Chapter 13
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Translator: penny
Chapter: 13
Chapter Title: vs Seongnam Technical High School (2)
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"Alright, focus up. We just need one out! You got this?"
Bottom of the sixth, leading 4-3. Hanchego's ace, Kim Won-ho—who'd been dealing all game—found himself in a jam with two outs and runners on second and third. The coach called the entire infield to the mound.
"Especially you fielders. Stay sharp. Got it?"
"Yes, sir!"
Hmm. I've gone 2-for-3 with an RBI so far. Not too shabby at the plate.
'The coach is holding a mound meeting, and all he's thinking about is his own batting.'
Rogers Hornsby saying something like that? The guy with zero team spirit, lecturing me? I must've misheard. I double-checked right away.
'What?'
'Heh heh. Excellent. Remember this: there's something more important than winning or losing. Especially in amateur ball like this.'
Yeah, that sounded more like him.
"Everyone understand?"
"Yes, sir!"
As the coach headed back to the dugout, Won-ho fired off one last comment.
"Alright then, I'll trust you guys and let it rip. Countin' on ya."
"Won-ho hyung, just fire 'em my way!"
"Hyung-nim, trust me and come inside!"
The shortstop and third baseman chimed in.
'That guy's doomed.'
'Won-ho? Why?'
A top draft prospect, righty with pinpoint control and a fastball topping 150 km/h... and Hornsby was writing him off?
'The moment a pitcher starts relying on his defense, he's done. Pitchers take strikeouts. Sending it to the field means you're leaving it to luck.'
'What're you talking about? How do you get a K every at-bat without trusting the fielders?'
'Thought you'd grown, but nope. Monkey-level understanding, I suppose. My bad.'
'Cut the crap and explain.'
'I told you earlier, you thick-skulled ape. Once the ball's on the grass, anything can happen. The pitcher's job is to prevent that.'
Hmm... That theory sounded familiar. Sabermetrics covered something like it, right?
'But sabermetrics wasn't around when you died, old man. How do you know all this?'
He passed in the '60s, as far as I knew.
'Idiot. That stuff existed before I died.'
'Really? Still pretty early days, though?'
'Don't need to know that far back. Monkey boy.'
"Maeng-ho, you comin' back?"
I snapped out of it—everyone else had returned to their positions.
"Fight the good fight, punk."
"Gotcha."
I'd just winged it, but Won-ho thought I'd stuck around to cheer him on. Not a bad guy, this one.
'What? Feeling guilty now?'
'Nah.'
'Trash.'
'You would know.'
Was I rubbing off on Hornsby too much? No guilt at all.
'Blaming others already.'
'Good teacher makes a good student, right?'
'Heh, that's the spirit. Hoo hoo hoo.'
I hustled back to my position, and play resumed. Two outs, no stealable bases. Won-ho went into his windup and unleashed.
Pang!
The ball ripped into the catcher's mitt with a thunderclap.
"Strike!"
Won-ho's all-out heater earned the call.
'Ooh, 150 easy?'
No radar gun readout, but it felt like it. With scouts in the stands, he was maxing out in the crisis.
Seongnam Tech's batter was frozen. The catcher called for a slider—Won-ho shook it off. Instinct in a jam: your best pitch. Unless the coach stepped in, he'd finish the inning with heat.
And the coach wasn't the type to micromanage pitch sequencing.
'Not bad baseball IQ.'
'Gotta know that much after years in the game.'
'Then the hitter knows it too, right?'
No chimp playing power ball only—a high schooler would pick up on that. Which meant...
'Exactly. They know.'
One and one. Textbook to call for a breaking ball. Shaking the head? Fastball coming. Batter knew it. Won-ho knew the batter knew.
Fastball-hunting hitter vs. fastball-throwing pitcher. Clash of raw power. And the batter was lefty—high chance it came my way.
'Focus.'
'Got it.'
Won-ho wound again. The ball flew fast toward the mitt.
Crack!
A sharp hit rocketed between first and second. Time slowed. Instinct kicked in—I dove, glove outstretched.
'Got it?!'
Thud.
'Ugh.'
It tipped the glove and squirted low. I popped up, snatched the loose ball, and fired to first. Hornsby's thousands—maybe millions—of throws guided me. Form was off, first baseman blurry, but I knew it was true.
Pang!
Ball smacked the mitt. I'd tumbled again on the throw—no view of the play. Waiting on the call.
"Out!"
The ump bellowed it.
"Nice!"
"What kinda defense was that?!"
Cheers erupted. Won-ho, covering first, slapped my hand.
"Yo! What the hell was that play? Insane!"
I grabbed his hand and stood.
"How'd it look?"
"Shit, thought we were cooked. Figured just knocking it down would be a win."
Won-ho this fired up? Rare sight. Or first time, since I'd missed games before.
"Thanks me with a meal sometime."
"Name the spot."
High-five with the glove, then back to the dugout. Shockingly, the coach met me halfway.
"Great defense."
"Th-thanks."
Sunglasses hid his eyes, but it felt genuine. What's with him? Thought he hated my guts.
Makes sense, though. Win this, we're Golden Lion bound.
Hanchego was perennial underdogs—no deep nationals runs, best ever fourth place. But this year, with national ace Kim Won-ho, they smelled a title. Not weird he'd warm up.
Guy's human, after all. Team's coach.
'Or maybe the wife's been extra nice lately.'
'What?'
'Heh, obvious. You keep the missus happy, home life's smooth, smooth home means relaxed mind.'
'Huh. Could be. Anyway, how was my play?'
'I'd have snagged it clean. Still green. Lucky the ball was slow—otherwise, gone.'
'Felt plenty fast.'
'High school fast.'
'Roger.'
Like he said, should've had it easy. Without his instincts, I'd have blown it. Defense needs work.
"Maeng-ho, one big swing, yeah?"
Top of the eighth, two outs. Won-ho, who'd locked down Seongnam to three runs through seven, pulled me aside before his at-bat.
Probably getting hooked next inning. Our other arms? Charity pitchers at best. One-run lead felt shaky.
I flashed Won-ho a grin and stepped in. From the box, I eyed Han Young-jun sweating bullets on the mound.
'Here goes.'
Hornsby slotted into his spot before I finished. Dead obvious from the pitcher's glove.
'Target the slider. You know.'
'Yep.'
Slider from lefty Han Young-jun breaks in on me, a righty. Sneaky if unexpected, but prime for extra bases if you sit on it.
Timing was key. I'd hunted sliders all three prior PAs: 2-for-3 including a double. No freebies now.
"No more sliders comin', huh?"
Time to rattle the catcher.
"Focus on the game."
Oh yeah? Irritation dripped from Seongnam's catcher's voice.
"Makes sense. Your precious slider's gettin' torched—gotta be scared."
"Hey. Quit yappin' and play ball."
Trying to poke more, but the ump jumped in. Student ball—refs didn't love trash talk. Shame.
"Sorry, my bad."
I pivoted back to Han Young-jun. He shook off the catcher.
'What's that mean? Grip?'
'Four-seam.'
Craving heat, huh? His four-seamer topped mid-140s—deceptive, heavy, tricky. Not impossible, though.
He nodded grudgingly, poker face busted. High school all the way. Even without Hornsby, I'd have read it.
'Slider?'
'Yup. Sharp eye. Catcher called low.'
'Got it.'
Bouncing low for sure. No need to chase.
Right on cue—low and away. I didn't twitch.
"Ball."
"Trash talk once and you throw slider? Cute."
"Hey."
"Talkin' to myself. Just mumblin'."
My "mutter" pissed 'em off—next pitch, four-seam drilled inside, way too close.
"Argh! What the hell?!"
I'd anticipated inside—exaggerated the bail, played shocked for the ump.
"That purpose pitch? Too damn close."
"Ball. Fine pitch."
As the call landed, I caught a smirk under the mask.
"Understood."
Poked once, and boom, brushback. After my flop, next one's inside the zone for sure. Can't afford another ball—fastball with control.
'Heh. Decent for a monkey. Inside again.'
Sharing Hornsby's edge made high school ball a joke. Battery's every thought telegraphed. I crowded the plate more than last time.
Pang!
No swing. Borderline strike zone. Umpire's call territory.
But my dive and crowding sold it—judged more inside.
"Ball."
"What? A ball?! That was right down the pipe..."
"You sayin' I blew it?"
"No, not at all."
Main ump stayed firm, even to the catcher.
"Tsk tsk, control's a mess."
"You little..."
I clucked my tongue mockingly. Catcher swallowed a curse. Shaky backstop supposed to settle the pitcher? Green as grass.
Then third base coach flashed wait. Three balls—sit tight.
Normal player? Yeah, wait it out.
But I've got Hornsby.
'Mitt middle. Slider.'
Desperate for a strike—I felt it. Visualized Han's slider, locked on his motion.
Ball left his hand, looked outer-half. But I knew: slider. No hesitation—unleashed.
Crack!
Perfect swing, hips through follow-through. Ball launched high, gone fast. Watched it sail, tossed the bat easy, jogged first. No doubt—dinger.
"Wooo!"
"Hanchego! Hanchego!"
"Ji Maeng-ho! Ji Maeng-ho! Ji Maeng-ho!"
"Insane! How many bombs now?!"
Raised an arm to the roaring dugout, circled the bases casual as breathing. High-fived on-deck.
Euphoria no sex could touch surged from toes to scalp.
Baseball's the best.