The Oil Great Battle (Part 1)
After Noh In-seong told countless people exactly where they could go, dressed up in the classiest photo-comparison insult format known to man, the disciplinary suspension passed before anyone noticed it was gone.
"Man, why is it that whenever I finally try to enjoy myself properly, there's never enough time?"
It was a wistful complaint only Noh In-seong could make — the man for whom doing nothing was, and always had been, the finest activity known to humankind.
"Oppa, you've been eating, playing, working out, gaming, eating again, and sleeping. Every single day."
His sister Siyeon's deadpan fact-bomb, delivered with a look of profound pity, did sting somewhere deep inside.
"Quiet. This is work."
Granted, turning that work into profitable view counts was somebody else's job.
Still, Noh In-seong did game for a living — while absorbing thousands upon thousands of curses for it.
Ding—
Mental labor, this — needling his temper with a donation amount precisely calibrated to sit just below the ban threshold.
Of course, if the amount ran even a touch low, the 24-hour bans would come flying in thick and fast, like watery broth from a stingy hangover-soup joint.
At least that wasn't happening yet... not until the inflation arrived, anyway.
"Oppa, you were a slipper thief?"
"No, you brat... Aigoo. What a wonderful thing to teach a child."
In the end, citing its poor influence on child-rearing, Noh In-seong scrapped the gaming stream entirely.
His editor, Joo Han-chul, would surely be screaming 'AAAAARGH—!! What do you mean, starting it and then dropping it?!' — but what did he care.
If he was that salty, he was welcome to TS-reincarnate himself and be reborn at about his own little sister's age.
With the gaming stream scrapped, Noh In-seong found himself unbearably idle.
Now, the man in question was currently lying around at home, recovering from a hospital procedure to treat his hemorrhoids.
Noh In-seong was idle enough to pay him a visit under the flimsy pretense of a get-well call, purely to torment him.
"What is it with this guy, getting hurt by stuff like this every single time? What's next on the list? Gout?"
"Aigoo, look at this bastard. I'm lying face-down, so he's running through every last thing he can think of."
"Ho ho, and yet he was so delighted when In-seong came to visit you, dear."
Jo In-soo's wife, Madam Im Jung-im, smacked the back of the prone Jo In-soo.
CRACK—!
"GYAAAAGH...!!"
"Your snap is no joke, ma'am. Just like my mom's."
"This bastard is fanning the flames of a house that's already on fire..."
CRACK----!!
"Honey, hold still. What kind of rudeness is this, in front of a guest. Honestly."
One patient, dispatched beyond even a scream by a single strike of the Tathagata Palm.
Noh In-seong marveled at the sheer mastery of that palm technique. So that was the grip strength required to keep a catcher wrapped around one's finger.
After scoring some complimentary fruit and pouring one more ladle of torment onto the patient's stress, he rose to leave.
"Thank you for the meal, sister-in-law."
"Oh my, thank you for at least humoring my husband for once. Do get home safely."
And he trudged his way back home.
And so the last day of his break came and went — and at long last, after the long, long saga had run its full course, the day of Noh In-seong's return arrived.
Inmate No. 5103. Released.
Well, he wasn't an actual convict — but in terms of treatment, Noh In-seong was, at minimum, a prisoner.
'Is this bastard finally going to show something that at least resembles remorse today?'
'Beating people black and blue time after time, and just glossing over it like this every single go-around? Ha.'
The reporters stood ready, ink loaded, to fire off the most inflammatory articles of their careers.
Cursed out by Noh In-seong, slapped with his lawsuits time and again — a man like that was a never-ending fountain of material. What would they possibly have to lose by writing him up? Especially in a moment like this.
But right up until Noh In-seong appeared before them in the national uniform of apology — a pressed suit — they were dancing with joy. 'This bastard has finally! FINALLY bowed to public opinion!'
"I'll repay you all with baseball. I mean, there's not a single red line next to my name, so I'm allowed to say this kind of thing, aren't I?"
Only after beholding him slouched sideways across his chair, surveying the assembled press like a landlord collecting rent, did they finally understand: this bastard wasn't the least bit sorry.
"Why's the atmosphere all funeral-like? You all knew fine well that a player who isn't sorry was going to say he isn't sorry."
Doesn't drink, no DUIs, no drugs. Doesn't even gamble — won't touch a gacha pull. A perfectly sound human being, apart from the small matter of his character being shattered beyond repair.
Even talking like this — he was a living law of nature: play brilliant baseball, refrain from committing any mid-level felonies, and the world is yours.
"Not even a whiff of anyone chasing an interview out there. I suppose they all figured I'd just spout abuse anyway?"
'Might as well run pieces like How Noh In-seong Forcibly Terminated His Own Interview,' he sneered.
This time it had been the vain hope that he'd apologize — the small, forgivable error of misjudging the man.
Shattering the hopes of an entire press corps into glittering shards, Noh In-seong made his triumphant return.
Second game against Daejeon.
Counting everything through yesterday: two wins, three losses. Fold in the days Noh In-seong had sat out, and it came to exactly fifty percent.
The Doubles had at least played to roughly league average all through the suspension, but—
"...Would anyone care to explain to me what exactly this is supposed to be?"
"What else could it be? It's the day the game blew up."
At the start of the top of the third, Noh In-seong glanced up at the Daejeon Ball Park scoreboard and his capacity for comprehension simply evaporated.
The score written there: 15–1.
"This is insane. It's my comeback game, and everyone from the starter to the lineup is unraveling in their own special way."
It had the feel of a day that would be filthy, and unbearably, endlessly long.
[It has truly been a day of many, many things. Yes.]
[Setting aside, for the moment, the six runs surrendered in a single inning and the nine more in the very next...]
[Yes, well. Daejeon's momentum was... nothing short of overwhelming.]
When Noh In-seong had led off the first with a base hit and Song Jin-wook doubled him home, they'd assumed today would cruise along comfortably. The pitching staff had other ideas.
For starters, Jeong In-young's worst day in living memory just happened to be today.
Whether the fans' tempers detonated or not, Jeong In-young was yanked after two-thirds of an inning — five runs allowed, two runners left aboard.
Out of the bullpen next came a one-point reliever: Jin Joo-hyuk.
He did surrender one hit, letting an inherited runner cross the plate, but he got out of the inning regardless.
But in the next frame, unlike the Doubles — who'd flailed away at empty air and left men stranded at third—
CRAAACK--!!
[Myeong Jeong-ho!!! Myeong Jeong-ho! Myeong Jeong-ho rips one! The runner is already rounding third--!! Coming home! He's in!]
[A run-scoring double off the bat of Myeong Jeong-ho! The deficit is already ten! He had been swinging a hot bat of late!]
"Hee hee. Feels good. Hee hee."
"...Does psychosis improve your hitting or something?"
Short on raw power, but Myeong Jeong-ho's bat set the ball down exactly where it needed to be.
Noh In-seong could feel the full weight of his past sins coming home to roost.
By the bottom of the second, a five-alarm fire had burned the Doubles down to ash — and in those ashes, Jeong Im-taek faced a choice.
'Preserve the pitchers' arms and let the position players throw vs. burn through the bullpen and chase the comeback.'
The problem was that the score currently stood at a fourteen-run gap.
With the top of the third jammed up at two outs and nothing to show for it, the available options were narrowing by the minute — and as Noh In-seong, today's leadoff hitter, ground his way through a nine-pitch at-bat, one figure floated into Jeong Im-taek's field of vision.
The one man whose arm wasn't being used at all — a man with actual pitching experience — sitting around doing precisely nothing.
'That villain spikes my blood pressure on a normal day anyway. Might as well put him to work.' And so Jeong Im-taek summoned the idiot.
"Hey! Song Jin-wook! You pitched a bit back in your school days, didn't you?"
"Why yes, sir, I did. You know I was a pitcher once, despite these looks of mi—"
"Aigoo, you idiot. Reading the room was never your talent, was it..."
Noh In-seong — who had just made an out, returned to the dugout to find the idiot lounging about, and was mid-way through his time-honored kick-in-the-rear sequence — urgently aborted the kick and turned to stare at Song Jin-wook.
Too late. The man had stepped forward with confidence, so surely he was due to collect his confidence-based ReWARD?
"Then what are you standing around for? Get loose, right nooow---!!"
No time to hesitate! And Song Jin-wook was dragged off to the bullpen by the scruff of his neck.
"Ack! Manager! It's been a hell of a long time since I pitched! I've still got to play left field defense sometimes!"
"I know! But honestly, from what I've seen of you out there, the team's better off when you don't catch anything!"
With so few chances to throw in the first place, conserving his shoulder meant absolutely nothing for a man like him.
Straight to the bottom of the third.
— Pitching change: Song Jin-wook.
[Ah, and up onto the mound comes the designated hitter, Song Jin-wook. At this point, I believe they've conceded today's game.]
[Since it's come to this, it looks like they're sacrificing one game to give the pitching staff a chance to breathe.]
Song Jin-wook climbed the mound.
'Shit, what did I ever do to deserve this...'
His grumbling face lasted all of a moment — until he caught sight of Noh In-seong's at shortstop, settling into position before the pitch.
'Is the manager this comfortable with two-way deployments because of that bastard? No... that can't be it.'
The bullpen simply couldn't physically eat another inning — naturally, his expected value couldn't compare to a league-elite pitcher's.
Song Jin-wook's head — slow at reading a room, but not slow at thinking — promptly derived his own expected value.
He wasn't there to stop anyone. He was a patch job. Go out there, toss the ball around, spare the pitchers.
'...They really did just ask me to eat some innings, so I'll pitch however I damn well please. When else would a chance like this come along?'
— Hee hee, this is awesome. Innings, let's gooo!
His mind had snapped straight back to factory settings. In other words, Song Jin-wook was completely, dangerously relaxed.
So it was that Song Jin-wook, mind in its usual benignly moronic state, gathered himself and delivered his first professional pitch. The very first offering:
"Strike!"
[Wow, a called strike on the very first pitch — a 138.2 km/h fastball painted precisely at the bottom of the zone, away.]
[That tail really does run, doesn't it? This is quite old data, but his repertoire was just the one slider and a two-seam fastball.]
[Which is why, high school pedigree aside, plenty of people expected he'd develop into bullpen material as a pro...]
Out and low — skimming precisely the sort of miserable, miserable corner no hitter wants any part of.
While his pitching ceiling topped out at "bullpen arm," his hitting potential was "league MVP, at absolute minimum" — which was exactly why that particular talent had spent years buried.
Only now, with the pitcher's mitt discarded and hitting his single obsession, was it finally catching light.
"Strike three! Batter out!"
[Wow, and there he goes throwing a slider that breaks in from the outside corner?]
Utterly indifferent to the risk that a slider starting over the heart of the plate might turn into batting practice.
A man strolling calmly through an active minefield — Terminator-grade cardiovascular nerve.
[Does the concept of fear simply not exist in this man? Thinking about the possibility of taking a ball off the body, most men's guts simply would not permit it...]
But then again: a fourteen-run deficit, a pitching role already written off, and—
'As long as I eat the innings, they won't say a word even if I hand over twenty runs, right? So I'll just chuck it.'
It was the losing pitcher's stat line among losing pitcher's stat lines — something only a man born with a supremely peaceable chipset could achieve.
Everyone had been branding Jeong Im-taek the "No-Guts Manager who emptied the bullpen before his team even showed the will to fight" —
Public opinion flipped a full 180 on the spot, and the fans stashed their insults neatly in temporary storage while deploying 'You're our team's hero!'
As for Jeong Im-taek — "Earth's greatest manager, with a one-day-only eye for pitching talent and a gift for cultivating two-way stars"—
"...Why the hell is this bastard throwing this well?"
"He was a high school ace, after all. Shoulder's nice and fresh — I suppose it's coming out easy."
He had put the man on the mound himself, and yet the business succeeding quite this well left him deeply flustered. He stood there beside the pitching coach, both of them staring blankly at the spectacle unfolding on the mound.
Sure, he'd sent him up there to eat innings. But what exactly was this.
"Strike three! Batter out!"
[Wow, Song Jin-wook gave up one hit, but he immediately punches out the very next batter! Inning over!]
[Painting the outside corner black for the strikeout, the Phoenix's half of the third comes to a close! After a short break...]
"See that? That's me!"
"See what, you lunatic? Go get ready for your next at-bat."
"Already?! Whoa. Damn. Being you is exhausting, In-seong. I'm feeling a little respect coming on here, man."
Noh In-seong stuffed the helmet, bat, and guards into Song Jin-wook's arms — a small gesture of commendation for the man who'd shut down the bottom of the third without a run — and turned to his own practice, swinging the bat in great whooshing arcs out in the corridor.
And while he did, today's true main course began: the Great Counterattack.
The Phoenix had their confidence. The lead was enormous, and the most dangerous hitter on the field had managed just one hit all day.
'We held them down, so hold them down again, and there's still hope!'
Leading off the top of the fourth: the filthily slow Song Jin-wook.
With even Noh In-seong neutralized, they believed nothing left in that lineup could frighten them. But—
CRACKAAAANG---!!!
[Song Jin-wook's drive---!! Far, far into that sky---!! It's gone! Solo home run! 15–2!]
[Haha, don't they say good hitting follows good defense? And Song Jin-wook is...]
[That's right. Since he's incapable of playing good defense, he pitched well and hit a home run instead. Indeed.]
The real problem was that their own starter today wasn't exactly a good pitcher either.
This was fifth starter versus fifth starter, a game everyone expected to devolve into a hitting contest — the Phoenix had simply struck first, that was all.
Now that the Doubles had clawed their way back onto solid footing from the early chaos, this snowball, perched at the very summit of the mountain, began to roll.
CRACK--!!
[A hit by Sung Hyun-tak! Ah, he's slow. Truly, everyone at the top of this order is slow — it's a double!]
[The remarkable thing is that he was exactly this slow back when he was still thin.]
CRACK!
[Nicholas's first hit of the day! An RBI single squirt through the infield...!!]
15–3. Slowly swelling, the snowball's mass kept growing.
CRACKAAANG---!!
[Deep to left--!! Back--!! Off the left field wall--! It's OVER! Home run! The young catcher has done it!]
[Batting fifth today, Lim Jae-min. Yes. His punch is a different animal from last year!]
[He does appear to have added some muscle. The swing path and mechanics all look the same — but the ball is coming off the bat so much hotter!]
15–6. With the snowball now packing both size and velocity, the Phoenix were forced to make a call.
The decision to pull the starter.
The score chasing them in an instant. The gap shrinking to single digits in an instant.
Next out of the bullpen came his own draft classmate, Cho Yong-il, who after recording two outs promptly handed a free pass to two more runners.
[Ah... this is not good.]
[Two outs, runners on first and second — and stepping in is Noh In-seong, one hit today, playing in his return from suspension.]
And at the sight of the league's supreme villain strolling to the plate, Cho Yong-il shook like a leaf in a gale.
'High-inside fastball.'
'Are you insane?! You pulled that last time and—'
'High-inside fastball. Throw it. Even if he lays off, next up is the man who just homered.'
Plainly put: take a pitch from Noh In-seong, and you'd face the home-run hitter with the bases loaded.
So, swallowing mustard through his tears, Cho Yong-il spun a high fastball in on Noh In-seong.
Tick—!
'...Tick?'
With every runner in full flight, Noh In-seong dropped a bunt toward third base.
'The pitcher's frozen solid — how exactly is he supposed to field it cleanly?'
Naturally, the third baseman scrambling back into defensive position and the pitcher both charged at the ball at once.
""AAAH!!""
Seeing each other, both men initiated an emergency evasion sequence.
Scarier than an error was colliding into each other and ending the season on the training table — they were men who had learned plenty from the games of their forebears.
Meanwhile, Noh In-seong trotted into first base. Every runner safe.
"Heheheh, you gormless bastards. Can you really not remember what I did to your whole team in my historic debut?"
"Aargh, this deranged, sneaky little bunt-happy bastard..."
Delivering trash talk point-blank into a boiling Jeong In-woong's face, Noh In-seong had loaded the bases.
And into this worst-case scenario, today's superstar made his entrance.
Bases loaded, one out. To the Doubles, the guardian deity of the day.
"Shit... this is madness..."
To the Phoenix and their manager, however, he was the executioner.
Naturally, the Phoenix had to send a trustworthy arm into this insane crisis.
The problem was that the Phoenix bullpen had precisely two flavors left: decrepit, or green.
Their setup ace, Sung Hyung-joon, was 35 years old this year.
[You can watch the velocity drain away year after year with your own eyes, and yet no better arm has emerged.]
[...Really, a prospect to inherit this role should have arrived a good deal sooner...]
The fireballer of his prime, who once touched 156 km/h,
had by last year settled into a steady 144 km/h finesse pitcher, eking out a living on command alone.
And pitchers like this, as a rule...
CRACKAAAANG----!!
[And there is no doubt whatsoever! High into that sky! Over the wall! Over the entire grounds of Daejeon Ball Park! HOME RUN!]
[Song Jin-wook, two home runs in a single game! Five runs batted in off the homers — 15–10! The chase is ON!]
Either the remaining velocity keeps slipping away, or the command that was his one weapon grows dull.
At the tail end of the aging curve, when the mileage of every inning ever thrown comes due all at once, the fall is pitiless and complete.
The closer's head bowed low to his chest, and the screams of home fans venting their fury into the night.
Daejeon was being flattened beneath today's snowball — and rolling along with it, all the way down.