Chapter 27
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Translator: penny
Chapter: 27
Chapter Title: Blue Dragon Cup. (2)
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"Man, that guy's not even shaken after getting tagged for a homer."
The score stayed at 1-0 in our favor, with our offense fizzling out without much fight, holding steady until my next at-bat came around.
Bottom of the fourth, two outs, no runners on. I stepped up to the plate.
"Hey! You ready?"
I tossed a half-assed dialect greeting at the catcher as soon as I got in the box, but he just scowled like he'd bitten into shit and ignored me. The ump shot me a glare too, so no chit-chat this time.
"Ball."
The first pitch sailed wide. Figured as much. Teams that get burned by me usually walk me after that—it's practically playbook stuff. Especially since their pitcher, Shin Jung-hoon, had been mowing down everyone else.
"Ball."
Two balls. Time for one in the zone?
'Dream on. He's just gonna keep pounding the outside.'
'Tch. This is getting boring.'
'Free ticket on base. Sweet deal.'
The next two pitches were balls too. I dropped my bat and started stripping off my gear when the catcher fired it back to the mound, yelling,
"Scared shitless, won't even swing! Throw with some guts!"
Tch. First time I've heard that from a guy who's walking me. Got my blood up a bit. As soon as I hit first, I handed off my gear and leaned into the first-base coach.
"Coach, mind if I run?"
"Huh? Outta nowhere? You never run."
He had a point—I didn't run much. Not 'cause my legs were slow; running just tired me out. Plus, with my injury history, the coach rarely signaled steals when I was on.
But trash talk like that? Makes a guy wanna wreck their battery.
"We're shut down today anyway. Might as well try."
"Alright. Timing?"
"I'll call it."
Running off the coach's signs was fine, but checking with Hornsby first was way better.
'Hornsby, off-speed timing, please.'
'You got it.'
Fastballs were quick to the mitt—even for quick legs like mine, success rate was iffy. But changeups? Slower velo, tougher catch—odds shot up.
Especially against a sidearmer like Shin Jung-hoon with a meh quick motion. Stealing off him was a cakewalk. I took three steps off first, taunting the pitcher.
"Two outs, two outs! Focus on the batter!"
The catcher spotted my lead and tried steadying his guy—nab the batter, end the inning.
'Curve.'
'Gotcha.'
Luck smiled first pitch. As soon as he went into his motion, I bolted for second. Slid in feet-first, popped up using momentum just as the shortstop tagged me.
"Safe."
Plenty of room.
"Catcher's arm must suck, huh?"
"Don't talk to me."
Prickly much? I brushed the dirt off my legs, widened my stance, and started dancing again. He faked to second, but I held my lead.
'He's rattled, right?'
'Young pitchers always are. Wanna try third?'
'Third?'
Home-to-second was longer than home-to-third, so steals to third were rare. Plus, one hit scores you anyway—no need to risk it.
But right now? Pure payback. Next guy's hopeless at the plate anyway, and those Gyeongnam First High battery punks deserved some aggravation.
'Two-seamer.'
"Ball."
Shook from my steal, his precious two-seamer missed big. Catcher had to jump for it. Shoulda run?
'Two-seamer.'
"Strike!"
'Sticking with two-seamers? Think so?'
'Likely. Gave up the steal on a curve. You wanna go on the next one?'
'Kinda risky...'
'If you die, you die. Chicken?'
'Hell no.'
That scarecrow at the plate wasn't hitting shit. Just go next timing. I eyed the shortstop and second baseman, creeping my lead wider. Then—
'Go!'
Motion started, I sprinted full tilt to third. Catcher never dreamed it'd be third—no throw this time.
'Home?'
'You're nuts?'
'Wouldn't it be fun? He's staring right at third.'
Hornsby nailed it—the righty's gaze was locked on third. Our eyes met; I flashed a grin.
'Look at that face turning red. Whaddya say?'
'...Yeah, it'd be hilarious.'
Count was two-and-two—batter had priority. To piss him off more, I pushed my lead to a third of the way home.
"Ignore the runner! One and one! One and one!"
Yell all you want. He's locked eyes with me. Wasn't really gunning home, so I kept weight on third, zoned in on his delivery. Suddenly, he whipped to third. I dove, hand outstretched.
Thwack! Touched the bag same time his glove smacked my knuckles.
"Safe!"
Whew. Close one. Weight on third saved my ass by a hair.
"Hey, Ji Maeng-ho! Cut the crap."
Third-base coach grabbed my shoulder, whispering as I slid back.
"I got this."
"What?"
"I'll focus."
"Sigh. Fine, do you."
I widened out again. Pitcher thought we were scheming, kept glaring.
"Ignore the runner! One out! One out!"
But rattled high schooler? Tough to stay cool. Shin's next pitch wandered, full count lit up on the board.
'Full count—curve, you game?'
'Curve?'
'Duh! Two outs, empty first, full count. Gotta waste one.'
'What if not?'
'Then they're the idiots.'
'Roger.'
Battery exchanged signs forever; pitcher nodded, fiddled grip in his glove.
'Curve.'
'Going.'
Yeah. Even if scarecrow walks, next guy's no threat. Locked in, timed it up.
'Now!'
"Raaagh!"
I bolted home; guy's face twisted as he spun from third.
'Right hand first!'
Slid on Hornsby's cue, right hand sweeping the plate. Felt the mitt slam my back.
"Safe! ...Take your base!"
My run shook the curve's control.
"Nice!"
"Raaagh!"
I roared up, pumped my fist, and jogged to the dugout. High-fives all around, then juniors fetched water. Sat, chugged—this is living. Coach stormed over mid-sip.
"Ji Maeng-ho! Who said run without a sign?!"
"Thought I could make it."
"Still gotta check first!"
"...Sorry."
"Why run?!"
"Judged it doable. Sidearm, slow quick, I was on third so windup delivery. Figured curve timing—control's iffy. Felt him rattled facing me."
"Tch... Good call anyway."
My calm breakdown softened his glare. Then—crack! Dugout erupted.
"Split 'em! Split 'em!"
"Go! Second! Second!"
"Home! Home!"
We popped up, checked the field. Ball cleaved right-center; my old first-base runner looped third for home. Batter to second.
"Safe!"
Scoreboard ticked: 3-0.
"Pitcher's shook! Shook bad!"
"Geon-hwi! Nice baserunning!"
I went out to greet Jang Geon-hwi sliding home. High-five; he grinned.
"Hyung, pitcher's destroyed thanks to you. Mental meltdown."
"Yeah?"
"Yup. Garbage from the plate. Charlotte first-round pick? All hype."
"Hit one next at-bat then."
Makes my job easier.
"Eh, that's..."
"Gotta crush those to get drafted yourself."
"Where's your call-up?"
"Who knows..."
*
"Whaddya think?"
"Stands out, yeah. Homer, steals."
"And an infielder, against Shin Jung-hoon."
"Ugh, but Team Leader..."
"Hancheol scouts are here too, Hong. My data's pro-level, right?"
"Could be for Kim Won-ho."
"They know he's not playing. Hancheol might snag Ji Maeng-ho. Too good's a problem."
"Eugh, juniors fetching gear? Shady personality..."
"Fans love winners, not saints, Hong."
"Next game's the one. Yongsan Internet High's Park Ji-hwan—Hancheol fave."
"He's solid. But..."
"Got it, Team Leader. Ji Maeng-ho's tempting after today."
"Pitchers like Park come once every five years. Ji Maeng-ho fills our righty power infielder hole."
"I said I get it!"
AT Thunderbirds scout boss Hong Hyun-cheol snapped, pressured by GM and Cheon Team Leader. Post-yell, he peeked—Cheon So-young's ice-cold as ever.
"Seongnam Tech's Han Young-jun or Yongsan Internet's Kim Ju-cheol?"
"Good arms, but we see one or two a year. You know."
Cheon So-young's tone was frosty.
"Yeah, sure."
"We can grab those post-first round."
Her chill was justified—both had 35 potential. Oblivious Hong inwardly cursed her.
'Arrogant bitch. Kid thinks pitchers grow on trees? 'One or two a year'? Doesn't know shit. Ugh, time to quit. Heard Volcano Falcons need scouts... GM too—grovelling to parachute hires.'
Mid-rant, cheers boomed. From Hanchego's fan section, naturally.
"Our boy's killing it!"
"Hanchego fight! Six more for the mercy!"
"Best in Busan? Big talk!"
Parents' fire fueled us—bottom fourth added two more, 6-0 end.
"See, Hong? Ji Maeng-ho changes games."
"True, but hitters cap out... Jamsil's no friend..."
"Pray Hancheol passes on him."
'Fucking bitch. Fine, draft Ji—watch him flop.'
Oblivious, Cheon fretted Hancheol Grizzlies snatching Ji Maeng-ho.