Half Time Show

After Noh In-seong bulldozed his way through the Home Run Derby preliminaries with an overwhelming first-place finish, a secondary war broke out among the runners-up — the four sluggers who'd each smashed four home runs, now squabbling over who deserved to advance. With a four-way tie at four homers apiece, a sudden-death round was declared, each man swinging for the fences with a single out to his name. And the one who walked away clutching the finals ticket was...

It was Jeong Him-chan of Gwangju.

"Ah, come on, he muscled it. That was gone, and you know it."

"Tsk. It just won't carry today. What is with this Jamsil fence?"

On the surface, everyone wore expressions of pity. Underneath, they were quietly thanking their lucky stars.

That lunatic took first place by swinging at god-knows-what pitches without burning a single out.

Even if one of us had gone up, he'd have ended it in a minute. Should I be glad I won't be the comparison point?

That son of a bitch hammered the ball so hard onto the mound my muscles still ache.

Granted, a few had been eliminated simply because their bodies flatly refused to generate any power at all. But that, too, folded neatly into the ledger of bad luck — nothing to be done about it.

While the rest of the field waited for it all to end, Noh In-seong — sprawled on the turf with his arms pillowed behind his head — finally rose from his spot.

"Alright then, Manager. Better get ready — you'll want to be prepped to come up in the fifth inning tomorrow..."

"In-seong... I don't think I can throw tomorrow. My shoulder's completely seized up..."

"...I'm sorry, what? Well maybe if you'd thrown the batting practice a little easier, that wouldn't be a problem!"

Perhaps because it was his first time on a mound in ages, Jung Im-taek's end-of-career injury ward had come roaring back — and In-seong hauled him off the field accordingly.

"Good grief, you fool. Throwing like an active player at your age... You'll be the death of me. Honestly."

"Ah, I should've seen this coming... Ow. Ow, ow, it hurts."

In the end, Im-taek couldn't so much as drive, let alone lift his arm above his shoulder, and was forced to call an emergency rescue from his wife — a famous actress ten years his junior.

...Wow. Look at this shameless bastard. No wonder he threw at me like that.

In-seong felt a flicker of genuine irritation toward his manager — one of the rare humans who truly seemed to have it all.

"Ma'am, your husband here is interfering with a promising young player's attempt to go out and win prize money, you see—"

CRUNCH—!!

He drove a spike into the mound at a savage sixty-degree angle, and watched it plant itself with deep satisfaction.

"Oh, honestly! This man! Go inside and talk! And you — make sure In-seong gets home safe too!"

"Yes ma'am. Please head inside."

Having sent his manager home while finishing him off for good measure — a man aging in reverse, this one — In-seong turned to go.

"...Hey! Noh In-seong! You rotten punk...!! Gah! Fine! Fine! I'll walk quietly, just—!"

In fairness, that was Im-taek's own fault for failing to hand over every last bargaining chip. Nothing to be done about it.

In-seong loaded himself into a late-night taxi and headed home.

"Damn it, surge pricing again."

Maybe the team'll cover travel expenses at the end of the month, seeing as I got dragged to this thing against my will.

And so In-seong dreamed his usual futile little dream.

The day of the All-Star Game itself, Noh In-seong walked into the stadium. The perpetually annoyed face, the eternally tired ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠eyes, the eyebrows knotted with pure irritation — you could have picked him out from twenty meters away.

Grizzlies closer Cho Hoon, camera in hand, filmed him and offered a greeting.

"Ahh, Player Noh In-seong, hello there! This is the official live broadcast of the Korean Baseball All-Star Game—"

"What are you looking at, punk. Since when were you and I on those terms? Although — fair's fair, you and Jeong Han-sol are the only two who never plunked me."

"...This guy is genuinely relentless? At this point I'd almost call it affection."

Whether the comments rolled in live or not, this was a man who did exactly as he pleased. Having gifted the viewing audience a heaping helping of his temper in lieu of a greeting, In-seong flung his bag into his locker.

THUNK!

For a first-year rookie fresh out of the draft, the gesture was outrageous — though in fairness, at his own team's practices In-seong opened and closed his locker with kid gloves. Here, though, every single person in the building was an enemy, plain and simple.

An All-Star Game was supposed to be an affair of harmony — players swapping pleasantries, laughing it up, oh-isn't-this-nice. But the moment In-seong stepped into the waiting room, the air shifted to a collective gasp...!!

It's that bastard. Ugh, I can still feel the bruise from where he got me.

Does the guy seriously have no concept of hierarchy? Wait, no — hearing In-soo talk, he's actually pretty normal with his own teammates...?

Turns out the world really does run on stats. Even a guy like that makes the All-Star roster.

In place of the usual smiles-and-handshakes All-Star atmosphere, this one was pure hell. An ambiance thoroughly befitting the word war in "All-Star War" filled the locker room to the brim.

"...So what you're telling me is, you have no particular desire to start."

"Correct. Just give the ball to whoever actually wants it. One inning after the derby is plenty for me."

In-seong had gone straight to the All-Star Game's manager — the skipper of the Gwangju Tigers — to negotiate his own usage.

"The shortstop's gotta start, your ace starter's gotta start, so it's an awkward spot anyway, no?"

Both leagues had produced first-place finishers, which left things murky — so why not hand the runners-up the first opportunity? If a player had the standing to claim a starting nod, didn't he also have the standing to decline one?

"The fans will understand if I'm the one saying it. It's not like I'm sitting the game out entirely."

"Hmm... fair point. Fine, you've got a deal."

For the Gwangju manager, who'd have rather played his own guys first anyway, the arrangement suited him perfectly. Of course, from Jung Im-taek's perspective, the thought what is this bastard scheming now flickered briefly through his mind.

"Heh heh, good. Now I can just sit back and watch those idiots do their acrobatics."

In-seong could say whatever he liked — he wasn't anybody's manager here, so it was none of anyone's business. Sure, if he pulled something bizarre out there, there'd be the usual chorus of how on earth does anyone coach that lunatic?

"I've been hearing that for longer than a day or two. Why start caring now."

Besides, the arm he'd thrown with yesterday still throbbed, and that weighed in too. When the body aches, a man tends to get remarkably lazy everywhere else.

"Ohh, In-seong. I really can't throw today. Shouldn't we find someone else to pitch to you?"

"No! Manager, a throwing arm only gets—"

He was far too lazy, at this point, to swap out the pitching machine — sorry, the batting practice thrower. But—

"...Am I safe to interpret that as permission to manage an actual game ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠that way too...?"

"Nope! I'm off to find someone right now. Great, thanks, bye, heading out!"

In-seong's footsteps quickened as he bolted. Apparently, pitching-arm durability theory didn't fly in front of the one man who could actually put him on the mound. Getting sent up was one thing — but a hassle was a hassle.

"Ugh, where the hell am I supposed to find one of these."

And so In-seong set off in urgent pursuit of a teammate.

"Huh? Too much hassle. Why not ask somebody else? Haven't thrown in forever!"

Naturally, a first-place team with a massive fanbase like the Doubles wasn't sending only Noh In-seong to the All-Star Game. The Doubles had produced a whole crop of them.

For starters, there was Jo In-soo, their catcher in the midst of a career year at the plate. Then there was the beloved foreign import Dustin Springfield — a.k.a. Choon-sik — whose numbers had more than earned his spot. Caleb had politely declined, and both of the bullpen aces bowed out with injuries.

And then, the last man selected.

"Come on — you were a pitcher. You can at least put one down the middle."

"I said I'm busy. What's in it for me? I've got an outfit to worry about. Go bother somebody else."

That would be Song Jin-wook — second on the team in oWAR despite joining late, selected as the designated hitter.

"...Fine. How much will you pay me?"

You'd pay me? ...Well, nothing big. Money's not the issue here — what I need is an injury."

At the word injury, In-seong's fist slowly clenched, and Jin-wook nearly jumped out of his skin.

"No no no, you maniac! The free bonus that comes with the prize! Why are you clenching your fist?!"

Whether his Hanja-recognition protocol was misfiring or his Conscience.EXE simply failed to install, In-seong attempted a second interpretation.

What Jin-wook actually wanted was the championship prize — a Roller-Hologram — as a birthday gift for Jeong Soo-jung, whose special day was fast approaching.

"...That thing's expensive too, ugh. Fine. Deal."

"Then you'd better throw your heart out for me, customer."

And so, with precisely zero close friends outside his own roster, Noh In-seong found himself, through gritted teeth, accepting the offer. The world may overflow with priceless things money can't buy — but money, as a rule, solves most problems.

The single greatest blessing of this year's All-Star festivities was that they were being held at Jamsil Dome instead of some miserable, sweltering open-air hellhole.

"Ahh, the sweet relief."

Swish, swish...

"Thank you so much!"

"No need to thank me — you're just lucky. Winning a fan-signing slot for a year I didn't skip out on? That's the lottery, right there."

Especially a fan-signing event — an hours-long marathon — held in an open-top stadium in this heat? His temper would have detonated first. In weather like this, signatures were out of the question; he'd have bolted on the spot. And if a genuine troublemaker had shown up on top of that, it wouldn't be a fan signing event anymore — it'd be a fan-signing cause-of-death seminar, ready-made.

Whether the association had anticipated exactly that and booked a dome, or whether it was sheer dumb luck, nobody knew. Either way, the fan-signing had gone smoothly — calm, courteous fans filing through for their autographs.

"Player Noh In-seong, fighting!"

"Thank you — and folks, be sure to keep watching as we idiots put on a show for you, myself included. Here's your signature."

For the ordinary Doubles fans who showed up in his replica jersey, he hammered his autograph down without complaint.

"Player Noh In-seong — if I came in a Grizzlies uniform, you really wouldn't sign it?"

"Normally I'd spit the second that uniform came into view, but today's a day the association's paying me, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠so I'll restrain myself."

Even the fellow who'd shown up draped in some unidentifiable scrap of sackcloth got a small dose of kindness today.

"Th...this...young...player...!! Already...swinging...his...fists...!!"

"One can't throw punches at one's elders, can one. Would you like your autograph? Or perhaps your date of death..."

A few fans did flee in abject terror, granted — but they were the minority.

"...Sheesh, you've got it easy. All I ever hear, all day, is that I owe the fans good treatment."

It looked like You Hong-jin — Daejeon's starting pitcher — was eyeing him enviously from the next seat over, so In-seong tossed him a freebie.

"Why don't you go around decking people at the ballpark for a while, hyung? Contrast effect — behave a little afterward and suddenly you read as perfectly average."

When a guy who'd acted like a rabid dog day in and day out suddenly turns pleasant one fine morning, people's eyes change. The "well, he must have had his reasons" crowd starts to grow. A proper bastard's expectations sit so impossibly low that pulling this off even once is more than enough.

"...Do you want to be a con artist, or a baseball player?"

"I want to be the kind of baseball player who leeches off other players' backs. Why?"

Watching You Hong-jin's face go pale, In-seong let his thoughts drift.

There it is — the face of a man praying that fate never hands him that role.

In-seong's life philosophy — never yield an inch to anyone — left even Daejeon's national-team ace feeling a distinct chill of unease.

The All-Star Game proper began. In-seong stared blankly at the proceedings, and once the fifth inning rolled around, started loosening up at his own pace.

"Hey, Mr. Stone Glove. Get those muscles warm, will you."

"...Er... you do mean today's costume, right?"

Don't look at me like that in confusion. I haven't even ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠started disguising myself yet — what's there to be startled about?

"Then again, you're kind of a curiosity in your own right. I figured you'd hate this sort of thing."

"I do still hate it. My burning desire to go home and lie down remains fully intact."

In-seong answered Song Jin-wook without a beat's hesitation.

"It's over after a few swings, that's all. Just serve them right down the middle, please and thank you."

Perhaps it was the lingering effect of In-seong's threat — the promise to reduce Jin-wook to battered fish fillet if he pitched the way the manager had yesterday — but Jin-wook cooperated obediently, swearing up and down that there'd be no funny business.

Though honestly, in his current state, any funny business would have been genuinely hazardous to his health.

—This is an all-time record!— The in-stadium caster's voice rang out across the field.

Drenched in sweat, having swung until there was truly nothing left in the tank, Jeong Him-chan came down from the plate full of himself. He was already a fourth-year All-Star, had entered the derby three times before — and this was, by far, his best result ever. Having never once experienced an outcome like this, he hopped and skipped around, absolutely certain of his championship.

"My, my. Celebrating already?"

"...Hey. Think about it logically for once. If I hit fifteen, I'm the champion. You're the one with no sense here."

In-seong dumped a bucket of ice water over that beaming face.

"You're the one who's got no sense. Plus, that hair of yours... actually, never mind. Just watch."

—What happens when I'm in form and someone feeds me decent batting practice pitches.

CRACK!!

—Whoaaaa...

In-seong's bat speed sat in the league's upper tier — just not its very top. His muscles hadn't yet undergone any definitive bulking, and yet he led the league in home runs.

Why did Noh In-seong, unable to rapidly stack on weight or muscle mass, hit home runs so well?

[He's the player with the most Square-Up batted balls in the league.]

[Square-Up?]

Eighty percent or more of the theoretical maximum exit velocity a batted ball can produce, calculated arithmetically... or, stripping away the jargon—

[They say it plainly: squaring the ball on the sweet spot of the bat is the secret to a good hit.]

[Ah. Yes. Absolutely true.]

CRACK—!!

"Wow. Contact this clean and the fence is what stops it? Gotta love this pathetic dead-pull Jamsil park."

Cursing out your own home stadium was, admittedly, problematic commentary on several levels — but fifteen home runs had passed in a genuine blink.

The number of outs In-seong had needed — even while matching Jeong Him-chan's homers stride for stride — was exactly one.

"......That bastard really is a monster. Ha."

Jeong Him-chan, already chuckling with the smug ease of a man whose prize money was in the bag, now found himself on his feet, staring blankly at the ball still sailing over the wall — the home run that had just reduced his championship odds to a clean zero.

"A dazzling superstar! Hoo-YAH!"

And there, right in front of him, was Noh In-seong — winding his arms in a full windmill, spreading them wide, and teabagging with everything he had.

"...Damn it. Not a monster. Just a straight-up lunatic."

He shook his head and buried his face in his hands.

It was summer.