Behind The Scene
The Superstars, having just gone through a bench clearing, went on to lose in utterly miserable fashion.
It was only natural.
The mercenary slugger responsible for the team's power had been carted off to the hospital.
"Whoa, this is bad."
"How could you not notice when two of his teeth are missing? No, they're all gone."
His gums had taken serious damage on the spot, and the injury called for his jawbone to be wired shut. Forget chewing anything solid for a while — he'd be living on porridge and IV drips. Swinging a bat? Please.
"You should be thankful you're playing in Korea. In America, that would've been an instant death."
Instead of his wallet being hit by a missile, it ended with a single swing of a bat — something to be grateful for, really.
He hadn't even had his wits about him to begin with. A fractured jaw was no joke, and a concussion came standard as an add-on option.
So Victor, breathing through an oxygen mask, was admitted to the hospital just like that.
'Damn it. I wrestled all those years, but I've never gotten hurt this bad...'
Through his fading consciousness, all he felt was a burning sense of injustice. But what could he do?
If it was so unfair, he should have learned to fight fair and square instead of studying combat sports, and gone up against Noh In-seong himself.
"I could see plain as day what would've happened to me if he'd gotten a proper grip on me. Where am I supposed to find sympathy in that?"
That's how dangerous the art was — Noh In-seong said so himself. A wrestler was trained to shut off your consciousness in a single move.
If he'd been taken to the ground by an actual wrestler or judoka? Noh In-seong might have been the one out for the season.
"Better that I make them take the hit than get injured myself. I'm never getting hurt again."
The real problem was that it had triggered the PTSD of a man whose career had once been ruined by injury.
Meanwhile, the starting pitcher wasn't in great shape either.
When it came to the loss of the game, this side had actually suffered the bigger blow.
"The starting pitcher collapsed on the mound, sobbing — what on earth are we supposed to do about that?"
What do you do? You sub him out and send him to the hospital, that's what.
So the reliever rushed up to plug the hole, only to face a Doubles lineup riding high off their bench-clearing victory.
"So... um... we're... going to lose."
"N-no, we can't!"
While he was getting pounded so hard his ERA's leading digit changed before anyone's eyes, Gigi Paul went to the hospital for a full workup.
First things first: his body had taken a massive shock, and he'd only barely managed to raise a hand while trembling all over.
The reason was simple. His torso had absorbed the brunt of the impact.
The X-ray landed in the orthopedist's hands, and when Gigi Paul saw the hairline fractures in his right 7th and 8th ribs, he was floored.
"Hairline fractures in my ribs? That was ONE charge!"
"A hundred-and-ten-kilogram man sprinting at you in the low eleven-second range for a hundred meters — and that's all you got? Count yourself lucky."
Even American football players would have blanched. Nobody wants to take a hit like that without pads.
He'd escaped with "only this much" because he was a former boxer who'd always prioritized core conditioning.
His homework: no exercise for about two weeks. Eat well, rest deeply, and don't move.
And then came the momentous urology appointment.
"...Hmm. There's quite a bit of swelling, but you're lucky. It stopped at orchitis."
"OH, thank God. Lord, I am truly grateful."
That was the last shred of Noh In-seong's conscience.
Smashing an opponent's face wasn't to his taste, so going for somewhere less fatal was fine by him —
but apparently, man to man, a low blow had still weighed on his conscience after all.
"Did he ease up on the swing at the last second? At that speed, rupture is basically guaranteed..."
The doctor watched the footage, gasped in horror — then looked at the patient and called him a lucky man.
Take a low blow from a small bear, and naturally nothing good comes of it.
Gigi Paul had already pictured his future: lying in a pristine white hospital bed screaming 'THIS CAN'T BE HAPPENING, HUAAAH!!'
"Yeah, I am never going near that lunatic again."
Before living, breathing madness, an athlete whose madness was merely an act had tucked his tail between his legs.
Every time that bastard's face crossed his mind, the two orbs that had taken the hit ached all over again.
"Oh, right. I forgot to prescribe your anti-inflammatories and painkillers. Twice a day, morning and evening."
Scratch that. It wasn't the memories. He'd just been skipping his meds.
The original bench clearing had already caused plenty of problems, but this time things were considerably more serious.
The injuries the two victims had suffered were grave on every front.
A guy whose face had been rearranged, and a guy whose lower half(...) had been taken out of commission — the league had never seen anything like it.
Players, managers, fans, and officials from every other team were aghast, everyone without exception.
"Are you kidding me? The lunatic committed every foul in the book and he gets FIVE games!?"
"And our boys are the ones in the hospital!?"
"Doesn't the nutshot warrant additional discipline!?"
A chaotic chorus of complaints poured from every mouth, but in the end, the punishment that came down was closer to a slap on the wrist.
So the fine was steep? So what. The lunatic only misses five games!
'Why does Changwon get to eat all the honey?! We in Daejeon have to see that maniac again!'
'Damn it, they should've given him a ten-game ban or longer instead.'
Faces were contorting all across the league's front offices.
And the player in question, mind you, was a mercenary. Crude as it sounds, for the deep-pocketed Superstars of today...
"He was going to be replaced soon anyway! Damn it all..."
"Instead of a golden opportunity to sell our player, we just get time to shop for a better import!"
Even front offices that preferred money and wins over basic human decency were furious — which is to say, plenty of people were clamoring for harsher suspensions and bigger fines.
And if you couldn't understand, the national pastime dictates you demand your boss come out and explain himself.
Sweating buckets, a very high-ranking official from the association emerged to clarify.
Long story short: 'We could hand out suspensions, but they'd be meaningless.'
"Suspend Noh In-seong for one game or fifty — that player will keep on fighting."
A bowl of cold, hard facts, and the reporters went quiet.
'A suspension? Great, fine. So what? You'll just have your team get hurt more, won't you?'
He hadn't actually said it, but he was absolutely the kind of man who would have.
"And if we tried to regulate every single bench-clearing situation, then from now on, during live play..."
Incidents like a ball burying itself in an opponent's torso on a play at second would become everyday occurrences.
Oh? Sorry, my mistake → Huh? Why are you mad? → Bench clearing? Whose fault was that again?
It would be exploited in reverse, obviously. Ratcheting up punishments this way would only invite abuse.
"Frankly, it's better that they settle it this way — with their fists."
The lesser evil over the worst. Better the men who insist on fighting each other get hurt than more players across the league.
And if Noh In-seong gets ejected in the process, at least he understands exactly why he's been thrown out and keeps his mouth shut, doesn't he?
The association simply wasn't in a position to demand the ideal solution.
"The sport itself would need to be torn down and rebuilt, and we've been given neither the opportunity, the authority, nor the legal grounds to do so."
Baseball as it stood had always run on a system of vigilante justice — privately punishing whoever broke 'our own laws' in response to dangerous plays or provocative trash talk.
Don't want to get hit? Then act like you've got some sense. Want the fastball? Try that celebration again, see what happens.
That had congealed into the Unwritten Rules, and it remained the governing concept in everyone's minds.
Certain positions tended to hoard that power, sure — but that was how the sport had always operated.
Then Noh In-seong arrived, and the entire rulebook exploded.
Thinking about throwing at his head? Fine — absorb it, and next inning he'll come up and throw at your team.
Planning to intimidate him on defense or on the bases? Go ahead. He'll return the favor with a fastball of his own.
A bench clearing? You should be thankful that maniac usually doesn't initiate one.
If things ever escalated that far, the least you could do was charge him plenty and add to his burden.
"Which is why we concluded that heavier fines would deal that player a far greater blow."
"Ten million won doesn't even feel like money?! One of the imports needs full jaw reconstruction surgery!"
"And Gigi was... er, subjected to something akin to sexual harassment!"
"Ten million won for one kick to the nuts?! That's highway robbery! Where's my discount!"
...Noh In-seong? Wait, where did THIS maniac come from!?
There he was, standing right up front, offering no reflection whatsoever and filing grievances instead.
Naturally, however, uninvited guests do not get into press conferences.
"Get out. Now!"
"Aigoo, such oppression! Such discrimination against a one-man protest!"
He was expelled on the spot, chased out of the conference room where the presser was being held.
"...Heh heh. You all remember our little agreement quite well, don't you?"
But it meant nothing — everything Noh In-seong had wanted to confirm, he'd already confirmed.
At ease, he headed home to enjoy his break.
"Days off until the next road trip. Maybe I'll flip on the TV for the first time in a while."
The weather was lovely, and he strolled along in a T-shirt and shorts, lazily sketching out plans for his day off.
After that half-baked response to the bench clearing, a miracle occurred: everyone was dissatisfied with the outcome. The association couldn't have cared less.
'Damn it. How did the popularity of all of Korean baseball end up resting on that lunatic?'
Because the current baseball boom was, in fact, being led by that very lunatic.
The baseball craze, which had been quietly dying out before Noh In-seong's debut, was now soaring to the heavens, marching ever upward thanks to a character the likes of which had never been seen before or since.
In any sport, whether you're a troublemaker or old-school as they come — a guy who's good becomes a star.
Good with his mouth, good at baseball, and good at working a crowd?
"As long as our team doesn't lose, he's a ratings factory, plain and simple."
Powered by that lunatic, who put out article after article without missing a single day, last season had seen a miracle: ratings climbing with a vigor no one had seen in years.
"Damn it. If this isn't a cursed sword, what is?"
It addicting and destroyed whoever grasped it — but ratings are ratings, and ratings make everything forgivable.
Besides, the popular teams that had been underperforming had started putting up results across the board, which helped immensely.
Love it or hate it, Busan had been a real title race all along while never touching last place.
Daejeon had been a one-night dream, sure — but they'd played October baseball.
Both Seoul teams, plus Gwangju, plus Daegu. Everybody got a nice, hearty slice of the pie.
Incheon, chronic generators of bad blood all this time, had flopped, and so had the Superstars, that team famous for selling off its players.
"Excellent... excellent! Even that damned bastard has his uses!"
From the association's perspective, the projected figure of the Superstars' forthcoming 'development fund' brought a wide, wide smile.
This year, both Busan and Daejeon were performing well so far — the response would dwarf even last year's.
Clutching the hopes of a new season, the fans were flooding back through the gates.
"Which is why, please, could you maybe cause a few fewer incidents and set a few more records?"
"I think the player has been suspended far too often, honestly. Even .400 felt like too tight a squeeze!"
"Couldn't most things just be settled with a fine instead?"
Ahahaha...! And so, laughing merrily in an atmosphere of perfect harmony, the association headed into the season.
All that remained was for Noh In-seong to do well — the association itself intended to sit back, watch the show, and collect the rice cakes.
But the other teams did not want Noh In-seong thriving.
They threw intentional walks at him, pinged him with pitches, buried themselves in cycling him off the plate at every turn.
And on top of that, throwing all manner of filth onto the broadcast — as if to say, go microwave some instant rice instead.
"GWAAAAGH!! What is with these ratings?!"
"You damned bastards — you're throwing dung all over the boom in Korean baseball?!"
Doubles games used to be a guaranteed box-office smash, but viewer numbers during Noh In-seong's at-bats were a shadow of their former selves.
There's no dopamine in watching a guy take ball four when you know he was walking anyway.
Even if he was manufacturing breakthroughs with stolen bases, nothing matched one cathartic home run.
For its part, the association had been firing full-support artillery at Noh In-seong's back this whole time.
'Korean sports must have its king. We cannot go back to those dark old days!'
'The dark age when no superstar emerged! That hellish stretch of the mid-2030s!'
For the national team, for Korean baseball, and to slap the label of 'our achievement' on whatever he did overseas!
That was why the association had stopped acting hostile toward Noh In-seong.
And that was why they'd handed down the water-bat suspension.
"Please — we'll push you this hard, even groveling if we must, so make the records happen! Make the immortal records!"
Wasn't there hope glimmering on the horizon? Not that they had any intention of doing anything negative for him, mind.
A friendly strike zone? A conveniently tilted schedule? No — stack the deck like that and the records lose their shine.
"Shave a few games off what that lunatic throws away on suspensions, and he'll handle the rest himself!"
They'd pile on the fines a bit more, but when a man's already pulling in a billion won, that's an acceptable risk by any measure.
Just as an invisible Superstar Call existed in every industry—
this time, an invisible Noh In-seong Disciplinary Call had quietly been applied to all of Korean baseball.
And then, today. Early that very morning, before the press conference.
Before the fine and suspension had even been formally announced, Noh In-seong sat in a waiting room at the association's offices, receiving his briefing.
"That's the story we'll give, and it'll be about five games. We'll raise the fine accordingly."
"Given how bad the injuries got this time, I won't throw at anyone's head for a while."
A wordless handshake sealed the deal in that waiting room.
A filthy adult, and a lunatic, had struck their accord.
"Honestly, there have never been many maniacs who fight with their fists like you do."
"Mostly it's chest-bumping and 'you wanna go, huh?' posturing before someone breaks it up. I know. I've seen it."
Even though players who actually threw punches had multiplied through the twenties,
they still numbered barely a handful. Noh In-seong was a deeply abnormal case.
"I'm not sticking around long anyway, so there's no point in changing the rules, is there? It'd be a waste of administrative resources."
"I suppose not. Next year? The year after? The other clubs are already gathering opinions behind the scenes."
'Let's drive out that lunatic. Even if it means dangling conditions only someone like Noh In-seong could never accept.'
Word had it that Superstars GM Jeong Jae-yoon, upon discovering that both of his imports had been beaten into dumplings while he lay around doing nothing, was frantically reaching out to the other clubs' general managers.
"It'll probably be some condition like, 'a player who won monthly MVP in consecutive years,' I'd imagine..."
You mean the bar you've already cleared yourself, right? winked the senior association official.
'Other than me, the only one who's managed that is... Song on our team, the season before his FA, maybe?'
At most he'd be around another year and a half before going overseas — a problem that would simply vanish.
Treat him well, and once he's gone, Korean baseball goes back to the way it was. Problem solved.
'Sure, a few kids with funny ideas will pop up, but schools and clubs will educate them, won't they?'
--There's no way one of these insane irregulars shows up every single year.
That was how the baseball association saw it.
'Haha. I wouldn't bet on it.'
And Noh In-seong knew perfectly well that they were wrong.
But it was none of his business anyway, so he left the waiting room with a quiet smile on his face.
'High school baseball is already hell. And they have no idea.'
The poison called Noh In-seong had already begun infecting high school baseball.
And not mildly. Explosively.