Chapter 7
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Translator: penny
Chapter: 7
Chapter Title: Practice Game (1)
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“Alright, listen up. I'm calling the starting lineup for today's practice game. Blue team pitcher Kim Won-ho... White team pitcher... Second baseman Ji Maeng-ho...”
Starting lineup? Me, starting? It was just a practice game, but the coach had put me in the starting lineup. Sure, the white team was made up of the 1.5 squad guys, but thinking back to those nights I spent crying because I couldn't even play in these intrasquad games...
'Getting all excited over finally starting in a practice game.'
I'd been about to get sentimental when this jerk had to ruin it.
'It might be nothing to you, old man, but this is a precious chance for me! Do you have any idea how I felt after three years without a single game?'
'How's a super star like me supposed to understand the feelings of some high school benchwarmer?'
'And yet your face looks pretty happy. Admit it—you're thrilled I'm playing too.'
'Thrilled my ass, you fucking monkey bastard. It's because you've been so focused on baseball you haven't even had sex, just training nonstop. Go run to that girl's place right now!'
'Monkey? You're the one thinking about sex all the time.'
Arguing more would just drain my energy before the game, so I decided to ignore Rogers Hornsby. Still, after half a year with this guy, I'd at least learned how to let his useless chatter go in one ear and out the other. Small mercies.
“Maeng-ho, you're batting sixth and playing second base today. You got this, right?”
“Yes, sir! Leave it to me.”
I flashed the head coach a bright smile full of confidence. The first team? Pfft, it was just high school level. With Rogers Hornsby on my side, I was invincible—a god!
'Monkey bastard. Now do you see my greatness?'
'You got it! Thanks, Mr. Hornsby!'
And the opponent was Kim Won-ho! The guy who'd stolen my first love. It felt like my baseball skills had doubled already.
'Maybe it's 'cause she's young, but that girl's pussy looked so tight and tasty in the video... Why haven't you watched it again?'
“...Don't wanna.”
First love was most beautiful when it stayed just that—first love. Jerking off to thoughts of my friend while picturing her? That wasn't first love anymore. I didn't want to see her or even think about her.
'Fucking idiot.'
“...Yeah. I'm an idiot.”
'Good, admitting it suits you. Keep acting like an idiot from now on.'
...Fucking asshole. I pretended to practice my swing and took a swipe at him with my bat. Naturally, it didn't connect.
“Maeng-ho! Love seeing you work hard like that! Let's both make it into the game this time.”
Kim Won-ho came over with a greeting, oblivious to my inner turmoil. We were the only two third-years left on the team due to repeating a grade, so he probably felt a bond. Actually, Won-ho had always been friendly... Avoiding him had been my own inferiority complex talking.
“Yeah. Don't go easy on me.”
“Since when do you go easy in baseball?”
I flipped him the bird in response. He chuckled and headed to the blue team's dugout. Back when I first saw that video, I'd wanted to bash his head in with a bat. But after sleeping with Hye-jin noona, it was different... The inferiority complex didn't sting like before.
'All thanks to me.'
Rogers Hornsby was right. Sure, the thing with Hyun-ah was part of it, but at the core, it was baseball. I envied his skill—stuffing 150 km/h fastballs right into the strike zone.
...But not anymore. With Rogers Hornsby by my side, passing on his experience, I was different now.
'Good look on your face. Finally acting like a warrior. So, what pitches does that monkey bastard throw?'
Before the game started, Rogers Hornsby asked about Kim Won-ho's repertoire. Real baseball purists might call it cowardly gamesmanship, but that shit didn't matter to me anymore. Ever since seeing that video of Hyun-ah, the boy who only knew baseball—Ji Maeng-ho—had died.
'...All that's left is a sex-crazed horny monkey.'
'Quit narrating my damn thoughts!'
'Quit clowning around and tell me his pitches, monkey boy.'
'Mostly four-seam and slider. He mixes in forkballs to the base sometimes, but he saves them for real high-pressure spots in games, so probably not in practice.'
'Hmph. You kids these days play like fags. Back in my day, we doctored the ball—cuts, mud, everything. Not this pussy grip bullshit for breaking pitches.'
'Wasn't the spitball banned by the time you were managing?'
'Idiot. I'm talking about my playing days.'
His bratty tone made it hard to remember sometimes, but moments like this really drove home that Rogers Hornsby was a major leaguer from a century ago.
'Hmm. Four-seam and slider grips are similar, though...'
'Come on, the great Rogers Hornsby can't tell me how?'
'You fucking monkey idiot, provoking me?'
'Then why act weak?'
'You fucking monkey bastard. If you whiff and blame me, it'll be your fragile mentality's fault.'
“...Fair point.”
Rogers Hornsby shook his head at my words, then floated off toward the bullpen where Kim Won-ho was warming up. For all his tough talk, he was going to check the grips himself. Was he a tsundere or something?
'Shut your trap, you goddamn bitch!'
“...You're dead, remember?”
'I know. If I were your parents, watching you play baseball, I'd have killed myself too.'
Another perk of hanging with Rogers Hornsby: this personality trash heap constantly hurling personal attacks and racist jabs had toughened my mentality. Normal insults barely fazed me now. I'd be fine in the pros too.
'Forgot those days you holed up crying in your room? Monkey brain got shit memory?'
...Yeah, there were times like that. Ahem.
“White team! Huddle up!”
Perfect timing! Just before the full-on dark history roast could kick off, the head coach—who was today's acting manager for white team—called us all together.
“Alright, this is our last intrasquad before the weekend league. Do well here, and you're starting material for the league—everyone knows that, right? And the starter's Won-ho. Hit him good, and you're guaranteed innings on the weekend. Coach'll be watching. Let's do this. Maeng-ho, lead the cheer.”
The head coach tasked me, the third-year and oldest, with the fight chant.
“The heart of Korean athletics! Hanchego! Fighting!”
“Fighting!”
Everyone echoed my lead. It was embarrassing shouting “heart of Korean athletics” for a weak team not even ten years old, but the guys' cheers warmed my chest a bit.
Top of the first, white team batting first as the “away” squad. Blue team's starter was our ace, Kim Won-ho. Predictably, we went down in ten pitches flat. Won-ho touched 147 km/h—impressive for spring. By summer, he'd hit mid-150s. No wonder every scout was eyeing him.
“Hey, you idiots, watch the damn ball!”
“Sorry.”
“Whatever. Get set for defense.”
'See the grips okay, old man?'
'Yeah. If you're not a total idiot, you can hit 'em.'
I slipped on my glove and headed to the infield. The ground felt solid under my spikes. All the effort to stand here flashed before my eyes like a montage. Not my dream shortstop spot, but my eyes were stinging a little.
'Idiot bastard. Focus on the game during the game. Opponents won't give a shit about your whiny feelings.'
Fucking annoying, but he wasn't wrong. I etched his rare baseball advice deep. First one, actually?
'Got it. Focusing.'
Yeah. For me—the future greatest second baseman in baseball history—this piddly practice game was just the first step. High school level at that. Wasting emotions here? Like he said, pure idiocy.
White team's starter was our number-two guy, lefty Park Young-cheol. Mid-140s fastball.
“Hyung Maeng-ho. Take care of me out there.”
“Yeah. Let's do our best.”
“I'll try not to send anything your way. First game nerves, right?”
Subtle condescension. This second-year punk's attitude showed exactly how I'd been treated all along. Fucking bastard. One day, I'd have him on his knees.
'Oho, nice range. But I don't swing that way with dudes. No sense-sharing. Fag.'
'What kinda bullshit is that? Focus on the game.'
“Not nervous, right, hyung?”
“Cut the idiot talk and hit it my way.”
Park Young-cheol finished his warm-ups, and blue team's bottom of the first began. Nice tension buzzing in my muscles.
Some say infield defense is easy—just stand there, right? But maintaining that tension takes massive mental energy. Factoring in range for every pitch? Not as simple as it sounds.
Crack!
“Foul.”
The defense coach's flat call echoed. A few more pitches flew. On the ninth, a clean crack sent the ball screaming toward second. I dove on instinct.
Thud.
The heavy smack into my glove. Got it. I popped up from the dive, no steps, and fired to first. After processing thousands of grounders via sense-sharing with Rogers Hornsby, this was nothing.
“Out!”
Training reps a thousand times, but nabbing an out in a game? And first base held the throw.
“Nice second!”
The pitcher Park Young-cheol hollered. The guy who'd dissed me pre-game was grinning, praising my play. My heart would've swelled... if I were the old me, pure baseball joy-boy.
But now? Zero feels. These guys weren't teammates—just tools to the pros. “Team” talk now? Laughable.
'Right mindset. Everyone else is vermin. Baseball a team sport? Sew their mouths shut. Baseball's solo. Drag yourself down to team trash level, and you're trash. Wins fade; stats last forever. Everyone knows Babe Ruth's homers, but his rings? Who cares. Baseball is stats! More cash! More girls! More sex! Kuhahaha!'
'Old man, I get you're hyped for my first game in ages, but shut up a sec.'
“Whoa, hyung! No-step throw's insane!”
“Maeng-ho hyung's arm was always nuts!”
“Focus. Two outs left.”
“Yes!”
Their grinning faces turned serious at my word. Yeah, baseball's about showing skill. Old me saying that? Laughter fodder.
'Monkey boy acting charismatic.'
Rogers Hornsby grumbled, embarrassed from my retort.
'Looked charismatic to you? Thanks for the praise.'
“...”
Win. Nabbed the first out, shut up Hornsby. Perfect start.