37. Bound for Busan
After the front office staffer who'd shoved his hand over my mouth had finally left, I was lying there in the dead of night, sprawled out on a hyperloop train bound for Busan, luggage and all, drifting off to sleep—
—Our train will shortly be arriving at its final stop, Busan Station. Please make sure you haven't left any belongings behind...
No, seriously, the acceleration tech on these things is amazing. It used to take three hours, and now it's measured in minutes.
Even a bus riding the express acceleration tunnels would still be chugging along on the highway past the one-hour mark, but passing through three stations in thirty minutes? That's practically a miracle.
"...If only the price weren't so absurd that riding it regularly would bankrupt me."
It wasn't without reason that the cheap high-speed trains were still in business. The pricing felt less like a fare and more like a hostage negotiator sizing up a ransom — time itself held at knifepoint.
If the club hadn't covered the cost, I honestly might have just moseyed down by bus the next day instead. That's how criminal the markup was.
"Sir, to the ___ Hotel, please."
"W-would you like to get there fast, or slow...?"
"Fast, obviously—GAH! Sir, are you out of your mind?!"
After the singular experience of hailing a taxi that very nearly hailed me, I finally unloaded my bags at the assigned lodging and collapsed into an exhausted sleep.
I am never getting in a taxi again. This insane city.
The next day, I lolled around in bed until well past noon, which meant lunch was going to have to happen outside.
Meals were only provided at the hotel on game days. Inconvenient, that.
Busan, the so-called Baseball Capital — one of the two cities in the country where the sport's fever burns hottest.
And, ironically, one of the two cities with the absolute worst professional baseball records to show for it.
In other words: their draft strategy got torched, the player they originally targeted publicly declared he'd rather go anywhere else than to them, and their standings cratered?
Oof. No wonder they weren't exactly rolling out the welcome mat. Which also meant this was, for me, the single most hostile city in the country.
"We don't serve your kind. Get out!"
Hold on. I walked in to eat some food and this is the welcome I get? I should've known the moment I spotted the owner wearing a uniform — just not my team's.
"Changwon, number one! Busan, number ninety-nine!"
Naturally, I got one more jab in on the way out, at which point the man grabbed a crowd-control barrier and started swinging it around in a rage. Jesus, what a psycho.
Resigned to grabbing whatever I could find at a convenience store, I was just turning to leave when the anger boiled over.
The whole plan had been to wander the market, grazing on street food while my body slowly recovered between starts. What is this nonsense?
Fine. You know what? Since I'm already furious, why don't I burn this entire city down while I'm at it.
My YouTube livestream had been off for a while anyway. Time to take a nice, public stroll.
"And here we are at the legendary statue. You can still see the gentleman over there smoking his... oh! They're fighting! Fight! Fight!"
A casual fan-interaction stream — just a camera drone hovering near my head as I ambled slowly through the streets of Busan.
I'd come to see the city's iconic baseball legend statue, only to stumble on two guys screaming at each other right in front of it.
The fight over a discarded cigarette butt, complete with collar-grabbing, I did not film. Privacy issues are touchy.
Here was the thing: an active pro ballplayer turning on a livestream to chat with fans was a genuinely rare sight.
For one, it was usually retired players who started streaming, once they'd finished earning a living on the field.
"Sir, your team is holding eight aces right now. Bet your entire life savings. With a hand like that, there's no losing."
The second reason active players never did this was that it was nearly impossible to trade instant barbs with the particularly venomous breed of fan.
But what if the streamer in question happened to top the public poll of "Players Most Likely To Beat The Crap Out Of Trolling Fans On The Spot"?
"Anyone remember that interview I did a while back?"
"Strange. I've been parading around the streets of Busan and the hitman still hasn't shown up?"
Obviously, wandering the most hostile streets imaginable while sightseeing at every landmark was bound to draw reactions.
"Now when exactly is this Bussan Diamond Thief bastard planning to show up? He swore he'd kill me. What, is he arriving by robot or something?"
Nature's born attention-seeker, Noh Inseong, returning every last shred of malice with interest — right in the heart of Busan, actively stirring the pot.
Now that word had spread that I was livestreaming, any shop owner knew they'd have to sell to me whether they liked it or not.
"Because otherwise, folks, you might get to watch me sing and dance to a little ditty that goes 'there's a pro-ble-em with the front office~♪ the morons who drafted a Dead Arm~♪'"
"...Aigoo, welcome, welcome. You little son of a bitch. So. What'll it be?"
His face said I want to shove this sundae-slicing knife straight into your wretched gut... really, I do. But there was no point to the expression, was there?
Es not when the whole thing was broadcasting live. Mouths stayed shut when your shop's reputation was on the line.
The owner had understood that the only person who stood to lose from hearing his beloved franchise's diss track performed live was himself, so out came the food.
Was this really the same man who'd thrown me out on the street earlier? Truly, this is why "the interview begins" is such a terrifying phrase.
A scowling owner's japchae-style glass noodles and a plate of flat dumplings later, my mood had fully recovered.
May business boom, boss.
"Whoa, it's that hyung!"
"Hyung! Hyung, why do you hate Busan?"
Aigoo, my little kid friends. You recognize my face? So you do like baseball.
Then why are you wearing that hideous uniform of defeat and... ahem, ahem.
I was standing in line at a hotteok stall in the market when a pack of little kids trailing a camera drone came right up to me.
"Hm. Are you kids filming videos too, trying to make money off the platform?"
"Whoa! An exclusive interview!"
Sure, an interview it is. Your comment section's probably going to blow past a thousand, though? Problem is, every single one will be cursing me out.
Ah wait, you're minors — comments are probably disabled on your channel, huh?
"So, hyung. Hyung, why do you hate Busan so much?"
"How good are you at games at school?"
"Huh? I'm the best in my whole school."
"Say you and your friends are playing a game where you have to split into teams, right? By skill, you should've been picked first — but what if you didn't get picked until third, or never?"
"That would feel pretty bad, I guess."
Exactly. That's the feeling. You get it? That alone means Busan deserved to get beat down by me for my entire career.
Noh Inseong strained heroically to dress up his grudge in the clothing of justice.
Tsk tsk, the slander some people spread. You there, out.
With hotteok clamped in the kids' mouths as appearance fees, I munched on mine and strolled along — and there was my hotel.
"And that's it for today, folks. Great work out there, everyone—"
Oh, my team lost? Aigoo, In-young-sshi...? Huh?
"We won, you illiterate bears."
A sweep. Twenty-two wins, seven losses. Sitting pretty at first place in the league, obviously.
That's what you call establishing an iron grip on the season right out of the gate.
"The only things that died were your team's record and the funeral wreaths hanging outside your team's front office. Anyway — see you all next time."
Noh Inseong switched off the stream, slipped back into his hotel, and settled onto the bed for some restorative yoga — while the rest of the world spent the day in an uproar over his broadcast.
— A player livestreams his malice toward Busan... is this really okay?
— Why won't the association put a stop to players' streams?
— Restaurant refuses him service, so now a player curses out the Busan Marines out front?
— A player who celebrates his draft classmate's injury... did the Marines draft him for his character?
The Busan press corps mobilized every last drop of their imagination.
Ah, of course, none of it did anything to deflect blame away from their imbecile front office.
"The funeral wreaths are multiplying again?!"
Well, fair enough. Plenty of casual Busan fans probably watched games without even realizing their first-round pick was out injured.
And honestly? Much as it pains me to say — a troublemaking shortstop with actual skills beats a good-for-nothing shortstop who can't play baseball any day.
The coverage defending the club ended up poisoning the well and doing its own part to torment the front office.
Consciousness floated back up through a gray haze, and sounds kept filtering in.
Just past noon? That's usually when I get up — wait, there's a teammate in my room this time?
So it was you making all that racket? Lim Jae-min?
"...Aigoo, the bastard's finally up. Hey! Try waking up at a semi-normal hour for once!"
"Coach, throwing a hundred pitches as a starter and then resting for a full day is critically important work."
What, did someone hold a gun to your head and order you to make a rookie throw a hundred pitches? Why are you taking it out on me?
Lim Jae-min came bounding at me like a tiger and tried to shake me awake, but got punting like a chump and vanished out the door.
I pulled on my crumpled uniform, scratched my head vigorously, and shuffled toward the dining hall where everyone gathered — the whole team was busy stuffing their faces.
"Hey! Hyun-tak hyung! You were still alive!"
"Aigoo, you cursed bastard. I've still got the bruise on my ribs, you know!"
Sung Hyun-tak welcomed me with a scowl. Beside him was... huh? Wasn't that the guy I'd played alongside for the first time just yesterday?
"He's my direct junior, Pi Jeong-doo. He came up the same year as Jun-soo, so just call him hyung and you're fine."
"...I've been playing games while you and In-seong were out, though?"
"Please. One look at you talking and I'd bet he didn't say a single word to you. Too scared."
Pi Jeong-doo finally greeted me for the first time. Apparently, back in the minors, plenty of people talked trash at starting pitchers and got treated like rabid dogs for it.
So that's why he didn't say a word to me all day yesterday. He really didn't have to.
"Also, Hyun-tak hyung was just telling me his assessment of you... mmph! MMPH!"
"Hahaha, and what exactly were you about to say, you bastard—"
Sung Hyun-tak slapped a hand over Pi Jeong-doo's mouth in a panic. Is gagging people the new trend or something?
Busan had been fleeced by Noh Inseong with words, and fleeced again on the field. But the most damaging blow of all had been to their mentality.
The backup center fielder they'd brought in with such care took a ball dead-on to the leg bone and was now legally married to a walker for the foreseeable future.
Their manager got roasted verbally, humiliated by celebration rituals, and even stuffed and mounted.
Then again, so many managers and players had suffered the same fate since that there was cold comfort in at least being treated equally.
Afterward the team's record had been outright dismal, until around Game 15, when wins finally, finally started piling up and they began to claw back.
Currently fourteen wins and fifteen losses. Seventh in the league. At least we're not dead last! — and on the strength of that, public opinion was just barely starting to warm up again... when the article about Noh Inseong's solo walking-tour broadcast landed and did magnificent work souring it right back up.
"That damn little brat from last time... tch, goddamn it."
Busan's manager, Park Tae-jung, could feel the mood — the fragile, hard-won calm of a team and fanbase he'd only just nursed back up to a .500 winning percentage — slowly frosting over once more.
"Hey there, old man! I've come to pay my respects in person today! You ordered me around — go see the starter, go see the rookie — last time, and it left a bad taste in my mouth!"
"...This little son of a bitch, for real?!"
And thanks to that damned menace, who'd shown up under the guise of a polite greeting just to teabag him, Park Tae-jung felt his blood surge in reverse.