The Talent Is All In-seong's, the Rewards All Sung-tak's

When Noh In-seong took a pitch square in the back and strolled toward first base, the truth was that his mind was a good deal more complicated than it looked.

"Well, I have no reason to stop a man who's so graciously volunteering to self-destruct... except."

It wasn't that he failed to grasp the situation. It was that the situation had split cleanly down the middle of one question: kill him right now, or don't?

The catcher blocking the ball quickly, fine. That much made sense — if you're bracing for a bench-clearing brawl, the catcher's the one standing closest to the enemy.

The kids opening the king's eye, fine. Throwing hard and deep into the body only for the catcher to make the opposite catch — also fine. It seemed the man on the mound had decided to fire openly at the body: if it hits, great; if it doesn't, hopefully it produces a weak grounder he can turn into an out — even better.

'He must figure that if it plunks me, that cursed son of a bitch Sung-mi will start swinging fists, so no way the records get broken tonight!'

Frankly, the spot where the ball hit did hurt. It had caught him square on the backside, in exactly the place he couldn't properly rub out.

But beyond that pain, a chance to pay it all back had just walked up and introduced itself. Quitting because it stung — is that what a first-class player does? That's third-rate.

The new pitcher was a lefty with serious velocity.

If your catcher has no particular strength in throwing out base stealers, you change pitchers to cover for it. That was the logic.

Stolen-base prevention, historically, came down to a pitcher who threw hard, a left-hander who could hold a runner at first comfortably — and more often than not, the best results came from the man who threw high fastballs in the middle of it all.

A pitcher who could touch 150 km/h and split the zone up and down? The data got meaningfully better.

"Of course, the clown they're bringing in now is not that guy."

In Korean baseball, pitchers like that are almost always at the top of their staff — the ace or the best arm in the bullpen, which means their pickoff and stolen-base suppression techniques tend to be first-rate as well.

Especially irrelevant for the Tigers of Gwangju — the franchise where good players evaporate the moment they win a single championship.

Let's finish it this inning. His manager's face had gone white as a sheet and then come back. That meant the hook was certain. Fail here and there'd be no next chance — the moment this inning passed, the pitching change would come whether anyone liked it or not.

"Then there's nothing to do but play it now."

Noh In-seong cinched his batting gloves tight, making absolutely sure his hands were protected.

The Tigers' starting catcher, Joo Ji-hoon, was suffering in every possible way.

It had been him, after all, who rejected from the very start Oh Yeon-seok's insane idea of just letting the pitches hit the batter and walk him.

'He gets to throw and feel relieved, and I'm the one who has to stop this lunatic with my body...'

It was only because the madman had walked slowly to first that Joo Ji-hoon had blocked that pitch braced to sit out several days of recovery.

After that, Oh Yeon-seok got pulled, and the pitcher was changed to stop Noh In-seong's stealing.

The new arm managed to shave the lead from four steps down to three and a half with his pickoff throws — but at the plate, his flaw as a hard-thrower with no control worked against them far more powerfully.

By the time he caught a pitch that clearly couldn't be fired down to second in time, the runner was already touching the bag. Fire it back to the mound, and In-seong would calmly walk out his three and a half steps again.

"Shall I run? Or not? Which way will it go, hmm?"

'Ah, you cursed little brat. Would you just stand still for once...'

The walking distance was long enough as it was, and this doomed bastard kept needling the pitcher into a froth on top of it.

A man who got picked at, got his body ground into the dirt, and couldn't have cared less — too busy taunting the mound to bother.

Even when the pickoff came dangerously close, he planted himself exactly on the Maginot Line where he could still dive back safely, rendering every throw a waste of a shoulder.

And what if they tried a pitchout, just once, to catch this gnat?

The count was two balls, no strikes. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Let it become three balls and that was an even bigger catastrophe. Only by burying the next pitch in the zone for a strike did any hope of an out count even appear.

'Or what about walking the next batter on four straight balls and strangling the whole stealing scheme at the source?' The temptation whispered to him —

but Noh In-seong's successor in the order today, Sung Hyun-tak, had failed to square up a single decent ball of wood in three plate appearances.

His timing was shattered. If they couldn't attack that kind of hitter, they had no business imagining they'd win the game.

Then it'd be two losses in a row. Lose tomorrow and it was a sweep — a long, slow slide down the standings.

'If even one more run crosses the plate here, winning today gets harder and harder.'

The scoreboard read 8–5. Already down three runs, and they were supposed to donate more?

The fifth inning wasn't even over. Conceding here would be no different from conceding the game.

'In the zone. As hard as possible.'

So the conclusion he reached was, either way, throw fastballs in the zone — he'd keyed it into the PitchCom — and yet.

Tatatatak...

"Damn it...!"

It was already too late. By the time the catcher folded his mitt around the ball inside the strike zone, the runner was more than halfway there.

"Honestly, I couldn't even tell you how many times I've failed to throw out a steal in this one game alone."

And through it all, that doomed gnat of a man stood there gaping at him. He could roughly guess what was being said.

Something like 'couldn't even catch me,' followed by a laugh. Never mind that the man's speed was the actual culprit.

Then came the one-ball, two-ball count, and the pitcher crammed a hard four-seamer into the zone — but this time the ball came in low. He caught it and fired to third, and it was safe by a fingernail.

'If it had come in just a little higher, this time I could have stopped him...!!'

"Hoo, that one was a little close, huh?"

For that cursed creature to tie the single-game stolen base record, all it took was four pitches.

"What are you pressing your glove against me for? Just throw it back to that idiot on the mound already."

The third ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠baseman kept glancing at the umpire while holding his glove against In-seong's back. Was he going to move it or not?

"...Ah, this bastard reads a room disgustingly fast. Fine, fine."

Only with visible reluctance did the glove, still lingering in regret, finally drift away from Noh In-seong's back.

Disappointed, was he? Understandable — it really had been razor-thin this time. A proper replay-review situation.

He dusted himself off and rose, and just as he began slowly setting his lead again, the scene slid into his vision.

"Ahh, you arrogant little punk. Somebody needs to humble you properly one of these days..."

He felt it — the fleeting instant when the third baseman wound up to lob the ball lazily back to the pitcher.

'This guy's throwing it with basically just his hand — not even his elbow...?'

The timing was right before the lead could widen. Whether it would work, who knew.

He'd already been gifted steals all day; even if it cost the team an out, no one could blame him for trying.

"Now's the moment!"

While the ball arced through the air, he ran with everything he had. The pitcher sprinted off the mound in a panic, grabbed it, and fired.

The hurried throw sailed high, but the catcher stretched his upper body upward and managed to secure it — then immediately chopped the mitt downward, toward the outstretched left hand of In-seong's headfirst slide.

"Second deal!"

He yanked back the leading left arm and shot the right one out instead.

The mitt, suddenly homeless, smacked hollowly into the dirt — and all he had to do was let his fingertips brush the plate, feather-light.

"Safe!"

The umpire spread both arms wide. Home steal — successful.

Records worthy of being carved into the Doubles' record books — into the record books of Korean baseball itself — and enshrined there for eternity, had just been written.

And conversely, for Gwangju, an endless ledger of miserable records had just been opened.

As Noh In-seong brushed the dirt off, Sung Hyun-tak crouched beside him and dusted him down too.

"Wow. Watched something great, got on base for free, and then racked up a record without lifting a finger. Thanks for today, In-seong."

"...? The great thing, sure — the home steal. But... I set a record? What are you talking about?"

— You'll see. Now go. Thanks.

Grinning, Sung Hyun-tak shoved In-seong toward the home stands, telling him to at least wave to the crowd —

and was promptly flied out, trudging back to the dugout with a sheepish face.

"Wow. Out on the very first pitch."

"...Who the hell takes a 2-2 pitch without swinging!"

Well, he had a point, technically. It just made him look a little desperate, was all.

By the time Noh In-seong understood what Sung Hyun-tak had actually meant, it was after the game, during the interview.

Manager Jung Im-taek, as if confirming In-seong's prediction had been right on the money, had pulled him from the game almost immediately afterward.

After showers, after a back-and-forth slugfest that resembled open warfare, the Doubles took game two as well, 15–11.

Normally, the hottest hitter of the night took the interview mic —

"How could it be anyone else? We've got a man who set records. Bring me Noh In-seong."

But when ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the record being broken hailed from an era crusted over with mildew and mothballs, the story changed entirely.

Noh In-seong pulled the headset over his head and readied himself.

"Noh In-seong, you've become the first runner in KBO history to steal three bases in a single plate appearance."

"That's right. And I'm especially delighted that the previous record belonged to the bastards who threw at my back."

Still violent language, but In-seong was in a genuinely good mood — he had, after all, set the record himself.

As the interview rolled on through one topic and another, the subject of why Sung Hyun-tak had thanked him finally came up.

"And your teammate Sung Hyun-tak — for the second year running, via fielder's choice, he's..."

'A batter who drove in a run not on a walk-off situation, but on a fielder's choice.'

In Korean baseball, an RBI on a fielder's choice is not the kind of record you get from a boneheaded mistake.

For a fielder's choice to produce an RBI, the defense absolutely must throw home — and even then, it only counts when throwing is the only way to get an out that was sitting right there for the taking.

Unlike in the majors, where 'they threw to first just to eat an out' produces the odd such record, here you can't even get it that way.

In a league where any play short of outright stupidity gets scored a sacrifice instead of a fielder's choice, it apparently happened about once a year.

— Ah. So THAT was it. That's why he said thanks...

Only then did Noh In-seong finally understand Sung Hyun-tak's words — but there was something even bigger still waiting.

After In-seong had been subbed out, Gwangju went and committed one more act of utter lunacy.

As if daring him to feel déjà vu, Sung Hyun-tak stepped in again with nobody out and a runner on third.

This time it wasn't the shortstop but the second baseman whose boneheaded choice drew blood.

Had they decided that letting even one more run score meant the game was simply beyond saving?

"They threw home AGAIN?"

Once again a grounder toward first, once again he survived on the fielder's choice — and once again, Sung Hyun-tak picked up the RBI.

"...Wow. How much luck does this guy have stockpiled?"

Noh In-seong was so dumbfounded he forgot the rest of his sentence.

When the cold ion shower cascaded over his head, he forgot the rest of it for an entirely different reason.

"Take This!"

"SPLUUURGH—!!"

His whole body refused to obey. Every peripheral nerve in him went on instant strike.

Noh In-seong shuddered head to toe in the face of that impossible, glacier-born cold.

"IN-SEONG!! I've been waiting for this for AGES! I finally did it!"

"You cursed...!! This came straight out of a cryotherapy machine, didn't it?!"

They say a gentleman takes ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠his revenge within ten years, and that counts as quick — but Caleb was no gentleman.

It was In-seong's own fault for forgetting that in the land of instant noodles and microwave ovens, a single month counts as an epoch.

The next morning, Noh In-seong reported early to the club's front office.

There was to be formal commendation for his record, plus a cash award.

"Whoa. This is a first — the club actually doing something like this for me."

"Well, up until now you were mostly out there breaking records like 'first rookie to collect N disciplinary penalties,' so."

In fact, In-seong had racked up a surprising number of records.

A rookie appearing consistently from opening day was itself no common feat;

he was the first in Korean baseball history to pitch and hit while holding a permanent infield position rather than serving as designated hitter;

turning two men into rice cakes with his fists during a bench-clearing brawl — injuring a man with a thrown ball — both firsts as well.

But this time was genuinely different: this was a record destined for the franchise's own history books.

"For becoming the first high-school-drafted rookie to execute a home steal, and for renewing the single-game stolen base record, we hereby present this plaque and monetary award."

Naturally, the bases he'd stolen from were pried up and shipped to the club museum, displayed alongside photographs of the moments themselves.

That was the scale of it — a record so monumental the club was handing him actual cash.

"Every time you break another record, we'll treat you right! Whatever you ask for, you'll get! Just keep playing baseball like this!"

The owner himself came down to shake his hand for the cameras, bellowing about grand rewards to come —

"Just save it for a favor I might ask someday. I don't really want much."

"...? Hm. Quite the modest young man, aren't you? Nothing like what I'd heard."

— Whether I'm the modest one, or whether what I want is simply enormous... that, we shall see.

Noh In-seong deferred the reward. For the future.

For a blueprint so vast it would tear the canvas clean in two.