Chapter 96
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Translator: penny
Chapter: 95
Chapter Title: Son of the Hero (1)
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Panama? Where the hell is that country? I had no idea where it was, but their baseball skills sure left a lot to be desired.
"Jang Woo-ju, looking sharp!"
"The maknae's killing it!"
They were getting shut down by Jang Woo-ju. Even if he was topping out at 160, this was ridiculous... In the top of the 8th, with the score at 11-4, Jang Woo-ju had come in and completely stuffed Panama's lineup.
'Eh, this is boring.'
My job today was cheering from the bench as the unofficial hype man. I wasn't in the lineup. But I wasn't bummed about it.
'Mr. Hornsby, let's go one more time.'
'Again? The game's about to wrap up.'
'I wanna get after it.'
I had business with Hornsby. Facing off against Panama's pitchers sounded less fun than training with him. I'd discovered this training method two days ago, right after the Japan game.
I'd been moping over the loss, getting pity texts from everyone, when the idea hit me. If I could face pitchers from Hornsby's memories, couldn't I face ones from mine?
I asked him right away. He'd never tried it before, but he said it felt possible.
And now...
Ohtani was standing in front of me. The Ohtani from my memories. Hornsby had perfectly recreated him from my recollections as a lifelike illusion.
-Crack!
-Whoosh!
-Crack!
Not easy, as expected. The Ohtani in my head was still Ohtani. Without Hornsby's help, even making contact was a struggle.
'Mr. Hornsby, help me out now.'
'Nah.'
'Huh? Why not?'
'Game's over.'
With that, Ohtani's illusion vanished, and I spotted a high pop-up sailing into the infield. What the...? I wasn't done facing him yet. Already over?
"Maknae, you weren't sleeping out there, right?"
"Nah, of course not. I was meditating."
"Meditating? During a game?"
"You know how it is, hyung. Sometimes that crack! feeling just hits. That's what I was chasing."
"You're such a weirdo."
I chatted with Ki Sang-ju, who had the day off, as we headed out of the dugout to greet the returning players.
"Great work."
"Great work."
"Great work."
"Great... work."
Fuck, these greetings are a pain in the ass. Anyway, once the tedious hellos wrapped up, the coach gathered everyone.
"Alright, go shower up and meet in the meeting room. We've got tomorrow's game to prep for."
He looked upbeat after the win. Korea sat at 2-1. We'd lost to Japan but beaten Australia and the surprise Panama. China, with their 0-3 record, was all that stood between us and the quarterfinals. It was basically locked in.
Even if we lost tomorrow, unless Australia beat Panama and Japan—which was a pipe dream in baseball's unpredictable world—the quarters were ours.
"Shower up and regroup at 4. Dismissed."
"Great work!"
Shower, then some training with Hornsby?
-"Congrats on the quarters."
Long time no hear from Kim Won-ho after my shower. I debated picking up but figured he was my only high school friend. Answered.
"What's up? Calling and shit."
-"Just calling a buddy."
"What buddy?"
-"Dude, friends. Anyway, congrats. Sucks you faced Ohtani."
"Ohtani? That was two days ago."
-"Hey! I was busy training. So, how was Ohtani? Next level?"
"You could train a century and never touch him."
-"Tch. Figures. Splitter at 140? Insane."
"Right? How you holding up?"
-"Me? Same old. Fuck... Hey, how's training at AT? Here, rookies just drink water. No sports drinks?"
"No drinks? What kinda bullshit is that?"
Pro teams don't skimp on that. AT had 'em stacked by color.
-"Sounds fake, right? Fuckin' beggars. Heard rumors, but this team's straight trash."
"You got a fat signing bonus though?"
Like 400 million won or something...
-"Got duped. Know anyone at your team? Hook a brother up."
"Silla ain't drafting first-rounders twice. Grind 4-5 years first."
-"Crazy? Salary drops."
"Rich kid like you can afford it."
-"Sigh... Anyway, you sound fine. Cool. Next tourney, let's team up. Lemme taste nationals."
"Cool. Hey, still striking out lately?"
Won-ho'd been impotent since Hyun-ah shot him down.
-"W-why bring that up?! H-hang up, asshole! Psycho!"
Click. Ungrateful prick. Just showing concern.
"Hey, Ji Maeng-ho. What's so funny?"
Was I laughing? As I headed to my room post-call, Joo Seung-cheol hailed me.
"Oh, Seung-cheol hyung. Great work today."
"Yeah, yeah."
He'd seemed off after Japan, but looked recovered now.
"Yo, got a sec?"
"Sure. Shoot."
"Drop the formal shit. We've known each other weeks. Makes me cringe."
Banmal? Music to my ears.
"Cool. Seung-cheol, what's up?"
"Argh! 'Hyung,' dumbass."
"Got it, got it."
Tch, no chill.
"C'mon. I'll buy coffee. Let's talk."
"Cool."
What needed a café? Curiosity piqued, I followed.
Joo Hyung-jin. Hero of Korean baseball.
He set untouchable records in the KBA League, crossed to the States at 30, and cranked out five straight 20+ homer seasons. Ignored his team's pleas to play Olympics, snagged Korea's first gold. Returned for his farewell, won a Golden Glove, retired legendarily.
Before him, no Korean had more than a footnote in MLB. We were baseball backwater. A few dipped toes for a season, gone.
But he paved the path. Juniors knocked endlessly; guys like Seong Hyun, Kang Han-beom, Choi Joo-tae thrived in majors.
Joo Hyung-jin fathered two: eldest Joo Seung-cheol, youngest Joo Ji-ah.
Born sons/daughter of a hero, they wanted for nothing. Dad married top actress; kids inherited her looks. Seung-cheol got Mom's face, Dad's build too.
Happy life? Joo Seung-cheol had a firm answer.
'Happy my ass.'
Sis, YouTuber riding Mom's genes and Dad's fame, maybe content. Not him.
He revered Dad too much. Made his life hell.
Pressure from elementary as Hero's Son. Variety shows with Dad as kid—everyone knew him. Stares intensified in baseball.
Elementary: loved attention. Middle: rebelled into pitching. High school: despaired at never topping Dad. Wanted to follow idol, but shadow too vast. Inferiority crushed.
Scrutiny everywhere. Screw up—or not—and Dad got dragged. Suffocating.
So he smiled always. Kind, grinning mask cut Dad-hate, earned "Like father" praise on homers. Friends trickled in.
First-year high school Joo Seung-cheol. Too young for maturity.
Glimpsed glorious life, but inferiority and public vulture-gaze rotted masked Seung-cheol inside.
Only balm: baseball. Surpass Dad's fame, bury records, earn 'Baseball player Joo Seung-cheol' not 'Joo Hyung-jin's son.'
His plan.
To escape shadow, he'd do anything. Asking a junior? Nothing.
"So, how'd you tag Ohtani's heat?"
Dumbass tone. When Dad first praised this kid, Seung-cheol wanted him dead. Dad never praised him as child—resented. Choke this first-praised Ji Maeng-ho? Tempting.
But kind as usual. Learn something. Understood Dad's praise instantly: bat speed, launch angle, exit velo, distance. Hitting prodigy.
MLB tapes since kid, revered Dad—knew elite.
'How this punk... get Dad's nod... that swing...!'
Swallowed jealousy, stayed nice. Weirdo, but fun company.
Especially roasting Ki Sang-ju on interviews—unthinkable for Hero's Son drilled in humility. Hilarious.
Affinity overtaking envy, then wall: Ohtani. Impenetrable despair. Worse than Dad-chasing blues.
But no breakdown. .300 hitter Choi Joo-tae, near-150 HR Kang Han-beom, even MLB-toed Ki Sang-ju whiffed Ohtani.
'Not me lacking. Ohtani's freak. I'm younger than seniors? Better Korean stats. Don't waver, Seung-cheol. You're good.'
Self-pep, then sharp crack. Laser too fast to track, wall-rattler. Perfect contact. Luck? Nah, line drive pure skill.
Hitter: Dad's first-praised Korean. Ji Maeng-ho.
"Uh... hard to explain."
Quell surge, sat for tips. Patience nada for better ball.
"Felt like pitches came faster than usual, so swung harder."
"What?"
Laughable. Faster-feel, quicker swing? Everyone'd be Ruth, Bonds, Joo Hyung-jin.
Shook head at nonsense.
"Hiding secrets? I bought coffee. Harsh. Fine. How'd you ID fastballs first?"
"C'mon, you see it. I see everything. Release: straight or break."
"...More bullshit."
Frustration slipped.
"Normies never get it. Talent wall. Ji Maeng-ho wall."
Seung-cheol distinguished fastball/offspeed sometimes. Good days, seam spin differed. But unless slowpoke pitcher, too late post-ID.
Avoid whiff at best?
"So mid-flight ID?"
"Nah, release instant. You know timing lags. Gut feel. Then boom!"
Wanna throttle. But craved secret. ID pitches?
That'd devour majors, slumps be damned.
This punk... doping?
Eyes sharpened fleetingly. Ji missed it.
Muscle boosters, hormone tweaks—magic. Banned juice amps power, speed; longer look, eye synergy.
Natural eyes + juice = plausible.
"Juice? Like protein? Recommending supps?"
Innocent gaze.
"...Never mind."
Overthought. Rookie, orphan, no connections—clean for WBC. Pure talent? Impressive...
"Know it, time perfectly. You do too, right? Pitcher timings. Match, boom!"
Sounded gibberish, but results real.
"Hyung, Ohtani's toast. Next time, smash."
Pure baseball fire. Seung-cheol once boy like that—recognized instantly.
"Yeah, crush it. Let's bounce. Good coffee."
"Thanks, hyung!"
"Cheeky."
'Not everyone's me.'
Ji'd never grasp burden. Hero spawn under eyes only know.
Ji feel it? Live like me?
'Who knows.'
Two straight Gloves, but Ji staying in Korea? Time to move. Training confirmed real deal. If he—not me—breaks Dad's records...
Won't yield glory. Grind harder.
'Still got some left?'
...Whatever it takes. First time since first-year high, untouched thing resurfaced.
