season is underway.

"Right now, the market is completely frozen solid."

Perhaps because one certain team had taken its star player's... personality... entirely to heart.

They'd torched every top-tier free agent from the very start and locked up their own man instead.

The Superstars, who actually needed to be buying players, were tearing their hair out.

"Buyers are already overflowing as it is..."

Money to burn at super-buyer levels—and yet, a genuine drought of available players.

They'd even been pushed into a corner where acquiring more prospects to develop for next year had become the greater priority.

And on top of all that, with their hapless catcher having walked out via free agency, they were hemorrhaging talent from every direction.

"...But why did he have to go to Busan of all places? Why would they even buy him?"

Their catcher's caught-stealing percentage was practically identical to the guy they'd let go. It made no sense.

Actually, the reason was simple.

"If our backup catcher plays even a single game, that game is as good as lost!"

In other words, Busan was desperate too.

"Damn it, we have no future left. One last run this year, then the team dissolves."

Busan's final gamble—their 'FINAL_we'll_show_you_something.jpg'—had begun.

If they crossed the luxury tax line even one more time, the Korean Baseball Association would force them to sell off their own players.

And with the tax line already this astronomical, there were no players left worth acquiring anyway.

The plan: reinforce the catcher one last time, limp through this season, and dissolve.

"...Ha. Well, at least the kid's coming back."

Last year's first overall draft pick. After declaring dead arm at spring camp, he'd gone through surgery and rehabilitation, and now he was back.

"Please, just pitch well. We truly have no future left after this."

"I'll give it everything I have, sir!"

The hour was finally approaching when Jang In-ho would meet the man who had humiliated him—Noh In-seong—on an actual ballfield.

'...Was there even a guy like that?'

That was probably what Noh In-seong would think upon seeing him. But Jang In-ho saw things a little differently.

"If I were a bad player, he would've ignored me—not mocked me, right?"

A positive mindset that could mine even the pettiest slight for self-respect.

That was the strength that had carried him through rehabilitation.

"I lost Rookie of the Year to injury last year, but this year, I will win it!"

His dream was audacious. Whether that arm could live up to it remained to be seen.

Please, let the people of the Busan Marines organization get cursed at a little less on the anonymous job boards.

Hoping for nothing more than that single wish, the front-office staff prayed for Jang In-ho's future to shine bright.