Chapter 40
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Translator: penny
Chapter: 40
Chapter Title: Are There Boomer Umpires in the Majors Too? (1)
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High school baseball has four major tournaments: the Golden Lion Tournament in the spring, the Blue Dragon Tournament from late spring to early summer, the President's Cup in the midsummer heat, and the Phoenix Tournament in early autumn.
Facing the needle-like sunlight piercing down, even fans who don't know the tournament's name can tell it's the President's Cup just by the sweltering discomfort index it brings.
And I was feeling it just a bit more than my teammates in the dugout.
"I'm the cleanup hitter, so why do I always have to lead off?"
"...Sorry!"
"Sigh. I wasn't expecting much anyway."
I gave the underclassmen a light glare and checked the scoreboard.
'Four runs in two innings... This one's gonna be tough today.'
The Korean Physical Education High School baseball team's strengths were the one-two punch of Kim Won-ho and Park Young-cheol—and, as embarrassing as it is to say myself, my own dominance that had been shredding the high school league.
But Kim Won-ho was restricted to thirty pitches per game at the Silla Triggers' request, and as a hitter, it wasn't easy for me to flip a game if the pitchers were holding runners.
Especially in a game where the starter collapsed early like today.
"Base on balls!"
Four straight pitches plunged into the outside corner, and I walked to first. Hwiun High's ace, Im Jun-hu, looked unfazed even after putting me on with a walk. Most pitchers' faces would sour, but this guy's mentality seemed rock-solid.
"Tch, doesn't the ace have any pride?"
I muttered quietly as the first baseman handed over my gear. Just in case he relayed it to their dugout.
"Umpire, is it okay to talk like that?"
"Refrain from unnecessary remarks."
"Aw, it was just to myself."
"Tsk!"
The first base ump glared at me. Ha, even mouthing off is tough. Guess I'll shake things up with my feet instead?
'Mr. Hornsby, help me out.'
I asked Hornsby for the pitch type and took a three-step lead.
'Grip's a four-seam.'
Four-seam grip? He might pick off then. I shifted my weight toward first base and focused on the pitcher's foot.
Here it comes!
Thwack! I slid into the bag, and the first baseman's mitt grazed my forearm. Whew, bad pitch, but good pickoff throw. I stood, brushing the dirt off my uniform.
"Out!"
"What? I got there first though? You one-eyed..."
...fucker? I swallowed the curse and opened my mouth again.
"I got there first."
"Mitt got there first."
"No, what the..."
'Stay calm!'
"Calm my ass, I got there fi—!"
Mmph. As I geared up to protest more, the first base coach's hand clamped over my mouth.
"You wanna get ejected?"
"Mmph, mmph!"
Damn! The shitty glove smell from his hand stabbed my nose. That foul stench actually calmed me a bit.
"Sorry about that."
"One more protest and you're gone."
"Our player's just a little heated. Maeng-ho, back to the dugout, go on!"
"Haa, fuck."
Shitty umpire bastards. If this game was televised, I'd request a video review, but no broadcast for the opener. Shit. Ptoo!
"Hey! Come here!"
I spat on the ground heading to the dugout when the first base ump suddenly called me back. What now?
"Yeah?"
"You spit?"
"Nah, got sand in my mouth from the slide and spat it out. Why? Everyone does it."
This boomer ump bullshit was making my head spin. Should I chew the sand instead?
"Hey! You protesting right now?"
"No?"
"Watch your tone."
Fuck, you think I'd sound polite in this situation?
"Sorry! Maeng-ho! Apologize!"
The first base coach rushed over, forcing my head down as he yelled.
"Haa, sorry."
"Watch it next time. That's a warning!"
Only then did the ump finally look satisfied. Already down, and this shit. Great.
"Yes. I'll be careful."
Back in the dugout, the coach came right up asking what happened.
".........and that's how it turned into an argument. But from the dugout, you saw I got there first, right?"
"It was a tie, but nothing you can do. Try not to mouth off to umps anyway. Got it?"
"...Yeah."
I slammed my helmet on the ground and slumped on the bench.
"Senior, you okay?"
"Hey, did it look like I was late to you?"
"No. You definitely got there first."
"That one-eyed fucker."
"Umpires are all like that."
'Mr. Hornsby, no umps like this in the majors, right?'
'Bullshit. You haven't dealt with MLB umps' boomer crap, so you talk like that. Even I was polite to umps.'
'What? You?'
'Yeah. Especially as a player, always bowed my head.'
Hm... Still, I didn't wanna live bending over like that.
'You'll cry bloody tears before you learn.'
'Ah, whatever. I'll handle it my way.'
While chatting with Hornsby, our bottom-of-the-second offense ended scoreless. Not that I expected anything. Hanchego's tradition of not reaching base against ace pitchers held strong.
"Here's your glove."
"Thanks."
"No problem."
I took the glove from the underclassman and settled into my spot right of second base, now routine. Focusing on the pitcher's motion, I spotted the first base ump, away from first.
Arm sleeves only in this heat? Makes sense, it's brutal. Wait... protective gear just strapped on?
'Mr. Hornsby, baseballs hurt when they hit, right? I've taken plenty, and they sting.'
'No way, this punk...'
'Too obvious now, so gotta wait a bit?'
'Kuhahaha, crazy monkey bastard.'
Please come to second just once. But Hwiun High's top of the third ended with strikeout, righty single, grounder to first, strikeout.
'Not one ball my way.'
Wish in one hand, shit in the other—life and baseball don't bend to prayers. Top of the fourth defense, I prayed for inside pitches, but none came my way.
"Alright, alright! 6-0, but we can still fight. Won-ho, warmed up? Thirty pitches should buy two innings, right?"
"Yes! I can do three!"
"Good. One more out, and Maeng-ho gets his shot! You got this? They're rattled!"
He's throwing a no-hitter, no-run so far...? I bit back the urge, not wanting to kill morale.
"From now on, I'll call the pitch sequences. Focus on signs. Got it?"
"Yes!"
The coach was going all-in. Coach Lee Ki-cheol, eight-time Golden Glove catcher, expert at pitch sequencing. As a player, he was a master guess-hitter with sharp reads.
"Swing big. Even if you K, I'll back you."
The team perked up with the coach calling batter-pitcher matchups directly. He didn't usually unless desperate, but 6-0 lit a fire under him.
Guess they've enjoyed some honey thanks to me till now?
"Yeah! Let just one sneak on!"
"Yes, senior!"
Crack!
"Out!"
Crack!
"Two outs already?"
"Joo-hyun! We believe!"
Even with Hanchego's plant-like lineup, third batter Lee Joo-hyun hit around .350. Mostly against underclassmen pitchers, but he could swing. Please, get on once.
"Second!"
Lee Joo-hyun's ball headed to second. Routine grounder, but it hit the edge of grass and dirt, bouncing high.
"Run! Run!"
"Nice! Joo-hyun! Good!"
Hwiun's second jumped high, but the ball ricocheted off the glove even higher. Fine, no hit expected. Error's a win.
Whoosh! Whoosh!
I swung the bat smoothly entering the box. A week into Pilates on Cheon So-young's rec—it felt snappier.
'Idiot, better in a week? Makes no sense.'
'Argh! Placebo effect? You know that? Believe it works, it does. Ah, Hornsby ruined my focus.'
'Placebo. Dumbass.'
'......'
Not important now. Im Jun-hu, Hwiun ace, top draft prospect, four-seam and changeup guy with identical arm action—tough for high schoolers. But not for me. Hornsby. Weekend league: 4-for-4, one homer. Oh, and another breaking ball...
'Embarrassed?'
'...Yeah.'
'Focus.'
'...Got it.'
Hornsby smirked annoyingly and flew behind the pitcher. Seeing him there calmed my shame. Wait, what was placebo again? Person's name?
'Four-seam, way outside.'
Two outs? Runner on first, still picking off? Coach skipped special signs for me.
"Ball."
Way outside. Felt like 144 km/h? Perfect to hit, but not swinging at balls.
"Ball."
"Why not intentional walk if you're throwing outside every time?"
Always outside—why no auto IBB? Both lazy. Hoping I chase?
"Ball."
If I get on here, next guy scores me? Down 6-0... Need to catch up now.
'Four-seam. Outside again. Kids got no fire.'
Screw it. Even an elementary kid sees outside—I half-ass swung.
"Strike!"
And the next.
"Strike!"
'What're you doing?'
'Two strikes, he throws a ball? He's the ace.'
My stats don't matter anymore. Post first-round draft, tournaments optional. Not one to sweat these, but today's first base ump pissed me off.
I didn't wanna walk. Im Jun-hu, you want top draft too? Strike out Ji Maeng-ho for your resume! Come on!
'Changeup, closer to zone than before.'
He bit. Pitchers all the same. Gift two called strikes, gotta battle or no balls.
'Aiming borderline, careful.'
Hornsby caught Im's intent: walk if needed, make it tough. First changeup to me today.
I zeroed on his right hand. Swung tracking the drop.
Crack!
'Ugh, off the end?'
Ball tipped the end. Dropped the bat, sprinted to first.
"Second! Second!"
'Second baseman has it. Keep running!'
Hornsby's call—I bolted past first. First baseman stretched mitt wide. Stretched for the bag.
Thud!
"Safe!"
First coach and I yelled together. Yes! Ugly, but alive. Whew, close call. Two whiffs and no base would've sucked...
"Out!"
...What?
"Huh?"
What'd I hear? Out?
"Out. Go."
"No, this is..."
This one-eyed motherfucker!