26. No Idea About the Unwritten Rules, but I Set the Fire
There I was, finally done for the day and daydreaming all the way home about how I'd get to tease Siyeon on Monday morning, when the postgame hero interview nobody wants came strolling in after nine p.m. like unpaid overtime.
"There were suggestions that you deliberately threw at the opposing player's body. Any comment on that?"
"Hey, I'm the one who ate the dead ball — I should be thanking them the guy only needs two months to recover, shouldn't I?"
Well, obviously. What kind of lunatic expects a manager to pull his starter before the man's been shredded to ribbons? Judging by the state of him, the poor bastard didn't have much left in the tank as it was, so I couldn't quite bring myself to blow up at the pitcher.
Me, of all people... hm. Maybe I was getting sentimental. Answers like that don't suit me — can't allow that.
"In case you've forgotten, allow me to remind you: he survived because it was a breaking ball. If it had been a fastball, I'd be counting off the pitcher, the catcher, their best player, one grizzled veteran..."
I was reading out my kill list one finger at a time when — oh, right.
"There's an old saying about respecting your elders. Anyway, the contract killing had to receive final approval from the manager, no?"
"...Are you calling a hit-by-pitch a contract killing?"
Poor reporter — her voice was trembling. But a man has to finish what he started.
"In the movies, does the hero stop at taking out the hitman he was paid to kill? He goes to the client's house and wipes out everyone who ordered the job."
You kill one dog and the whole organization just vanishes? If they put a ball in my skull, the first-team roster ought to disappear for a while, shouldn't it?
"Try it sometime. Sounds like fun. You're getting ejected either way, so take the mound and open by drilling their best hitter."
It took no time at all for the headline of that interview to become Hyeom Wick. Wonder if some hotel will offer me a sponsorship? I need fine money.
The next day, the fine arrived. A cool five million won. No penalty came down for the suspected brushback instigation during the play, but the ruling came with an opinion attached — delivered straight to me — that merely pre-announcing an ambush on the opposition dugout was more than sufficient grounds for a hefty fine.
But dream on. Headquarters hit back at a full one-hundred-percent payback rate!
"...I am begging you here. We told you to respond to their hardline remarks — nobody told you to set anything on fire..."
It was over that little stunt that the general manager summoned me on a Monday, of all days — a designated rest day. This is a violation of workers' rights!
"But you said you'd cover every fine from that day, didn't you? Bit late to renege now, isn't it?"
Ignoring the GM's furious decree that from here on out I'd be paying my own fines, by hook or by crook, I bolted out the door to go enjoy my Monday. Hehe! Not my problem! Five million, locked in!
Unlike last Monday, damp and drizzling, this one was bright and warm without being hot — absolutely perfect. I wandered out of the office wondering what to do with a free day, and before I knew it my feet had carried me to a cup-rice stall near the old neighborhood.
Noryangjin. Ah, the place I leaned on shamelessly all through my school days. The memories came sprouting up like spring grass. A neighborhood at the crossroads between students who are hungry no matter how much they eat and exam crammers who absolutely must eat cheap no matter how much they eat.
It happened to be one district over from my old school, so I'd begged off this area plenty whenever I needed to stuff my face. I crossed the footbridge to see where the academy-district tonkatsu joint used to be — long since moved, naturally — then walked a little farther on to Heukseok-dong.
After eating, I was strolling around at my leisure when I spotted kids playing baseball in a park.
"RRRAAAGH—!"
"How the hell is that a strike, you lunatic!"
Hm. Less "baseball," more... "baseball from about thirty years ago," apparently. The strike zone still moved wherever the catcher pleased.
Watching the backstop wield the zone like a petty tyrant instead of a robot umpire — proof that neighborhood baseball still runs on fists, I tell you.
I was lying on a bench spacing out, watching the kids enjoy themselves with a squishy rubber ball and a lightweight cork-wood bat, when I noticed several of them in other clubs' uniforms — and one kid wearing mine. Huh? Guess I'm popular.
Right then, with a satisfying whack, the ball the little guy smacked came bouncing and hopping straight toward me.
"Can we get our ball back—!"
"I don't listen to kids in Grizzlies uniforms!"
I ignored him again and flopped back onto the bench. Wait — seriously? I'm a Doubles player, you little punk.
"Oh! It's Noh In-seong!"
"Am I your friend, brat? ...Oh, wait, you're wearing my uniform. Want an autograph?"
I returned the precious merchandise to its owner and signed his jersey. Kid... the kid was wearing one seriously decked-out jersey. Keep wearing it, kid.
Sure enough, the functional and the dysfunctional sides of social media fired off simultaneously. The functional side: glowing opinions about a wonderful athlete giving a young fan a lifelong memory. The dysfunctional side: an avalanche of opinions and profanity crashing down on Noh In-seong — he's a child, and for the good of baseball you should treat every single fan with kindness.
To people with no intention of listening, any of it meant nothing. This was a victory for courage that goes beyond daring to be hated — the courage to be hated first.
The advantages of a Seoul team are endless, but the greatest one is away-game convenience. Unlike the long downhill slog of Busan–Changwon–Daegu–Gwangju–Changwon, with three clubs in Seoul and two more in the capital region, the nearby road trips are downright pleasant. An hour to round everyone up onto the bus and reach the hotel.
Our next opponents, the Suwon Magicians, came out to greet a Doubles side riding a wave of momentum. Naturally, a Monday spent in blissful idleness did absolutely nothing to give Noh In-seong's mouth a day off.
"Fitting for the Telecom Cartel Derby — I hope for a harmonious game on the surface, with each side quietly watching for the moment to stab the other in the back."
Messenger-bomb attacks and public self-immolation being the bare minimum, of course.
"Every violent fan in Suwon is a person with mental problems. One of their soccer teams is stuck in the second division and still manages to make the news, and the baseball club's violent Hooligans are nothing short of a plague that even their own fans won't go anywhere near."
A sniper shot at the hardcore fan clubs the front offices could never bring themselves to expel, given their unmatched loyalty. And then a broadside at an entire region's hooligans, all lumped together.
Before the first pitch was even thrown, an outrageous display of tongue-dribbling had already turned the stomachs of Suwon's hardcore sports fans inside out.
Oooohhhhhh——
Drop dead— drop dead— In-seong, you son of a bitch, drop dead—!
And so it begins—! ...
A colossal wall of noise, every sound blended however it pleased, rolled across the multi-purpose stadium.
"...So this entire circus is because of one little pre-game flap of your jaw?"
"Wow, still stuck in the second division and the firepower's alive and well. Those folks really are passing the cheering down through the generations... oof!"
Jung Im-taek dealt punishment to the living discord-manufacturers who had set off this epidemic of madness. Honestly, it was a mercy that it ended with nothing worse than a knuckle sandwich.
The home seats behind the plate were a dense wall of Magicians navy, it was true — but every other section except the visitors' seats had been plastered over in blue jerseys.
Suwon's hardcore soccer fans, lured out by that crack about the second division. The second-division league played once every three days, and by pure coincidence there was no match today — a minor miracle.
Sellouts happened now and then, but this was history's first-ever soccer-baseball coalition sellout. And not just any sellout: one where over forty percent of the crowd came fully equipped and ready for potential hooligan activity.
The association laughing and crying at the same time while dispatching extra security personnel — there was a reason for it.
"Whew. A superstar really does know how to draw a crowd."
The moment I swaggered confidently onto the mound, the roar of pure vitriol that washed over me felt absolutely wonderful.
"Yes... bottom of the first, the Suwon Magicians coming to bat. Taking the mound is Noh In-seong — and might I remind viewers, that's sixteen scoreless innings."
"That's right, and if he throws well today, the rookie record is as good as broken. The old mark stood at nineteen innings... plus two outs, was it?"
"It may not be so easy, though. The fans here are being quite harsh on the visiting team today."
"Ha! Saying that sort of thing in Suwon normally requires a certain breed of courage. A rather hasty judgment — though I suppose you could call it rookie bravado..."
The curses aimed my way rang out loud and clear the whole time, but honestly — I love a rowdy ballpark like this.
Strike—!
"First pitch, a four-seamer at 161.2 km/h — low and away, painted to absolute perfection. Called strike."
"Swinging at that kind of pitch usually ends badly. For a hitter whose swing mechanics don't favor it..."
It took two more pitches before the dumbfounded opposing leadoff hitter, head shaking and shoulders loaded down with every curse known to man, trudged back toward the dugout.
"Strikeout! An immaculate inning! Noh In-seong sets down the side on nine pitches, three strikeouts!"
"He turned on it with everything he had, but the ball was simply on another level. This is Suwon Baseball Stadium — we'll see you in the top of the second."
Whether they were watching from the stands in person or through the broadcast at home, with no exceptions made for either, it took six more pitches to flip the fans' wardrobes inside out.
Oh, and a bonus:
"Deep to left—! Off the wall—!! It's GONE! A two-run homer off the bat of Noh In-seong! It's 4–0! The Doubles did not miss their chance to pull away!"
"Ah, Noh In-seong is doing his ceremony now... is he blowing kisses out to the crowd with both hands?"
"And the fan who caught the ball is hurling it right back onto the field..."
For having spat in the crowd's eye one more time in the fourth — an act for which another fine was promptly finalized — Noh In-seong remained on the mound. The wardrobe-flipping of the fans was very much ongoing as we speak.
Throw it back—!!
ARGH, you bastards can't play baseball for shit either—!!
Die! You punk, aren't you gonna throw it back?!
"Ah, they're now throwing objects onto the field..."
"Is that a red flare? Something that happens only occasionally — really, very occasionally — at soccer stadiums is now happening at a baseball park, in the year 2051..."
The war-zone heat of the soccer terraces had migrated to the baseball stadium. After a truly long stretch of years, it was the first such occurrence since the nineties, when public authority had begun scrubbing violence out of the ballparks.