Chapter 6
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Translator: penny
Chapter: 6
Chapter Title: Ji Maeng-ho (3)
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I turned down Park Hye-jin's offer to give me a ride and stepped out of the coach's house. No point risking getting in the car with her and heading to school together—Coach might get jealous again.
‘That slimy bastard. He kept me benched for two whole years over something that petty? What's the point of holding me back like that? The kid's already been passed around by half the team. Fucking prick. Piece of shit!’
Before I left, I made her swear not to mention me at all so Coach wouldn't get suspicious about us. She should keep her mouth shut from now on, right?
How could I make sure those two got the word that I'd gotten my revenge nice and proper?
‘You idiot? We can't let word get out.’
‘Just a figure of speech. Of course it can't get out!’
I tried ignoring Rogers as he butted in cluelessly, but he spoke up again.
‘Listen up, you yellow monkey. I've been thinking.’
‘About what?’
‘No matter what that bitch says, once you get more money than her husband, she'll come crawling back to you, don't you think?’
Hmm... Yeah, I had a feeling he was right. A woman who doesn't give a damn about her own husband? The second I get famous and loaded, she'll stick to me like glue.
‘See? This guy's not a total moron.’
‘So what's your point?’
I didn't want to get too close, but revenge sounded good. ...And so did tapping that again. Hell, my legs were still shaky. Is this what sex does to you? I could see why Rogers was always yapping about it.
Part of me wanted to run back and bury myself in her pussy like a dog.
‘Heh heh. That's why I say kids your age get hooked on sex and it's dangerous.’
‘Cut it out. Just get to the point.’
‘With me around, you're gonna get famous. And once you're in the majors, you'll rake in the cash.’
What confidence. But Rogers was a genius hitter, one of the best second basemen in nearly 150 years of Major League history. I trusted him.
‘True enough.’
‘So, why not enjoy it if you can't avoid it?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Do ninety-nine good deeds, but screw up once and you're trash. But if you're already the guy who's done ninety-nine bad things, one more doesn't matter, right? If I keep coaching you steady, you can just bulldoze through any scandal.’
‘Huh? You mean...’
‘Yeah. Go ahead and get addicted to sex—bang this girl, that girl, whatever. Scared of a little backlash?’
Classic Rogers. The guy who'd been called human garbage his whole life was right at home with that mindset.
‘Heh heh. First time's hard, second's easy. Nothing beats fucking a reporter who trashed you. Her pussy was nice and tight, too.’
‘Then why not just use drugs?’
I mocked him for the absurd idea.
‘No drugs!’
His reaction was fiercer than expected. Old-school baseball guy through and through—against dope, at least.
‘Drugs shrink your dick! You gotta have a big one to really enjoy pussy.’
Figures. This monkey-brained perv probably thought about sex every five minutes.
‘What're you on about, monkey boy? Back in my day, punks like you couldn't even talk to me.’
‘Yeah, yeah, sure.’
‘Anyway, think about what I said. I caused every kind of trouble there was as a player, and the owner begged me not to leave. Didn't even know I'd fucked his wife. Hahaha. Ballplayers? As long as you hit, they don't care what mess you make. Heh heh.’
The guy was human trash incarnate.
‘Life's short, kid. You gonna spend it watching over your shoulder? Live like that, you'll be a benchwarmer forever—like some sub sitting pretty on the pine, always playing it safe?’
Benchwarmer life? No thanks. And kowtowing to everyone? I was done with that.
‘Or control her perfectly with your dick?’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Make her so hooked on your dick she can't live without it.’
Wait... That sounded like a porn plot I'd seen a million times. But was that even possible in real life?
‘I've got living proof right here, so don't worry.’
For once, Rogers actually seemed reliable.
*
“Oh, Maeng-ho. Nice defense! Second baseman suits you—your throws are sharper already.”
It hadn't been long since we started practicing there, but thanks to Rogers' experience, second base felt like it was tailor-made for me. My debut aside from the shaky legs from banging Park Hye-jin that first day—it had been perfect.
“Thank you, sir.”
The Defense Coach praised my glove work. He'd always figured I had some issue that made me lousy with throws from shortstop. That's why he'd been pushing me to switch positions all along.
But I'd turned him down because I was chasing pro dreams. Second basemen almost never got drafted.
In a way, second base was the graveyard for infielders. Everyone starts as a shortstop in amateur ball, except first base. If you're not good enough there, they move you. Hitting's solid but defense is iffy? Third base. Neither? Second.
Even pros—good luck finding an infielder who didn't come up as a shortstop. The best athletes play short, so why draft a second baseman? And even those converted shortstops rarely made it big.
So for an amateur second baseman to get drafted, you needed something special to offset the weakness. Like me right now.
With Rogers' training and sense-sharing, I had that special something. Hell, I could've been a DH and still gotten picked.
“Defense is the foundation. Yours was weak, so your hitting suffered too. See? Training hard lately, and your bat's heating up. With your physical tools, do this well all year and teams will snatch you up. Good call switching to second. Man, shoulda done it sooner.”
“Sorry. I was stubborn for no reason.”
“Nah, better late than never. Our team's weak at second anyway. Keep this up, Coach'll play you. Least you can do is make college.”
“I'm aiming for pro.”
“Love the confidence. Bring that to batting practice. Good work.”
Nice guy, the Defense Coach, but not the sharpest. What an idiot—thinking I had some glitch when my defense was fine all along. My throws sucked because of Coach's sabotage, not me.
Couldn't even pick up on that. And if he thought that highly of me, why didn't he stick up for me during batting practice pitcher days? Nice guys make lousy coaches. He probably figured the team was better off with me just throwing BP.
‘Heh heh. Coach? That clown? Fuckin' yellow monkey, you don't need to listen to guys like him. Stick to my word, and you'll be a star. Hurry up and shine so you can fuck every woman in the world. Uhahaha!’
I brushed off Rogers like always and headed to the batting cage. New to second, I was still doing special fungo drills, so the other guys were already hitting.
Heads turned my way when I arrived. Eyes full of jealousy, surprise, a messy mix. Infielders glaring with envy, catchers and outfielders wide-eyed in shock.
Teammates or not, they were rivals fighting for spots. I was surging out of nowhere—no wonder they hated it. Especially after I revamped my swing like Rogers and started raking.
‘You've got more power than me, so own it. If I'd had your build, Ruth's spot would've been mine.’
‘Babe Ruth, though...’
‘What do you know, rookie? Heh heh. Thank your parents—they gave you a body that doesn't need pure skill to overcome. Or curse 'em for the shitty skin color? If my kid came out yellow, I'd have strangled it. Hahaha.’
His racist crap was old news now. Guy's brain was 99% sex—what did he know? But his hitting was gold, so I put up with it.
Rogers' swing was a closed stance, packing max power into contact. He'd built it to survive the majors without elite physicals.
And with sense-sharing, it fit me like my lifelong swing.
‘I'd have added a leg kick, but your body's too good for that. Makes timing off-speed easier too. But remember: shared senses or not, skill grows in games. Get in there steady.’
Sounded almost normal for a sec.
‘That way you can fuck your way through every chick faster. Uhahaha!’
Peak Major League human garbage right there. I shoved Rogers aside and locked in on the machine.
The ball rocketed out—140 km/h. Familiar heat. I loaded low, exploded everything at contact, whipped the bat through.
Crack!
The ball split with a thunderclap, soaring deep into the net.
“That had to carry 180 meters? Kid, why the hell didn't you do this before? Rebelling or what?”
“...No, sir.”
“Defense alone, and I'd have given you a shot.”
Coach sidled up while I hit, smirking as he spoke. Old me would've wanted to smash his skull, but after fucking his wife? Just pitied the clown.
“Seems like the position change is working, though.”
‘Shoulda switched sooner. Pro's a stretch, but college? Yeah.”
“Just play me.”
‘Brat. Folks'd think I hate your guts. How'm I supposed to play a guy who can't throw?”
“...Sorry, sir.”
“Fine. You'll start at second in the scrimmage. Prep good.”
Hard not to use me after this practice showing. Team was thin at second anyway. And months since Park Hye-jin last name-dropped me—that sealed it.
‘Hey, when you banging her next? It's been a week already.’
‘After the scrimmage. I'll think it over.’
Even without Rogers nagging, texts from Park Hye-jin piled up on my phone. I'd cooled off since that night, but sometimes her pussy popped into my head. Especially days like this, chatting with her husband.
“Do good. Nail this, might start you in weekend league too. Third year—gotta get you to college at least.”
“Thank you, sir. I'll work hard.”
“Yeah. Keep practicing.”
Coach wandered off toward other players.
Asshole. Watch me force your hand—you won't be able to keep me out.
‘And fuck his wife in the end. Heh heh heh.’
‘Ugh, shut up already!’