30. Cold Water

The post-game interview, naturally, belonged to Caleb — the man who had just tossed eight shutout innings and walked away with the win.

A complete game shutout might have even been on the table, but the instant his pitch count touched 120, the manager dug in his heels and talked him off the mound.

"Records? Great. But if you're going to write your name in the books, do it in the postseason, please."

Caleb agreed. Records are fleeting; health is forever.

Having his sights set on another shot at the majors, he saw no reason to grind out extra innings at his own expense. So the final frame went to the new closer, Kim Jin-hong, who surrendered a single to put a runner in scoring position — then slammed the door without letting him touch home, sealing the save and the ballgame.

Normally Caleb wasn't one to gush after a win, but today his mouth ran unusually long. Watching him chatter away with the interpreter, you could tell he was thoroughly pleased with his outing.

"In-seong's not such a bad guy, really — at least, not when he's with us."

"Really? Then why is he like that at the stadium..."

Hold on. Was this brute talking about me right now?

Time to intervene, even if I had to dump something on his head.

I hurried over with the device I'd armed myself with the second the game ended.

The female caster, spotting Noh In-seong creeping up from behind, edged warily out of range — and Caleb sensed it too. He prided himself on the instincts last year's grind had beaten into him.

Truthfully, his stuff had always been good, and he'd always been generous to pitchers — as long as the defense held up. So he sat there ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠meekly as the cold sensation poured over his head and...

"HUUUAGH—!"

"C-C-Caleb! Player Caleb!"

It was like an ice sheet sweeping across his entire body, every muscle shriveling on contact. Modern technology had transformed what used to be a simple damp-and-cool dousing into something far worse.

"How is it? The same temperature as the drink inside the cryotherapy machine I just stepped out of?"

Of course, curiosity hadn't been the reason I carried it around. This was equipment I'd prepped in advance to spray on Choon-sik in the shower.

But Choon-sik's rage never got delivered. Caleb intercepted it instead.

Shivering violently, Caleb abandoned his interview mid-sentence and came at my throat. Hey! Put down that ice pack you're icing with!

After a brief chase, the cold-intolerant Irishman finished his interview at record speed and bolted for the showers.

Everyone piled onto the bus and returned to the away hotel, and while we unpacked and unwound, Caleb's second ice-bath revenge attempt died unfinished. After I lovingly stamped the word INSEONG into the bodies of the two fools groveling before me with my fists.

Lying on the lobby sofa scrolling my phone, I found a cluster of news stories had popped up.

...I can't speak for the rest, but why is it that the story at the very bottom never changes from my playing days?

I turned the phone off. No serious brawl had broken out, so it was fine.

At worst they smashed a bleacher amp — and before any agreement is even reached, what's the point of arguing over who started it?

Go ahead. Fight over those amps like maniacs until real legislation comes down. That's the only way you'll all be too broke to buy new ones and finally sit down and talk.

We had all gathered for a late-night spread of pig's ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠trotters and buckwheat noodles when the manager walked into the room.

"Right... good work out there today, everyone... And In-seong, about that... the association wants you to... refrain from making any further statements..."

Yeah. Saw that coming a mile away.

I figured it out watching him fire off dozens of calls from different phones even after getting blocked. When nobody picks up, you resort to moving through channels.

The next day, Noh In-seong — for once — heeded the association's words beautifully.

"I have something I'd like to say, but the association has relayed a request through our manager that I refrain from making further statements."

And that was all he did. He simply complied. It came out sounding tailor-made for headlines screaming 'Outside Pressure Silences Rookie Star.'

The association tore its hair out. And yet they couldn't fine him for it.

If they really tried to argue 'You were supposed to do what we told you, not literally!' they'd have no leg to stand on.

"...In any case, we are taking this matter seriously as well. Please announce that we are considering relevant regulations going forward."

With an incident that so nakedly exposed the need to separate the cheering sections in the first place, they couldn't exactly let it slide.

The fire had long since spread to ashes, and the cow was cooked well past beef — done to the point of being ready to slot between sesame seed buns. But the association, ever punctual, had begun repairing the barn door. Better late than never.

Game 2 unfolded much like a copy-paste of Game 1. Only the direction was slightly different. Us: 1. Them: 3.

Choon-sik, who'd clowned around until he got cracked yesterday, and Mr. Song, who took one on the chin for the crime of putting an arm around him, both went hitless.

So did I. One measly walk and one stolen base. Made it to scoring position, but nobody could bring me home.

The only run of the night came from In-soo hyung, who — for the first time in ages — guessed the pitch, sat on it, and yanked out his third home run of the season. That was it.

Andy gave up three runs over six innings, the bullpen miraculously held the line at zero — and we still couldn't score? Naturally, the lineup got shredded like dogs. The away bleachers sat in silence, but typing fingers don't lie.

Unbelievable. These bastards really came out in full force over ONE game.

Nothing to be done about the anger. Villains always collect extra windfalls and extra condemnation depending on the box score. And the moment I go deep in the next game, these people crawl back into their holes and stay there until I slump this badly again.

But they weren't the problem. This guy was the problem.

"When that rookie pointed his fingers at me so cockily, I'll admit I was a little scared. But now? Eh... not so much?"

Oh Yeon-seok, the final starter of the three-game Gwangju series, had begun running his mouth at me.

His sudden surge of confidence wasn't hard to explain. The first game, he'd chalked up to bad luck — balls finding holes. The ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠second game, I'd whiffed a lot.

Maybe it just wasn't a day the ball found the bat. But a rookie crumbling in a hitless game was an everyday occurrence.

A cycle rises and falls — you only had to look at his own teammates to see it. Noh In-seong was coming down off the peak.

At this level, he could afford to trust himself. Give up a hit if he must — just don't let it become a run. Eat innings. That was the whole job.

"Well, everyone's like that at first. I was pretty cocky as a rookie too — then I got humbled real quick after giving up some home runs."

His humility was born the day he refused to walk the league's reigning home run king, kept pumping strikes instead, and watched the ball get "parked" in the lot beyond the stadium. Before that, he'd collected a mountain of ugly nicknames — Overboard, Ash Heap, House Fire, and worse.

"So if he takes a strikeout from me tomorrow and walks back to the dugout, I'd say that kid learns a little humility too."

Oh Yeon-seok was cordially inviting Noh In-seong to experience his life lessons firsthand.

"Hiiiiigh fly—! This ball is—!! Down the left line—!! GONE, over the wall! Noh In-seong's home run! A solo home run! He turned on it from his very first at-bat!"

"Haha, Oh Yeon-seok did say in yesterday's interview that he'd be teaching the kid some humility... uh oh. This is bad."

And Noh In-seong, in return, copy-pasted Oh Yeon-seok's nightmare right back onto him.

"Don't you DARE think this is the end! Today you're going to take a whole LOT off me!!!"

He flung his bat nearly to the top of the foul-line netting and set off on a trot so leisurely it was practically a stroll — as if to say, don't think this is over yet, in exactly the manner of that interview that had sent chills down Oh Yeon-seok's spine. As he rounded the bases, pointing directly at him, Oh Yeon-seok avoided his eyes.

The hitting cycle is an oddly mystical creature. There are days when — oh-ho, so that's what a breaking ball looks like? — everything clicks.

"Hey, catcher. That idiot says he's throwing another fastball?"

"...Heh. Heard him loud and clear. This punk really doesn't give a damn about age, does he? Talks down to everybody."

Word was that on those days, the ball looks like a beach ball — your body reacting before your mind even registers where the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠pitch is going.

And in fairness, his pitch mix itself was childishly simple.

"Noh In-seong just did something that was basically a declaration of war, and the stands have ERUPTED. Whoa now!"

"As angry as he must be, throw anything onto that field and you're getting ejected... ah, yes. Ejected. Beer cans do not count, sir. Beer cans are NOT permitted."

When the atmosphere is this poisoned, when a man has dug his own grave this deep — his control was never going to hold. The ball arrived dead center.

"Toward right field! It's carrying... off the TOP of the fence and caroming! Back into the park! And Noh In-seong has already rounded second—!"

"Ah, and there were two runners aboard... it's only the third inning and he's already been tagged for four runs."

"By the time the ball reached second base, the slide was already finished. That's a triple. Noh In-seong's slump doesn't even last two games, folks."

The exit velocity was ferocious, but the launch angle was so low the ball never cleared the wall.

Still — a triple's a triple. This was probably my first career three-bagger, come to think of it.

In that case, should I put on a show at third? A little twerk should really get their blood boiling, no?

Mid-hip-thrust, I felt eyes on me. Oh Yeon-seok, glaring. What're you looking at, punk? You ran your mouth and got torched — that's on you.

"What are you looking at? Never seen a guy dance at third base before?"

Creak...

That confidently cocky face from the start of the game had curdled into an even split of irritation and exhaustion, and Oh Yeon-seok stood on the mound gritting his teeth.

A home run. Then a triple. Then that hip-swaying on top of it. All he felt was self-loathing.