Chapter 27
Chapter 27
When Choi Myung-jun gave up a grand slam with the bases loaded, the Phoenix dugout fell into silence.
It was still the bottom of the fifth inning. Even though the six-run gap seemed large, comebacks were not impossible.
Yet most Phoenix players had already half given up on the game.
“Damn it. Today’s over.”
“Ha. When do we even go to Daegu again?”
Baseball meant at least 144 games in a single season. Even with a high win rate, it would barely reach sixty percent. That meant losing at least 60 games—so being accustomed to defeat wasn’t unusual.
But the Phoenix players’ thoughts were different.
“So why does he always have to make things difficult?”
“Yeah… it’s been weird since opening day.”
If the fifth starter had just gone out and lost as scheduled, the fans would have shrugged it off.
Even if some were jealous of Park Si-woo performing so well, they had pitchers of their own caliber.
But Choi Myung-jun had deliberately set himself up for the Park Si-woo vs. Choi Myung-jun showdown—and had been utterly humiliated.
“Good thing it’s Sajik,” they muttered.
If this had been Daejeon, fan protests would have swarmed the entire stadium by now.
Above all, the streak of bad luck that had started at opening day was serious.
“This is already his third appearance, and his games keep going weird.”
“You think so too?”
For the Phoenix players, this was familiar. A few months ago, a player like that had been with them. They didn’t say it outright, but their gazes kept returning to Choi Myung-jun.
And Choi Myung-jun knew perfectly well what those looks meant. He forced a bitter laugh.
“…Bastards. Now it’s all my fault?”
How much of the five runs this inning were really his fault?
Cha Jae-hoon’s RBI? Ha Seo-jin’s home run?
Even if the catcher hadn’t dropped the ball, none of it would have happened.
If the shortstop had held his position, if the third baseman had thrown a little faster… he wouldn’t even be sitting in the dugout like this.
Choi Myung-jun met each gaze in the dugout.
“Say what you want to say.”
No one stepped up, so he sneered.
“Figures. These guys never change.”
Even if he pushed a little, they’d just follow along. Still, Choi Myung-jun didn’t want to escalate things further.
“Ha. If Si-woo were here, it’d be different.”
If only he hadn’t said that.
“Well, he was unlucky, not bad. Same bases-loaded situation—look at the results.”
Some players spoke loudly enough to reach Choi Myung-jun. He knew their intention—it was exactly what they had done to Park Si-woo months ago.
But the name Park Si-woo triggered Choi Myung-jun’s inferiority.
“…Idiots.”
“What? What did you just say?”
“Do you really think that? That Park Si-woo took all the bad luck, and that’s why we did well?”
Even among the Phoenix players, this was a hot topic.
In Park Si-woo’s rookie season, he had performed beyond belief but was unlucky. The team still pushed through to the Korean Series.
In his second year, Park Si-woo returned. His velocity had slowed, but he made the Korean Series roster, and the Phoenix still won the championship.
By his third year, Park Si-woo didn’t make the Korean Series roster, and the team suffered a historic upset.
The more unfortunate Park Si-woo became, the better the team performed.
It didn’t make sense logically, but some players believed it and blamed him whenever things went wrong—errors, missed hits, everything.
And Choi Myung-jun had encouraged it.
“Go ahead. Try it. I’ll take it all. But is that really it? You know it’s not luck—it’s just your lack of skill.”
The players flushed, but no one spoke loudly. The coaches exchanged glances, perhaps realizing the commotion.
Unlike after Park Si-woo’s failed comeback, few cared about Choi Myung-jun—but this time, the coaches, manager, general manager, even the team owner, all protected him.
Choi Myung-jun smirked and turned away—but his expression hardened once he did.
“Ugh! Damn it!”
On the way to the locker room, he couldn’t contain his anger and kicked the piled-up gear.
But the equipment absorbed almost none of the impact.
“Argh!”
He lost his balance and rolled across the floor.
“Hey, hey! Myung-jun! Get the team doctor, quick!”
After the commotion in the Phoenix dugout, Choi Myung-jun was no longer seen on the field.
Predictable.
A guy who thinks the world revolves around him—he’d storm off when things went wrong.
Meanwhile, our attack was far from over.
After Ha Seo-jin’s home run, we scored five more runs.
We rotated the lineup, but no matter—we didn’t take out our starters.
“Si-woo, you can pitch as long as you want. Just don’t get hurt.”
I was still our team’s pitcher.
There were reasons. The bullpen had been overused in the previous two games, and I still hadn’t allowed a run.
If I achieved a shutout today, it would be my second consecutive, unofficially my third straight shutout. Pitch count was a bit tight—60 by the fifth inning—but that didn’t matter to me.
120 pitches, 150 pitches—it didn’t matter as long as I didn’t give up runs. I had no intention of coming down.
And I didn’t want to.
On the mound, a familiar face stepped into the batter’s box—Kim Jung-min.
A backup infielder for Phoenix, he usually played infield when I pitched. Today was just such a day.
Kim Jung-min wasn’t particularly skilled, and errors happened often. Every time, it was my fault.
Because I was pitching, because of my luck, because of me.
I wondered who they’d blame now that I was gone.
“Play ball!”
Kim Jung-min’s expression was tense. Did he always look like that in the field? No wonder he kept dropping the ball.
First pitch: knuckleball.
The ball floated gently, then dropped sharply.
“Strike!”
Kim Jung-min swung wildly, completely missing the ball. He readjusted his glove and caught his breath.
Second pitch.
“Strike!”
Not even thinking of swinging. How could he have blamed me for that?
Third pitch: hard knuckleball.
The ball didn’t go exactly as intended—it hit close to his side—but the umpire called it a strikeout.
Kim Jung-min didn’t protest, walked back to the dugout.
Next batter: Lee In-hyuk.
Same as Kim Jung-min, a backup infielder who had blamed me before.
“Strike!”
132 km/h.
It may have differed from what he expected; Lee In-hyuk widened his eyes. I didn’t meet his gaze and readied the next pitch.
Another hard knuckleball. No emotion this time.
Strike.
Next signal: knuckleball. Held with fingertips of index and middle, pushed strongly.
This pitch didn’t hit the zone properly—it grazed Lee In-hyuk’s side.
“Strikeout!”
The umpire called another strikeout, and Lee In-hyuk returned to the dugout silently.
The next batter stepped in, swiftly down two strikes.
The crowd cheered.
“Three strikeouts in a row!”
The loudest cheer I had heard today.
Normally, I wouldn’t aim for strikeouts like this, but…
“Strikeout!”
A hard knuckleball in the center. The crowd erupted.
“Park Si-woo! Park Si-woo! Park Si-woo!”
“You’re the best! Whoa!”
“Don’t go anywhere! This is your home now!”
Usually, fans were passionate, but now their reaction was different.
Thanks to Min-seok’s recording, I understood why.
“One inning, three batters, nine pitches, all strikeouts.”
Perfect inning.
“Yeah. That’s it.”
“Nice. Records are pouring in.”
Min-seok asked casually as he recorded the fans.
“Anything bothering you?”
“...Aren’t you supposed to watch the score, not me?”
“Oh, how’d you know? I used to work part-time at a scorekeeping house.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. But the owner kept asking me to quit baseball and work there, so I left. Why, is it Phoenix?”
“No, it’s nothing. Just… well.”
Kim Jung-min, Lee In-hyuk, even Choi Myung-jun—how petty they all seemed now.
Just that petty.
“Oooh! Strongest! Busan!”
Top of the ninth inning. Phoenix’s attack had begun, but Marlins fans didn’t stop cheering.
Score: 0–17.
Most visiting Phoenix fans left; Marlins fans ignored the previous losses and enjoyed the moment.
Soon Park Si-woo appeared in the dugout.
“Waaaaah!”
“Si-woo! We believed in you!”
“Park Si-woo! Park Si-woo! Park Si-woo!”
Unbelievable cheers for the ninth inning.
Including the unofficial opening game shutout, three consecutive shutouts. Only three outs in each game.
Achieving one shutout in a season is tough; three in a row is extraordinary.
Even unofficially, only one Marlins pitcher 30 years ago had done this.
“Ha. I almost went to that game back then. Too bad I didn’t, but I’m here today!”
“…How old were they?”
“Who cares! Come on, Park Si-woo! Let’s go!”
“Suuu-prise! Three strikeouts!”
Meanwhile, Phoenix looked hopeless.
17-run gap, flawless inning, a shutout within reach.
By now, fans weren’t even hoping for a win.
“If you’re a pro, at least score one run!”
“Come on. The players are useless—what’s the point?”
The few remaining Phoenix fans watched cautiously, but seeing the lifeless hitters, they left one by one.
They took a final glance at Park Si-woo pitching.
“Ha.”
With a sigh full of meaning, the remaining Phoenix fans left Sajik Stadium.
“Strikeout!”
First out of the ninth inning: Park Si-woo’s 13th strikeout of the game.
Fwoosh!
“My, my!”
Second out taken easily by Yoo Jung-woo.
The final Phoenix batter stepped in. Nobody at Sajik Stadium expected a hit.
He swung, but…
“Strikeout! Park Si-woo finishes the game with a strikeout for the last out! Breaks his personal single-game strikeout record, achieves 27 consecutive scoreless innings, and sets the record of three consecutive nine-inning shutouts!”
The game ended with Park Si-woo and the players rushing toward him.
Immediately after the game, Oh Gyu-jin spoke with a gloomy expression:
“Yes. Please make it official.”
As soon as he said that, an article appeared, igniting Phoenix fans’ rage:
Choi Myung-jun, fracture in left finger. Expected to be out 4–6 weeks!