76. A Brawl Makes the Best Chicken Side Dish

Not a single criticism surfaced — no one accused Noh In-seong of throwing a hundred and twenty-three pitches at full desperation, or of burning out a rookie pitcher.

And why would they? He'd turned thirty reporters into a row of drooling, brain-dead folding screens in very public view.

Look, you have to actually get an interview before you can write a hit piece. Nobody had ever imagined someone would just eat a face full of shit and walk out the door.

It was a new era, after all. Invent an interview with a player who doesn't exist these days, and you get branded for life before lunch.

There was an urban legend from the old days about sports reporters who fabricated entire articles out of thin air without ever conducting an interview — but that was ancient history.

"Thanks, GigaChat. Hey, want to do my homework for me too?"

When any device in the house could expose you in one second, what else did you expect? He got clipped, obviously.

So what was left? Directly targeting Noh In-seong? Everyone had figured out long ago that was pointless.

When a guy whose image was already circling the drain went to war with someone just as trashy, the whole thing simply got quarantined and forgotten. End of story.

So who bore the brunt of it? The front-runner who'd taken a shocking haymaker from the dead-last team. The Doubles themselves.

"...You miserable sons of bitches..."

And there it all was, glowing on the screen in front of Jeong Im-taek at that very moment, doing its part to accelerate the aging of his body.

High blood pressure's Song Jin-wook, ulcers' Noh In-seong, and now the reporters hard at work on his cerebral blood vessels.

The saying that managing a team is a profession that shaves years off your life had never felt more apt.

THWACK--!!

"...AAGH! Goddamn profession of mine!"

Ah, right. One more thing. The Yeom-So duo. The flaming-fart variety hour of Yeom Dong-goo and So Dong-yeop.

Another loss, carved into the record by that damned bullpen's gift of stomachaches instead of inspiration.

The Doubles had just taken a losing series off the Superstars.

Meanwhile, whether or not he knew about the manager whose health was taking a catastrophic hit —

Noh In-seong was lying comfortably at home, resting under the protection of the patron saint of summer, Carrier.

A name so magnificent, he mused, that even an alien race would give it a pass someday. He sipped a zero-sugar cola packed with ice through a straw, watching a game trailer that had just dropped.

CRASH--!!

Whether his little sister had failed to learn how doors work at school, or whether knocking had quietly become a synonym for breaching, she barged into his room.

"Knock knock! It's me, it's me! Oppa! Dinner time!"

"...Kicking the door open then knocking — isn't that about the same as you doing homework after school?"

"Huh? Homework? You're supposed to do that during break time."

Unable to argue with that logic, Noh In-seong paused his video and hoisted Siyeon into the air.

"Stage one: you, airborne."

"Kyaaah!"

--And stage two: you little menace? Go back and relearn some manners!

The Confucio-Saur within Noh In-seong bellowed its outrage. Siyeon experienced action and reaction firsthand.

But sometimes, under sufficient external pressure, the law of action-reaction simply fails to ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠apply.

Siyeon started bawling for her mother like some dragon hatchling.

"MOMMYYYYYYYY--!!"

"You're an older brother, and you do this to me...?!"

Rather than face the scalding-hot ladle — wielded in place of dragonfire — Noh In-seong bolted from the house at a dead sprint.

"Can't even eat lunch in peace, what the hell!"

Vowing that someday, someday, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠he would have his revenge on his little sister,

Noh In-seong set off on yet another unplanned expedition through the neighborhood.

"Why does this stuff keep happening to me?"

Was there some cosmic law forbidding him from staying home? Or was lounging around just asking for trouble?

Noh In-seong dragged his slippers along asphalt that was slowly ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠heating up and turning sticky.

He'd say hi whenever he spotted one of the neighborhood kids on the street.

"You not going to academy?"

"Pfft. I told them I'm doing 'experiential learning' for a while, then just copy-pasted my second-grade file."

"...Couldn't you at least put in the effort to take a new photo?"

He signed a few autographs for a fan who recognized him and came running over.

"Player Noh In-seong, here, um..."

"Hot out today — this hits the spot. Thanks."

He was strolling along, sipping the electrolyte drink the fan had brought back from the convenience store as a thank-you, when—

"Oh? ...This could work. As long as nobody's drinking, who cares."

Noh In-seong stopped in front of a chicken pub.

It was a bit late, sure, but if you thought of it as a light snack before dinner, there was nothing wrong with it at all.

"An oven-roasted joint, huh... Might as well get my protein here and have rice for dinner."

Ding-a-ling--!

Noh In-seong pushed the door open and walked inside.

Ding-a-ling...

A soft chime, like glasses and ice knocking together gently, echoed through the room.

--"For a matchup between tenth place and first place, the result came out completely upside down! What do you think was the cause of the loss?"

"...You can't win every game. The other team came out swinging just as hard to beat us..."

On one side of the pub, a sports broadcast murmured from a TV. On the other, silence.

The two men sitting in the silence, nursing their drinks, finally broke it.

"This is... a bit different from what I expected, I'll admit."

"Even so, it's nothing more than an upset. What can the Superstars possibly do with no additional funding?"

Unlike the man in the polo shirt scrambling to make excuses, the man in the suit was perfectly calm.

"I know that. But if they keep performing like this, we may end up paying more than the projected sale price—"

"And once fans walk away, they may never come back. Is that not how it works?"

The polo shirt's desperate rationalizations weren't landing.

"That's exactly why we've tolerated this agonizing false hope. And if people end up satisfied as-is, then what?"

Selling a ballclub is never easy. Plenty of fans get burned during the sale process and defect to another team. Some cut ties with baseball entirely.

So if you want to retain as many fans as possible, the surest method is to turn the ones who leave into history's greatest trash.

Doesn't history give us plenty of examples? The 'sons of bitches who lost every virtue there was to lose.'

After all, marching down to the deepest ocean floor to meet your ancestors is how new nations usually get founded.

"I only hope the Superstars go down in history as trash of exactly that caliber."

"......"

Just as the man in the suit was about to continue coldly, the flustered polo shirt in front of him—

Ding-a-ling--!

"Whew, it's hot out. Where do I sit?"

Along with a gust of blazing outdoor air, the hottest topic in baseball today walked into the pub.

"...Noh In-seong?"

"...That goddamn little shit...!!"

THUD--!!

"Two chickens and a cola — that ought to about do it, right?"

Taking a seat with a clear view of the TV, Noh In-seong placed his order on the touchpad.

They were seated in a separate private room — but a private room that could see him meant he could see them too.

Two chickens was a lot for a guy flying solo, which meant someone else might show up at any moment. And the conversation those two were having was the kind that absolutely could not spread through the industry.

But what if it spread to that guy — a guy whose discretion was questionable at best and whose reaction was completely unpredictable?

"...Let's continue this later."

"...Agreed."

The two settled their tab and left the pub. The word what-if was a terrifying probability indeed.

While Noh In-seong tore into his two chickens, he savored the spectacle of his own manager getting hammered on the TV.

There was something oddly delightful about watching a man who was unshakable toward him grovel before the press.

He was getting drunk on the entertainment without touching a drop, and just as dopamine was starting to bubble up over the chicken—

"God, what a dogshit chew-out. We could lose two straight series over this."

"Let it go. He's got a big cushion built up. If not now, when are they ever gonna rip into him like this?"

"Honestly can't even picture how many more wins they need just to claw up to ninth place."

The atmosphere was drifting somewhere strange.

"WOOHOO! First winning series in who knows how long--!!"

"Done rooting for that godforsaken last-place team! Tonight, I'm a champion's fan!"

"First place ain't so special after all, huh? They only won 'cause they got insanely lucky~"

A pub, by design, is a place built around the culture of drinking while watching sports.

And the game on the screens just happened to be Doubles versus Superstars.

The main clientele were hardcore fans who owned actual jerseys — yet were too lazy to actually go to the stadium, and wanted to drink instead.

"...The hell did you just say, you pricks?"

"What about it, asshole? You clowns talked just as much shit when we lost to you."

And then there's the small fact that baseball is the perfect sport for rotting your psyche.

"So you're saying you have neither luck nor skill, which is why you're in last—"

"HEY! First place can tease last place, but last place doesn't get to tease first place!"

People drink to heal their withered minds —

yet drinking while watching baseball withers that very mind twice as fast.

"You little bastards!"

"What! What! Oh my god — is he gonna throw a punch?!"

"Wow, I thought pub entertainment was limited to chicken these days, but apparently they do live events too."

And the fact that a sports-industry insider — the one man who should have been stepping in — was just sitting there enjoying the show.

All of it combined into one thing. The Drunken Colosseum had opened.

"Argh! Ugh! You son of a—!"

"Who are you calling a son of a bitch, huh? A son of a bitch?!"

The pub owner rushed out to break it up, gave up, and called the police.

Four men down, three still standing, one fled — the scene was a five-minute-old disaster zone.

"Ahh, that hit the spot. Now this was premium entertainment."

As the police arrived and things wound down, Noh In-seong popped the last piece of chicken into his mouth and made to stand—

"Sir? You'll need to come with us. Both sides, please."

A hand landed on his shoulder.

"...Excuse me?"

"You were a witness who saw it happen in person, were you not?"

So the police took Noh In-seong in. Both parties, indeed.

There had been a witness at the scene, so in a certain sense, it was only the natural outcome.

"...Our headquarters is in Jamsil! Now release me...!!"

"Sir, cut the crap. So why exactly did those men start fighting?"

"They got sloshed, spewed whatever came out of their mouths, and started swinging at each other. How the hell would I know...?"

--How should I know? ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠I was busy eating chicken.

While Noh In-seong sat through his statement as the pub owner's second witness—

his mother and Siyeon came rushing into the police substation.

"In-seong! What on earth is going on?! What did you finally do?!"

"Oppa! What is wrong with you, embarrassing the whole family like this!"

"...Argh, and this is all because of you two!"

Well, cause and effect aside, the pair of them had certainly contributed their share to the process.

A few misunderstandings were cleared up, and the three of them were leaving the substation to buy dinner supplies on the way home when—

Click--!!

"...Heh heh. Jackpot."

A reporter snapped a photo of the three of them from behind.

What era was this, that a weirdo reporter still carried a digital camera instead of a drone?

The next day, Noh In-seong woke up early and was stretching in the glorious sunshine between Monday morning and noon when—

Ring--

"The hell? Son of a— a text at 11:01? Does this bastard not know a baseball player's routine?"

As Noh In-seong grumbled and steeled himself to load a reply full of curses—

Ringring-ring-ring-ring-ringring-riri-ring-ring-ring-ring---

"...The hell?"

Texts and calls started flooding in like a dam had burst.

"Answering in order of registration! Hold please!"

Noh In-seong pressed a hand to his forehead. He shouldn't be fielding calls from this guy — he should have called the club first.

On a baseball player's sacred Monday lunch hour, Noh In-seong let out a long, mournful sigh.