If You Think It's Unfair, Stop It Then

The real motive behind Noh In-seong's sudden interview was simple: sabotage the Kang Ji-hoon trade.

Even if the Doubles were riding high at the moment, he knew better than anyone that nothing in sports lasts forever. A team can win it all one year and tumble all the way back down to eighth the next, and nobody in this world would blink. Baseball especially demands all kinds of sacrifice in the pursuit of a championship — which is exactly why the backlash afterward hits so hard.

And honestly, we're skating on thin ice even now.

Yes, the Doubles sat in first place, but plenty of teams behind them still had the horses, and the season hadn't even reached its turning point. One bout of overload on this roster, one injury, and the standings could flip at any moment.

So what Noh In-seong was aiming for was simple: make the Superstars fans even more miserable, and let the pressure do the rest.

He held no illusions that the trade itself would collapse — the people pulling the trigger were going to pull it regardless. Their front office wasn't exactly a bastion of sanity. What he wanted was for the trade talks to drag on and on, stalling under the weight of furious fans, until the deadline forced everyone into a Panic Buy. His plan was to hang extra weight on anyone desperate enough to buy in — and if some idiot was dumb enough to pile even more on top? Even better.

Scattering dirt and gravel into a finished bowl of rice — sabotage in the grand tradition of the Imo Mutiny. The master of obstruction, Noh In-seong, continued his interview.

"Honestly, the Superstars fans were showing up to the ballpark without even being angry. You'd think they'd be used to this by now — why bother getting worked up at all?"

It was a fairly violent thing to say, but laced as it was with truth, Noh In-seong gave the broadcast his absolute best effort.

"It's just the usual cycle of meetings and partings. Once a player's prime slips away, they'll be seeing each other again soon enough, won't they?"

Uh... best... effort... is... a strong way to put it.

"Maybe not while he's in his prime, but he'll wear your uniform longer than anyone in that clubhouse. When that day comes, why not push to retire his number?"

Of course, it helped that he was visibly, genuinely enjoying himself — grinning from ear to ear the entire time.

"And under the plaque, engrave this: 'A legend who sacrificed himself for the franchise's operating revenue, and returned at a bargain price.'"

After personally recommending the inscription for his statue, Noh In-seong exited to a chorus of boos.

It was one of those rare, precious moments when the team's ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠interests and his private interests aligned perfectly.

Among baseball fans, the statement "your team's front office is a pack of incompetent bastards" is simply bedrock common sense. Even fans of genuinely successful teams think it. Fans who don't believe it simply do not exist.

Because a baseball fan is a creature incapable of tolerating even the slightest weakness in its own team.

The front office had miraculously scooped up a shortstop-cum-ace with a personality disorder. They had strong-armed a catcher-less team into handing over the heart of their winning bullpen. The trade had succeeded, and by some miracle the bullpen rebuild was taking shape. And yet—

...Then what the hell were you doing while the bullpen was falling apart in the first place, you overpaid salary thieves?

Oh, so THAT'S why our team keeps dropping series in every game the lunatic doesn't pitch...

Faced with abuse this fact-dense, the only option was to curl up and take it. The front office occupies the position of a perpetual whipping boy: win, and it merely breaks even; lose, and it's "you should've moved sooner, you idiots!"

For the Doubles' front office, this too was business as usual.

"We treat our problem child very well. Push that point any harder and I'll be the one paying a fine."

"Still doesn't feel like enough, though? Those guys are going to sell off every player they have over the next two years and rebuild around rookies anyway."

As they watched Noh In-seong's interview, the Doubles' front office began buzzing into motion.

To hold first place, either their team had to get stronger or their competitors had to get weaker. Which meant a promising asset like Kang Ji-hoon moving from a weak team to a strong one was, by definition, a negative.

The best-case scenario was for the trade to fall through entirely, leaving the player sulking where he was. Sure, down the road they might unload him here against his will while he made his unhappiness loudly known — but—

"You'd best give up on that kind of trade ever happening. The world doesn't work that way."

Says the franchise with an entire documented history of jaw-droppingly insane trades — what exactly were you people smoking back then...

If Noh In-seong had been in that room, he'd have hurled that line straight into the general manager's face. But it was true. What a team wants rarely comes to pass that easily. Honestly, selling Noh In-seong himself would be easier.

Not that they could — the moment they tried, memorial wreaths reading "Rest in peace, our beloved ace" would start arriving at the front office door.

Second-best was sending him to a team that was currently weak — one rebuilding, or one that could no longer sustain its salary cap. Weak and cap-strangled meant Busan. Rebuilding meant Incheon, which had just sold off its entire setup corps. After that came teams like the Grizzlys or the Tigers, perpetually stuck just short of contention for one reason or another.

The worst case was a team like Daegu — desperate for a hitter-friendly park, and therefore aching for a quality pitcher. Or, alternatively...

"Could it be... Daejeon, of all places?"

"Why Daejeon? They're mid-table right now... no, wait. Hold on. That assumes they're planning to add more players, doesn't it?"

"I'd say that's the premise, yes. Right now their payroll has more open space than anyone's except the Superstars."

"They're built around young players... true. Sixth place, four games back of third."

"They might also need to wait and see how things shake out after the 15th."

Daejeon's entire salary cap problem came down to one thing: their absolute ace, You Hong-jin, earned more than the team's average salary. But even he was only in his third season — even with his spectacular raise, he was still cheap compared to any free agent.

Jeong In-woong, the oldest player on the Daejeon roster, had only just finished his eighth professional year. Free agency? That was much further off. Two years in the minors, plus Sangmu service that counted as minor-league time — he'd need three more years of playing before he qualified.

No injured players. A young core. An owner actively willing to open his wallet for a championship. Three straight years of hoarding prospects with no postseason baseball to show for it — a textbook rebuild in progress. The conditions were ideal.

"They've got plenty of talented players, so the moment they declare 'this year is the time!' they'll be in prime position to strike."

The scenario: buy up the players whose own GM had started selling in frustration — our GM has lost his mind! — climb to a respectable seed, prepare for the fall, and gun for the title.

Which raised the inevitable question: and exactly which team out there has a bastard willing to sell right now?

Nobody, today. But the trade deadline was July 31st.

And the day the Sangmu players returned to active rosters was July 15th.

In other words, lower-table teams that need to clear spots for their returning soldiers might just sell off their surplus.

The same logic applied at the top. Wait until September's expanded roster? For what, exactly — did anyone seriously expect something to fall from the sky? Far more often, teams restructured early, trading surplus talent while it still had value.

Even if the returnees numbered only sixteen, anyone who'd been shipped off to Sangmu was highly likely to be core ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠personnel. Every front office in the league began to feel a headache coming on.

Wednesday, noon — the hour the Doubles players departed their dorms and homes.

Noh In-seong, too, was getting dressed to head out.

"I'm heading out."

"Hmm? Son, wasn't today your day off? I figured you'd be rolling around the house like always."

"It is my day off? And that's not ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠rolling around, that's calisthenics."

"Then why the full uniform? You didn't even grab your baseball bag... you look ready to play a game."

Noh In-seong, cap and uniform complete, flashed a wide grin on his way out the door.

"There's something I have to do."

"Oof... good lord, this thing's heavy."

The day after a start was a day for aggressive refueling. The team calculated the mandatory calorie load they wanted him hitting, plus the projected glycogen replenishment, and issued it after every start. Muscles shredded fiber by fiber, glycogen tanks empty, fatigue metabolites stacked layer upon layer.

There was a reason the standard scouting report read, roughly half his bodily functions appear to be shut down — exhausted.

Noh In-seong carried a basket of fried chicken and a 1.5-liter bottle of zero cola at the head of a small parade of food and settled into his seat. The spectator beside him nearly had a heart attack as a wall of muscle and a wall of food materialized out of nowhere.

Shouldn't somebody say something? He'd barely turned, mouth opening, when the stranger's face came into view.

"Hey, excuse me! Who's supposed to eat all of that, hauling in this much— huh? Noh In-seong?"

"How do you do? Care for a drumstick?"

The starting pitcher who had carried the team to victory just yesterday plucked a piece of chicken from the basket and handed it over. Watching the fan accept it in a daze and chew, Noh In-seong chuckled.

"What, want me to sign something for you too?"

"Uh... yes! Yes, please!"

Noh In-seong had entered the ballpark. The only difference was that today, he wasn't on the field. He was in the stands.

"Hey! Song Jin-wook! You goddamn bastard! How do you drop a straight throw — not even a bounce, a straight throw! Did you skip fungo drills today or what?!"

As the inning ended, Song Jin-wook was trudging sheepishly back toward the visiting dugout when the profanity made him turn toward the stands.

What the hell? Does he have any idea how hard this job is? If that guy tried catching a throw, forget dropping it — the ball would end up lodged in his body...

He looked up at the visiting cheering section, planning to fire back a retort with a properly annoyed face — and found a teammate staring down at him.

"...Huh?!"

There stood Noh In-seong in the cheerleader section, jabbing a chicken drumstick bone in his direction while cursing him out.

"Hey! Noh In-seong! What the hell are you doing up there?!"

"Argh! I don't see a single sign of this defense improving! Fungo drills for you from now on, forever, you butterfingers bastard!"

The most disruptive troublemaker on the face of the earth was sitting right there.

The kind of troublemaker who could take every excuse of "that's easy for you to say, you've never done it!" and answer it with "that's because you could never do it half as well as I do!"

The commentary team had given up on Noh In-seong, and in the space of moments he began injecting his own team with a fresh energy supply known as rage.

"Choon-sik! If that's how you're gonna swing, take your diaper-changing ass back home! You fucking ceiling fan!"

Dustin, who had struck out in his first at-bat, took the double-barreled abuse in heartwarming English — the tendons stood out on his forehead.

"Goodness, keep this up and you'll be marching right back to the bullpen! Go on, keep getting hammered! I'd love having a real starter pitching behind me!"

Jeong In-young, the starter who'd allowed a walk and then a home run, lit a fire in his eyes.

"Forget the sweet-and-sour pork coupons — you can't even deliver the damn jjajangmyeon properly?! We're all going to starve to death at this rate!"

Kim Jun-soo, retired on a grim groundout, received a double-barreled insult that weaponized his family trade.

"Yeom Dong-goo, you little bastard! Throw one more pitch down the middle and your nickname is 'Yeomdongpox' from here on out!"

A nickname that had until now existed only in faint sketches across the internet was dragged out and bestowed upon a teammate in real time.

"Wh...why me?! I haven't even pitched yet!!"

A flustered Yeom Dong-goo stared up at Noh In-seong, protesting his innocence.

"You were cooking the books from your very first day! You've been biding your time, you insane gopher-ball machine!"

Seasoning his team support with a generous helping of personal grudge, Noh In-seong cheered his team on.

"Ah, finished the chicken. Time for the burger."

He could say whatever he pleased, eat whatever he pleased, and everyone around him was, one way or another, friendly.

"The ballpark's nicepé, actually. Maybe I should add this to my day-off rotation now and then."

Noh In-seong mused idly about a schedule change that would have made the entire organization break out in a cold sweat and beg him to reconsider.

And in return for Noh In-seong's merciless whip-cracking, his teammates answered the call.

Kim Jun-soo flipped a game that had been dragging along behind the eight ball in one sudden, violent stroke.

And with that, the titles of Unfieldable and Diaper Changer were once again formally bestowed upon Song Jin-wook and Dustin.

Jeong In-young had shown the world why he carried genuine starter potential.

And Yeom Dong-goo's nickname was officially confirmed. Granted, it was only on the more hardcore sites — but that was the problem, since every baseball board and community on the internet was staffed almost exclusively by hardcore people.

"I hate nicknames like thiiiiis---!!"

Yeom Dong-goo wailed to the heavens. Such was the sorrow of a heartbroken rookie.