They Say Yeot Is Best for Replenishing Glycogen

The day after Noh In-seong's start, the Grizzlys hitters — already half-shredded mentally — gathered in the locker room wearing forced smiles, but the swagger from yesterday had vanished without a trace, leaving behind nothing but meekness.

Yesterday's wounds were still raw and stinging to begin with.

'Damn it... it feels like hope is slowly draining away...'

'That bastard's not playing today, sure, but there's no hole in their defense either...'

Their spirits had been beaten out of them so thoroughly that ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠there was no sign of them coming back.

And at the very top of that misery stood one man.

"...Ah, thank god. Not much trash talk about me, at least."

The man who loved looking up his own stats on stat sites was none other than Sung Ji-chang.

Guys like him have a special talent: the moment they manage a single success, their confidence comes roaring back. Ji-chang had, after all, managed to scrape out one hit yesterday — which meant he'd dodged the mockery entirely.

'That bastard's not here today. If I drill the game-winning hit, I'm a hero again.'

Powered by this magnificently selfish mindset, he restored his mentality in record time.

Seven stolen bases across yesterday and the day before. Steals like this in his entire life? No —

"Damn it, is this even *stealing*? This is straight-up armed robbery..."

The old common sense — where a runner slinked in quietly and gently claimed 'this base is mine now' — was long gone.

For two straight games, it had felt like someone pointing a gun at him and growling, 'Hand it over, punk.'

Jeong Han-sol stared blankly up at the locker room ceiling.

Yes, yes — catchers have it hardest. It's brutal, exhausting, injury-riddled, and thankless. He knew. Everyone knew.

'Damn it... maybe I should just quit catching and convert to first base or designated hitter.'

For the first time in his life, Jeong Han-sol — experiencing self-loathing like today's — felt genuine doubt about his position.

Game three between the Doubles and the Grizzlys.

Against all expectations, even without Noh In-seong, the Doubles absolutely pummeled their opponents.

Even minus In-seong, they had a lineup anchored by Song Jin-wook, and today's Doubles starter was confidently throwing good pitches, producing an unending harvest of ground balls.

"...Yesterday it was a problem child on both sides, and today it's that guy causing the problems."

The Grizzlys manager lamented his team's offense, which had produced nothing even as the game slipped past the seventh inning.

Getting blown out in one game, of course, usually means a good chance of bouncing back the next. Starters especially are a breed that, depending on their class, can get shelled one game and deal a gem the next.

...Though if the class is low, the opposite holds, and they can get shelled two games running.

This pitcher, with both Andy and the foreign slot absent, had been automatically swept up from the third spot in the rotation into a promotion as the second starter.

Jeong In-woo was showing a monstrous power he hadn't displayed in the home opener.

"Last time I got beaten up, but this time is different!"

Career ERA: 3.97. But at home, he pitched to a 2.81 — the audacity of the league's ultimate homebody.

"Homebody or not, didn't you get your soul ripped out in that Busan series?"

"...Pssh. You don't know what a king is worth?"

And simmering alongside it all, an exquisitely petty temperament.

Tseet—!

His cheek may have been slapped by Busan, but he took his revenge by slapping the bear right in front of his eyes.

The Doubles crushed game three, 7–0.

"Haah, did you see that? Didn't I kill it out there today?"

"Killed it?! ARGH! Hey! Do you have any idea why I've been grinding out there into my thirties—"

At an age when his joints were starting to ache, Ji Hak-seong fumed — but this was not a man worth taking seriously.

"Haah, two wins, one loss...!! THIS is what living is for...!!"

With a performance guaranteeing a bigger performance bonus than last season's salary, Jeong In-woo grinned.

'Last year I at least had the smear of "inflated by Noh In-seong's defense"... this year there's none of that.'

Starting after Noh In-seong meant his numbers reflected his own skill, with In-seong removed from the defensive equation.

Having gained the upper hand in this year's salary negotiation, he intended to lock down the team's third starter spot for the long term. Expensive players deserve expensive prices — and long term, that included the national team...

'If things go well, next year, when my seventh season ends, I might even earn free agency?'

Winning this year's WBC was, for him, nothing short of a ticket to turning his life around.

"Alright! Let's go win the championship!"

"...Already? It's barely April?"

"Ah, whatever! Winning a lot of championships is good, isn't it!"

His younger brother watched him, thinking, what on earth is wrong with this guy... — but none of that mattered.

Jeong In-woo simply, honestly, loved money.

When the third game between the Doubles and the Grizzlys ended, a certain group of positions paid close attention.

[Haha, unlike yesterday, the basepaths are remarkably quiet today.]

[Stolen base attempts today... yes, mostly just occasional ones in two-out situations.]

As if yesterday's riotous, operatic warfare between the bases had never happened at all.

Because one side's catcher's face was visibly, unmistakably refreshed.

Which naturally meant: the catchers with nothing ahead of them but a beating, and the catchers who wouldn't have to face him for a while yet.

"Our turn is over! As long as it's not me, I'm finEEE—!!"

"If you give up a steal, headbutt the runner! He won't play again until the next series anyway!"

"Whoa... look at that stolen base allowance? Our team held up way better than you'd all think... apparently?"

With their fortunes flipped 180 degrees, the catchers with only pain awaiting them went pale.

And naturally, hiding behind anonymity, the interviews began to escalate.

The reporters were manufacturing words both real and invented, in quantities beyond counting.

And into this chaos, one player's interview dropped.

...The years of service were spelled out so blatantly that everyone could guess who it was.

But the truly astonishing thing was that this was not an interview by Noh In-seong.

Part of it was In-seong's personality — on his days off, he generally couldn't be bothered to grant interviews at all.

"GAAAH. Why is it so bright in here!"

"Oppa! Get up! Mom and Dad are out! We have to eat lunch!"

...Because said man was at home, blissfully submerged in sweet sleep.

"Damn it! Siyeon! You're dead when I catch you! I swear I'll hang you upside down!"

"KYAAAAH—!!"

...No, correction: because he had been lying down, and had only just now gotten up.

Noh In-seong was basking in the glory of a 'stacked holiday' — the rest day that follows a start.

On the day he pitched, he'd come home like a good boy, eaten, slept like the dead, and woken up. His body had mostly ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠recovered, but after burning through a single game, he also needed to replenish the weight he'd dropped.

"Whoa, I lost 4.5 kilos in one game. Being a starting pitcher is one hell of a diet."

If his usual build resembled a bear-man, the day after working, he slimmed down to something closer to a werewolf.

The glycogen stockpiled in his body had gone, essentially, 'You worked hard! Well then, farewell!' — and vanished on the spot.

And when there's no spare energy left in the body, what comes next is the muscle he'd so painstakingly bulked up all winter.

The fruits of a whole winter of hard training, disappearing because he couldn't eat enough?

"Oh no. Absolutely not. I need to eat, right now."

By the time you've already lost it, screaming 'Give me back my muscle, damn it!' accomplishes nothing.

There was a very good reason Noh In-seong ate high-calorie food like fried chicken on his rest days.

He had just settled onto the sofa, thinking, so what shall we feast on today... and was browsing food photos, when—

"Oppa, your name's in the news? Did you do an interview?"

"...What are you talking about. You know I slept at home all day."

This was the same little sister who, bored early that morning, had committed full-on lamp terrorism against him — the kind of adorable creature you wanted to squeeze to death.

The household's true seat of power, holder of the #1 position, Siyeon approached him holding up a hologram screen.

"Look at this."

The article, conveniently enlarged for easy reading, did not actually contain Noh In-seong's name.

To anyone with eyes, it was another hit piece branding an interview that merely resembled Noh In-seong.

"Are you kidding m— ahem, ahem. No, I mean. What even is this. I don't do anything now and my name still comes up?"

Unable to spew profanity in front of his little sister, In-seong stifled himself with cough after cough.

Thanks to his usual conduct, this was practically a problem of his own making.

But what could he do? If they were that butt-hurt, they should have lived upright, virtuous lives and set an example for others.

Noh In-seong popped something sweet into his mouth — something capable of refilling his depleted glycogen.

That's right. He was eating yeot, the traditional Korean taffy.

Having knocked back a simple Chinese food set with Siyeon for lunch, Noh In-seong chose meat for dinner.

He took a seat at a Brazilian churrascaria.

"I never said anything like that, you know."

To begin with, when it came to following a manager's orders, Noh In-seong was... dangerously close to a model case.

"I've stolen the manager's snacks, beaten up players, thrown at batters, sparked bench-clearing brawls..."

And committed every manner of degenerate horseshit too numerous to count. And yet—

"The only time I ignored a manager's order was disregarding a green light early on, wasn't it?"

In-seong had never actually been granted a green light and run anyway. He'd been handed one temporarily on occasion, but never once told, 'Run however you damn well please.'

Because he ignored everything else too, Jung Im-taek had simply given up on him.

'And besides, the results were always good...'

The man could even steal home successfully, so the manager had half-abandoned the project, and it had hardened into policy through sheer inertia.

"...You little bastard. So you were just pretending to listen this whole time!"

It happened when Song Jin-wook, fresh off Sunday's three-game series, had come to eat with him and the article came up. He'd asked, half-jokingly, 'So you seriously never listen to orders?'

And upon hearing In-seong's answer — delivered with a conscience apparently discarded somewhere unknown — he saw red on behalf of Jung Im-taek's long-suffering patience.

"Good heavens. To think the manager has been suffering this much."

"...Though if you can put him through all that pain and still watch your own defense and clutch the back of your neck, then your defense is—"

"...Damn it."

Called out for a defense that rivaled In-seong's antics in sheer horror, Jin-wook sank into silence.

He'd come to work as the designated hitter today, so he had no room to talk.

The two men conversed over endless meat at the all-you-can-eat steakhouse, never once declining a single skewer.

"So, are you going to issue some kind of rebuttal to this interview?"

It was the obvious protocol. This was the man who, fed endless lies, had turned other people's lives into appeal-court simulators for years.

Song Jin-wook half expected him to sue for defamation.

"That doesn't matter right now. As long as my image is what it is, it's too late anyway."

Maybe it was the mouthful of food he'd just stuffed in, or maybe it was the yeot someone had slipped him, but a brain he rarely used at full capacity began spinning at a furious clip, hunting for ways to blow the story up.

"First priority is finding the player who triggered this whole interview... mmm, this is delicious."

While In-seong marveled at the meat, spearing piece after piece of picanha—

"They're your draft class, right? So first we find the classmate you're on bad terms with... ah, wait, no."

"Excuse me? The way you put that makes it sound like I'm on bad terms with my entire draft class."

"......"

"...Why."

Watching the man simply shut his mouth and keep sliding meat onto his plate was enough to boil In-seong's blood.

And so the small talk and the meal stretched on, until—

"...Excuse me, sir. Are you... able to keep eating? You haven't declined a single skewer for quite a while now..."

"...Hm? I'm still starving, though."

"...In-seong. You've eaten over thirty plates."

As the server, who had been faithfully pulling meat off the skewers onto his plate, stared at him in open disbelief, Noh In-seong rose from his seat.

"Well, that filled me ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠up. Now then — time to go make that bastard's Monday a living hell."

"...I'm scared of tomorrow. I honestly can't even imagine what you're going to do."

Even the utterly oblivious Song Jin-wook could see the malice swimming in In-seong's eyes, and his face trembled.

Fed, fortified, and full of purpose, Noh In-seong moved — declaring he would lash the man who'd fed him yeot to the Bosingak bell itself.

"Forget ringing in the New Year — I'll tie him to that bell and beat him hard enough to hold the whole midnight ceremony myself."

Getting screwed by yeot — at the hands of a fellow practitioner of his own dark arts. Unprecedented in recorded history.

It was motivation more than sufficient to turn a man's life into hell.

The player behind 'that interview' had never meant it the way it came across.

Only someone on Noh In-seong's level possessed the sheer nerve — or madness — to say something like that out loud.

Ordinary players give interviews dripping with etiquette, carefully tailored to common sense.

"I-I never imagined it would blow up into something this big!"

The Daejeon Phoenix's second-year man. Currently stuck in the minors until a recent call-up to the first team.

Myeong Jeong-ho, catcher and the second overall pick of the draft, was trembling.

'H-haha, even if the manager did order it... if my numbers crater, surely anyone would think twice before doing it...'

That was all. That was all he'd said.

How had it been twisted into this?

The topic had been the 'Noh In-seong intentional HBP' controversy that had been bouncing around among catchers lately.

He was a young catcher whose playing time depended on his numbers — he'd merely offered his honest opinion that a man in his position couldn't afford the stats.

And that had been maliciously edited, used as raw material for whatever article the reporter wanted to write.

"Damn it, I didn't know 'keeping it confidential' meant keeping it confidential like THIS...!!"

A reporter he'd never seen since draft day had interviewed him, just as he was breathing big-league air for the first time.

Getting intoxicated by that and swallowing the bait was his own fault. But what could he do?

That's how reporters make their living.

"...S-still, I probably won't start, right? If I just stay quiet, this'll all get buried... right?"

Plenty more chaos was bound to break out, and meanwhile he could quietly play his backup role and...

Things would be noisy for a while, sure. But the hype was temporary.

Talking himself into it — desperately, furiously — he watched the weekend games from the bench, assuring himself the article would sink back beneath the surface.

And afterward, the heat around the story did seem to be cooling, slowly.

"Phew...!!"

"Hey, how does a rookie already have it in him to sigh like that? You little punk, you itching to get into a game?"

"N-no, sir!"

His sigh of relief had been caught by his senior, You Hong-jin, sparking a brief, minor incident —

"Me? What would I give an interview like that for? While I have my own personal channel to run?"

— but at least, at that point, he could still laugh.

And then, on Monday afternoon, it took only an instant for that smiling face to curdle into a mask of dread and terror.

Noh In-seong began to clap. Slowly.

And to Myeong Jeong-ho, that applause looked for all the world like:

'Once today is over, you and I are going to have a little face-to-face conversation, aren't we?'

Beep!

"Ha... I'm dead..."

Knock knock knock!

Jarred out of his skin, he slammed the screen dark — just as a knock sounded at the door of his bachelor dorm room.

"...Y-yes!! Coming!!"

He opened the door to find the battery coach standing there.

What's going on? he wondered, ushering the man inside — whereupon the coach thrust a hologram at him with an urgent expression.

"Hey! Jeong-ho! Looks like you'll have to start behind the plate tomorrow!"

"...I'm sorry, could you repeat that?!"

"Gu-young's wrist is bothering him after yesterday's game? Here's the scouting data, and—"

Their starting catcher. Jeong Gu-young, in his first year of free agency, nursing a minor injury.

And the opposing team was—

'The Doubles!'

"ACK! I'm dead!"

"That's right! You're REALLY dead?! So memorize all this data by tonight—"

The same place, the same words — but two men whose insides could not have been more different.

The lights of the Daejeon Phoenix bachelor dorm burned bright and never went out, glowing straight through until dawn.