Insanism

The photo of Noh In-seong standing in front of a police station spread in an instant.

Every community on the internet lit up, seized by this suddenly dropping piece of gossip on an off-day, and

And then came the reporters, desperate for page views, pouncing on the moment without fail. The Monday-morning holiday of every baseball fan in the country was burning brightly.

First of all, in the eyes of the press corps, Noh In-seong was something like a beloved fixture—a familiar regular whose name they were always glad to see. Reporters typically kept a player or two on friendly terms with each club as supply lines for articles, and those players tended to be veterans on their way out, or guys with ambiguous careers. The reason was simple. Rookies didn't know anything, and a player with good numbers had no reason to feed stories to the press. You needed something to sell about yourself, or you just needed coverage, and so the two sides shook hands.

But what had Noh In-seong done to the "ambiguous players dying to stand out"? He'd hit them outright, stomped them down so they could never crawl back up, or gotten them treated as useless by their own teams.

"Thanks to him, half our sources have ended up in the hospital or gone quiet."

In other words, the reporters' chances of leaking exposés or the mood inside clubhouses had shrunk considerably. Articles like 'Player A reportedly at odds with Manager B' or 'Trade rumors swirling around star player X?' It was no coincidence that a journalist had wrung his son for intel on In-seong's tendencies and cloned his page views off them.

That alone might have been forgivable, but the ledger of grudges still had pages and pages to go.

"That miserable little bastard... he runs off with my drone?"

The reporter who had filmed the In-seong household and dumped the footage online had been subjected to a session of forced cardiovascular endurance training at Noh In-seong's hands.

"If you kept thirty people waiting out in the cold, you ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠should've been ready to be chased by thirty!"

The reporters who'd stood outside like idiots laying out a buffet for mosquitoes were grinding their teeth too.

"See? This is exactly why we didn't draft him."

Not as much as the club that had lost their first-round pick to the draft, sure, but the other teams figured that as long as that nuclear bomb was gone, the Doubles' charge would vanish with it.

"I hated the thought of those bastards riding one well-drafted rookie straight back into the top of the standings. This worked out great."

"Aren't we in the basement because of those guys anyway? Just look the other way."

Multiple interests, all interlocking and grinding against each other—and the result was the situation now at hand.

"God, you're so damn loud."

He had called the front office on Song Jin-wook's advice, and apparently these people thought this was an emergency. What the hell? So you genuinely thought I'd do something like that? Is this real life?

"Nope. Well, whatever. Just open up a press conference."

"Come on, it's not going to take more than thirty minutes anyway."

What had he ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠even done? He hadn't touched a drop. He'd just stopped in for chicken while walking down the street, and he hadn't gone anywhere near the fight. He'd almost gotten tangled up in it trying to break things up, which would have been a pain—turns out spectating was the better deal.

Noh In-seong went for a frontal assault. Whether there were obstacles in the way had never mattered to him in the first place.

Truthfully there weren't even anything resembling an obstacle—it's entirely possible the whole thing happened just because a passing journalist happened to rub him the wrong way.

And so the press conference room was assembled at roughly the speed of an alien monster grilling itself into surrender in a storm, and Noh In-seong appeared in truly shocking fashion.

"Pleasure to meet you all. Baseball player with the Doubles, Noh In-seong."

Cameras went click-click-click. The reporters murmured. And In-seong was dressed in a suit... or rather, in what you'd have to call extreme Cool Biz. The basic recipe for an apology broadcast is a suit, a sorry face and posture, and a suitably contrite backdrop. But he was a man who felt sorry about precisely nothing. Not sorry at all! No tie, running shoes, and shorts. In this season of rising heat, long pants—for a guy whose legs weren't going to get scraped on any diamond? Not a chance.

"...Um... Noh In-seong? Is that... is that really appropriate attire?"

"Appropriate for what? Is there some law that says you have to squeeze into a full suit and suffer through the heat just because it's a press conference?"

This was time he should have been off lounging around, and instead he was stuck entertaining these people, so naturally his mood was terrible.

"Let's speed this up, shall we? Ask your questions and let's be done with it. I'm bored already."

Some of the people watching Noh In-seong's attitude thought, what is with this arrogant little lunatic of a rookie? But the ones who had come hoping to watch him crash and burn were silently cheering, keep digging!

People only grovel when they need something, and only beg for sympathy when something's gnawing at their conscience. And take one look at this press-conference posture of his: you really think I need anything from any of you?

Shorts on, one leg propped up on the table, sprawled across his chair about as far from sitting properly as physics allowed, merely tilting the microphone in his direction.

"...We received a tip that you left a police station yesterday. Could you tell us the details..."

"Oh, right. I have no idea who took those unauthorized photos, but every single person who published them is going to be destroyed."

"False reporting—and never mind me, my family are private citizens. Unauthorized use of their photos, and stalking, no less?"

"They can settle for a sum with an astronomical number of zeroes, or... well. They can go to prison? We're talking about a ten-year-old child here."

By now, the various 'low-intelligence flex' laws that granted human rights to online characters rather than actual people had been abolished—but if you laid a hand on a living, breathing child in the real world, you were still stripped of your humanity on the spot.

"Anyway, that was the police station part. The reason I was there in the first place is that I was tearing into some chicken at a pub and a fight club broke out."

He'd violated the most important rule of fight club, so he'd never be invited back, but still.

"So there I was, just finished enjoying the show and about to head out, when the responding officer said I had to give a statement before I could leave. So I did. The end!"

"...You weren't considering stepping in to break it up at all?"

"If I'd tried to break it up and caught a punch, the place would've been a fight club with yours truly in it. Basically a Wild West saloon brawl."

Except instead of a sheriff, the police showed up, and the guy they hauled away would be disqualified as a baseball player! Convicted criminal: pass!

The reporters who knew Noh In-seong's temperament nodded along in grudging understanding.

Yeah, of course that's how you'd handle it.

But wait... so this just ends as some nothing-burger of an incident?

Ugh, I came here fishing for page views and got nothing.

The press conference was winding down to a close when Noh In-seong rose from his seat and pulled a single sheet of paper out of his briefcase.

"And for the countless people who saw all these misunderstandings and thought, now's my chance!—I have quite a long list of names right here."

Flap, flap. The paper rustled.

"If I published this list, they'd all run before I could get to them, so I won't be releasing it."

Noh In-seong smiled sweetly at the camera drones.

"Because surely you don't think I'd let those people sit back and enjoy the show, do you?"

"—The lawsuits were filed thirty-five minutes ago."

For a man wearing a suit jacket over shorts—your basic work-from-home outfit—it was a shocking thing to say.

Whether his words were reducing the internet to a scorched field yet again or not, time marched on.

After Noh In-seong's press conference, the Doubles—who had fallen into the shocking swamp of a two-game losing streak against the Superstars—picked up a win against Suwon.

To be precise, they won only the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠first game.

Sending their ace Caleb to the mound, the Doubles got a better box score than anyone had hoped for: eight innings, one run allowed. The bats cooperated too, and Noh In-seong went so far as to display the monstrous feat of hitting safely in every single at-bat, carrying the team on his back. They won so big that a new meme was born: the player who grows stronger in proportion to the sorrow of the people he sues.

In the second game, Andy managed to hold Suwon to three runs over seven innings, but the lineup shriveled up and died.

"SHIT! What the hell is this batting! The win is disappearing right in front of me!"

Thus did an innocent trash can evolve into a multipurpose trash can, now capable of venting emotions as well as garbage.

Seven hits, four walks—and exactly two runs to show for it. A miracle of stranded runners, and ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠a loss.

In the third game, Jeong In-woo's fingernail tore mid-start.

"Ah! I was pitching so well today!"

"Well my ass, you nearly froze to death out there. Four innings, six earned runs. Shut up."

...With the fingernail tearing, he got the vague feeling his situation had finally improved, but that was an illusion.

Yeom Dong-goo, taking the mound for the first time in ages, performed the miracle of three scoreless innings—

"...Good work out there, Dong-goo. That's all for today."

"B-but I can still pitch!"

"Oh yeah? Then explain how your four-seamer suddenly lost nine kilometers an hour."

As if the team color of some distant bygone era—chase, but never come back—had suddenly risen from the grave, every bat in the lineup flatlined into hitless silence with two runs still to make up.

Another loss, logged and filed.

Suwon took the second series too. An unexpected natural predator had appeared? Or did their cycle just happen to bottom out every time they met? The eternal debate among baseball fans set the message boards ablaze with yet another glorious flame war—

"...Damn it, they're saying it's going to rain tomorrow."

A pig's trotter joint somewhere in Daejeon.

Noh In-seong was watching the weather report.

Lost game or not, a body needs fuel to move. It wasn't as if the distance was anything dramatic—just Seoul to Daejeon. The logistics network, faster than ever these days, moved its human cargo just as efficiently, which is to say it bought them just enough time to slip out for a late-night feast.

"Yeah, I know. My knees have been hurting like hell too."

Catcher Jo In-soo agreeing meant one thing: it really was going to pour starting tomorrow.

"The rain isn't expected to let up until the end of next weekend, as the pressure system..."

Everyone kept one ear glued to the forecast even as they gnawed on trotters. It looked like they'd finally be getting a day off.

"How much are they calling for? Monsoon levels?"

"Not monsoon—practically torrential downpour. I don't think we're leaving the hotel."

"Man, it's been forever since we had a real day off."

Granted, playing in a dome had its perks—no rain delays—but the flip side was that when it did rain, you kept playing without a break.

"Honestly, I think it's because the Suwon guys are still fresh while we're all running on fumes."

Noh In-seong's read was, in a sense, exactly right. More precisely, only the position players were exhausted.

"No kidding, right? Everybody's running on fumes."

Sung Hyun-tak agreed. Setting aside the murder-tackle incident, he'd played in every game too.

Strong teams rarely shuffle their starting defense—outside of the catcher, pinch-hitters, and pinch-runners, the lineup stays put. On that score, the Doubles were not a strong team.

"Even the manager's finally given up on playing you at first."

You only had to look at how, well into midseason, Song Jin-wook's position was still a spinning roulette wheel of first base, third base, and designated hitter. In the end, mostly for defensive reasons, Song Jin-wook had been cemented to the DH slot, and Dustin had to shift to left field. Pi Jeong-doo was bouncing back and forth between center and right.

And with everyone grinding out game after game in that arrangement, the whole starting corps was quietly approaching its physical limits. What the team needed now was defensive specialists, deployed to ration out the starters' stamina.

The next day—whether heaven had answered that prayer, or Jung Im-taek simply could no longer stomach the infield errors and fly balls clanging off center field—

"Alright, these two will be playing with the first team starting today. Say hello, gentlemen."

Two backups were called up from the minors.

With the weather wiping out every game anyway, Jung Im-taek had been planning to give the rookies a tryout at the minor-league park.