Swatting the Ball to Eat Rice... No, Money
The Doubles' final game of the first half ended the way it began — a slugfest, finally put to bed with an 11–8 victory.
From Noh In-seong's perspective alone, it had been such a chaotic brawl that he couldn't quite figure out how it had come to this.
He'd allowed the juicer exactly one tattoo on his back — payback disguised as a baserunner — and otherwise shut things down completely. So what was with all the runs bleeding out?
The answer, if you asked, was simple.
"If that guy comes out as shortstop after the inning ends, then the next pitcher who takes the mound just has to get hit."
As a certain football manager once put it: if they hit you three times, you pay them back with four.
The Grizzlies had failed at the high-interest policy of a 33.3% return, but at the very least, they'd shown the offensive firepower to keep their losses to a minimum.
"...So this is how it goes?"
This was, after all, a day when one of their pitchers had already been run out there and pounded without recording a single out the night before.
There was no chance in hell an exhausted relief corps was going to lock down an inning.
When Noh In-seong had volunteered to the manager — declaring he'd climb the mound and pick off one man in particular — Jeong Im-taek had accepted the offer with secret delight, and for good reason.
Sadly, the finish was a punchline ending, but at least the urgent fire was out. Good enough.
One win, earned only after being run ragged at the plate, on the mound, and in the field alike.
With that win, the Doubles notched their 62nd of the season and claimed the glory of the most victorious team of the first half.
Even accounting for the compressed league schedule that came with the new domed stadiums rising in Seoul and Incheon, it was a first.
Unlike the teams of old — drained by consecutive games, stranded in rain delays, unable to take the field at all — the Doubles had succeeded in seizing the glory that was handed to them, whole and unbroken.
Conversely, the price of seizing that glory had been, for one man in particular, downright brutal.
"Uuugh... my condition is absolutely wrecked."
The next morning, every joint in Noh In-seong's body went on strike from the depths of his bed, declaring in unison: You're not playing today~.
Never mind hitting. Pitching? Fielding? Everything creaked and groaned as if to say don't even dream about it.
Grinding his body down to scrape out that one win and cement a great finish to the first half had felt good, sure.
"...Keep this up and I'm building myself a statue and going short and thick."
It took him only half a day to fully grasp that this gig was harder than what most starting pitchers did.
Setting aside the indignity of entering and exiting mid-inning, the warm-up throws required just to take the mound were exhausting enough.
"I mean, technically that was only two innings..."
The first appearance: one batter. The second: two batters.
The third: that 'son of a bitch' just had to lead off the inning, so he'd had to face a full frame.
The fourth appearance: he'd thrown one pitch and then been forcibly yanked for another pitcher.
Half of it had been intentional — but from that point on, his command had genuinely started to slip.
He'd aimed for the ass, and the ball had slammed in far above it, into the back. The evidence spoke for itself.
"Though it's also true my body isn't fully built yet."
The cost of open growth plates: a body that couldn't be perfected. The stamina problem.
The single biggest reason rookies rollercoaster through their first season had bared its fangs at Noh In-seong too.
But for at least this one week, those fangs weren't scheduled to reach him.
"Today it's just the Home Run Derby prelims in the evening, right? Tomorrow's the real problem."
At long last, the All-Star break was approaching.
"Just thinking about signing autographs at lunch tomorrow makes my hand hurt. Aigo..."
In the fan vote, he'd placed second overall by a mere ten thousand votes — and first in the shortstop position by a landslide.
'And, starting pitcher' — also first.
Noh In-seong now had the chance to appear wherever he wanted.
The player ballot, sure, had gone overwhelmingly to 'that bastard' on the other side, same as it had barely registered for him — but still.
"No, seriously, I don't understand being lumped in with the juicer here."
Noh In-seong grumbled, letting his hidden resentment show — never once sparing a thought for the players who'd been on the receiving end of his fists and his fastballs.
Rewind the clock. Yesterday, before the third game against the Grizzlies.
While Noh In-seong was loosening up and scheming the 'juicer assassination' plot in the manager's office, he'd attached exactly one condition to his demand — I'll do the arm-breaking work, so pay up!
"...So you're saying, since you barely have anything to do as pitching coach anyway, you'll just come throw for me?"
"Well, you threw plenty well back in the day. Your command should hold up."
Noh In-seong had been hunting for someone to throw batting practice for his Home Run Derby appearance.
A normal player would ask a teammate — which meant, statistically, splitting the winnings. Noh In-seong's objective was a strict, unwavering haha, money is king!
Anyone likely to demand a cut was, naturally, excluded from the batting-practice pitcher search.
The requirements: someone indifferent to money, capable of actually putting the ball in the strike zone, and free that day.
And wasn't there precisely one man who fit every criterion, sitting right there in the room?
"You won't have anything else to do anyway. Help me out — consider it watching the Futures kids play."
The man was, after all, Noh In-seong's current manager, a reliever who'd anchored the old Doubles' bullpen for over a decade.
He'd made plenty of money in his playing days, invested it successfully, and had a wide-open schedule. Jeong Im-taek had walked right into the trap.
"...I can still throw, technically. It's just, I've hardly ever thrown batting practice?"
"Just stick it down the middle. I'll handle the rest."
The sheer, absurd insolence of it sent blood vessels popping across Im-taek's forehead — but what could he do? The man was insane.
Better to join in than watch him cause trouble over something as trivial as a Home Run Derby.
"...Fine. I'm in."
An arm that had barely been used since retirement — apart from demonstration throws during his stint as pitching coach.
After a truly long absence, the time had come for Jeong Im-taek to abuse his worn, aching shoulder once more.
By the time Noh In-seong arrived, the Futures game was just about to begin.
"Noh In-seong's here, everyone. After the game wraps up—"
Barely listening to the event staff's briefing, Noh In-seong gazed out at the field in silence.
'...Been a while.'
Back in the days when he'd scrambled desperately for any opportunity — or any shot at a comeback — there had been a time he'd envied even this Futures All-Star Game, where chances were handed out almost exclusively to young players.
'Tch. Back then I was genuinely jealous of even this.'
And now here he was, about to step into the Home Run Derby prelims the moment this game ended. The irony of it felt freshly strange.
Soon after Noh In-seong's arrival, Jeong Im-taek appeared in the waiting room.
"You came— wait. A current uniform?"
"It's been so long since I've thrown, in a way my heart's actually racing."
The glove and spikes he'd assumed he'd never wear again, outside of ceremonies after his retirement game.
The muscles of his playing days had long since melted away, and the uniform hung slightly loose on him.
"You've got the Derby final today? You won't be making it."
Jeong Im-taek's eyes still burned bright.
"...No, hold on. I called you here so I could rake in ten million won at the Home Run Derby, Manager."
"And whether I let you is up to me, isn't it?"
After everything that had piled up between them, Jeong Im-taek had finally secured a sanctioned outlet for his grievances.
"Augh, look at you showing your true colors the second the announcement goes out that you're the BP pitcher!!"
To Noh In-seong's irritation, Jeong Im-taek answered with a wide, toothy grin.
It was, indeed, that player and that manager.
"That kid might be useful...? He's due to be discharged soon, after all."
Whether or not he publicly declared his intent to assassinate his own player, Jeong Im-taek was still a baseball manager.
The Futures All-Star roster, by official rule, included Sangmu players.
Once discharged, they'd inevitably become Doubles property.
A rare submarine pitcher. Throwing deep into games was beyond him by nature, sure.
But a fresh, ready-to-roll pen arm who could give you two innings, no sweat... ahem, bullpen arm.
Sergeant Joo Hak-soo, final service year, had come out to close the Futures All-Star Game and was soaking up the crowd's cheers, racking up strikeouts.
"Manager, quit spacing out and get warmed up already."
"...Right. And today, you're going to taste some public humiliation on camera."
And that accursed man, who had a gift for making any newfound team spirit evaporate in an instant.
How could someone so much younger fill a man not with vitality, but with the sensation of rotting from the inside out? Jeong Im-taek couldn't fathom it.
Shaking his head at the mystery, he began stretching.
The Futures game ended, and the Home Run Derby prelims began.
The format: most home runs within seven outs.
The deeper the out count piled up, the harder the batters pressed their swings — and the more they manufactured lazy fly balls instead.
Things had gotten so dire that with the seventh batter now finished, the leader's home run total was still in single digits.
There was a reason Noh In-seong was leaning against the dugout post, watching it all with idle amusement.
"Damn, did you lay off the juice or not? Your detox worked like a charm."
"...You little—?!"
Kim Seong-ju of the Grizzlies, currently tied for first, had managed a grand total of four home runs across his seven outs.
--CRACK!!
"Ugh, it's gone, it's gone. Why is Jamsil so damn big?"
Jeong Him-chan, the power hitter of the Gwangju Tigers, stepped out of the box muttering to himself.
This year's All-Star festivities were being held at Jamsil — a park that showered love on pitchers.
A domed stadium, and expansive on top of it, meaning balls rarely left the yard; home sluggers' numbers here were notoriously modest.
Into a situation already stressed for outs, add an even longer distance to travel.
That was the single biggest reason the Home Run Derby had degenerated into a fly-ball contest that betrayed its own name.
After Jeong Him-chan, Phoenix first baseman Jung In-woong stepped into the box, shooting a fierce glare at Noh In-seong.
"What are you looking at, you pig. Want another Potato Fist?"
"......"
Whether his psyche had collapsed from getting cursed out by a rookie yet again without so much as breaking even, or whether he'd simply always been a line-drive contact hitter selected for his bulk and image alone,
he retreated in disgrace with a single home run in seven outs — economics so absurd it was almost impressive.
Then the final Derby participant, Noh In-seong, sent his own manager to the mound and bellowed.
"Augh, quit screwing around and throw it down the middle! I've got ten million won on the line here!"
"Not a chance, In-seong. Pathetic."
And so unfolded a pride match between two pathetic human beings.
Jeong Im-taek's first pitch: a 138 km/h cutter that kissed the edge of the strike zone.
"...Son of a bitch. He's actually a current pitcher who's just kind of bad? Eating garbage innings like it's his job."
The movement was good enough to earn the praise — the angle shaved the very outer edge of the zone.
'Fine, call me washed up. But even so, I can pitch so I don't give up home runs.'
Jeong Im-taek smirked and reset his cap, thinking this to himself.
Noh In-seong, too, reset his helmet and smirked right back.
"Well, a Derby's still a Derby. You do put it in the zone, I'll give you that."
No matter how hard the man tried to screw him over, he wasn't missing the strike zone entirely.
Noh In-seong was confident he could tee off on the pitches of a retired pitcher, at minimum, on pure talent alone.
CRACK---!!!
While the broadcast booth kept the energy up with hearty laughs,
"...Tch. Still not working, huh?"
Jeong Im-taek, a man who fancied himself an analytics believer, kept targeting the zones where Noh In-seong's numbers were worst with his cutter.
But against Noh In-seong — who simply set up early, before the cutter could break, and hammered it with blistering swing speed — it meant nothing.
CRACK---!!
Five home runs in the end. The out count Noh In-seong needed to advance to the Derby final: zero.
With a mere five swings, Noh In-seong drew one step closer to his original goal — batting-driven rice-eating.
"See that? Could've saved the effort if you knew this was coming."
"...Fine. You're the best. You jackass."
It stung, watching a retired man's body drench itself in sweat after only a handful of pitches.
But then the thought crept up on Jeong Im-taek that even in his prime, nothing would have been different — and he laughed, hollow and defeated.
--Skill-wise, there's simply no beating this cursed brat.
Jeong Im-taek resolved that the next time he ran into the front office that had drafted this lunatic, he'd better pick his words more carefully.