Chapter 5
Chapter 5
“All done.”
“Thank you for your hard work. I added a little extra so you can have some coffee.”
“Oh, you really didn’t have to. Thank you!”
The best thing about winning the lottery was having some breathing room in my wallet. Of course, I hadn’t given the company more money because of that. It was just a token of gratitude for how smoothly and quickly they handled the move. The place with the best reviews wasn’t available due to scheduling, so I had no choice but to go with this company—and I was very satisfied.
After the movers left, I went into the house. From the outside, it looked like a perfectly ordinary two-bedroom place. This would be my home for the foreseeable future.
As I slowly inspected the rooms, I noticed a box I hadn’t seen before. It wasn’t mine, and when I contacted the moving company’s manager, they didn’t know anything about it either. Then that left only one possibility—the previous tenant.
When I called the real estate agent, I finally learned the truth.
“Oh dear, I completely forgot to mention it. It’s a tradition in that house for the previous tenant to leave a small gift for the next one. It’s meant to pass along the good fortune I received. Sorry, I should have told you in advance.”
It was an interesting tradition. I had an unexpected gift, and my heart raced as I opened the box.
Inside was a letter and an envelope.
“Player Park Si-woo, I’m really sorry about the other day. I think I just said strange things because I was so surprised
I’ll really cheer for you! I hope you get your 1st win, 10th win, and 100th win with the Marines!
Ah, the charm I included was made by a very skilled shaman. I don’t usually believe in charms, but it seemed to help me on the college entrance exam, so I received it!
And I haven’t forgotten that you promised to give me your autograph. When we meet, please—please!—do that! Fighting!”
Ha.
I wasn’t religious, but I treasured both the letter and the charm. After all, this was the first gift from a fan since coming to the Marines.
That concluded the move.
“But I can’t even get a wink of sleep tonight.”
I had a flight to the U.S. tonight. I wished I could rest, but the schedule was tight. I couldn’t skip it, either. My destination was the Baseball Center in Arizona, where I would stay for about a month to train and learn.
I was looking forward to it.
It wasn’t my first time in the U.S., but it was my first time going there specifically to learn something. Maybe because of that excitement, I packed quickly, leaving a bit of extra time. I used the remaining moments to explain to the few people I would be out of touch with for a while: my parents and senior player Park Chan-hyuk.
“Yes. The team is sending me. Don’t worry. I’ll contact you when I return.”
My parents had been worried when they first heard about the trade, but knowing I’d be sent all the way to the U.S. put them at ease.
As for senior Park Chan-hyuk:
“What? The U.S.?”
“Yes. The Baseball Center in Arizona.”
“Oh, really? The team is sending you there?”
“You know the place?”
“Yeah. It’s pretty famous. I think our team tried to send someone there a few times before, but they always said there were no slots.”
“Really?”
“Yes. The team cares, so go and make the most of it. Hmph, but now who am I supposed to train with if you’re in the U.S.? Anyway, contact me when you get back. There’s no one to eat gukbap with since you’re gone.”
It probably wasn’t that there was no one to eat with. He was probably just using that as an excuse to see me. Then again, maybe he really meant it.
Arizona Tread Athletics Baseball Center.
The center was busy preparing for a new player.
“James. They’re sending one more player from Korea.”
“Korea? Marines?”
“Yes. Please verify.”
James Colton, after checking the video sent from the Marines, lit up.
“Nice. At this kind of four-seam, he should hit 70+ mph easily.”
But seeing the pitches after surgery, he bit his lip and studied the data.
“Tommy John? But his speed dropped by nearly 10 mph?”
“The player says there’s no pain, and the surgery went well. But there’s one unusual thing.”
“What’s that?”
“Immediately after rehab, he could throw 93 mph. But then the speed suddenly vanished.”
“Dead arm?”
“No. We’ll need to see him in person first.”
Tommy John surgery usually allows pitchers to throw faster after recovery because the elbow no longer hurts. Conversely, some see a drop in speed. But a sudden drop like this was rare.
Even just after surgery, he had been throwing at his previous speed. Perhaps that’s why the staff at the center were intrigued and looking forward to meeting Park Si-woo.
Two days later, Park Si-woo arrived.
“Welcome. I’m James Colton. I’ll be your trainer for the month.”
“Nice to meet you. I’m Park Si-woo.”
“You must be tired from the trip. Today we’ll just tour the center lightly, and start training tomorrow.”
“No, I’m fine. I came here ready.”
James smiled at his words. The flight had been nearly 20 hours. He could have been exhausted, but seeing Park Si-woo’s enthusiasm inspired James himself.
‘Business class is definitely better,’ Park Si-woo thought.
The Marines hadn’t arranged it—he’d just been lucky. The economy seats were overbooked, so he was upgraded to business class for free. James didn’t know that and was simply pleased with Park Si-woo’s eagerness.
“Good. Let’s start immediately.”
James first checked Park Si-woo’s physical condition and athletic ability.
“How’s it?”
“Good. The elbow doesn’t seem stressed.”
“Really?”
James frowned despite the positive results. If his body was fine, that meant it was unlikely to improve further.
“Let’s test everything else.”
But the more they examined him, the darker James’ expression became. By the end, they still hadn’t found why his speed had dropped or how to improve it.
“James.”
“Yes, Park? Sit here.”
Park Si-woo, along with an interpreter, looked at him expectantly.
‘That means it’s always difficult,’ James thought.
But he had to speak eventually. After a brief pause, he said:
“Based on our assessment, recovering to pre-surgery speed will be difficult.”
“...Really?”
Park Si-woo’s resigned expression made James feel regret. The pitches before surgery had looked incredible even on video. To think he could never throw them again… it pained him.
“Still, we’ll do everything we can. We might gain 2–3 mph, maybe 5 mph at most.”
With proper pitching form, adjustments, and systematic training, it wasn’t impossible.
“5 mph? That’s 8 kph?”
“Yes. Correct.”
It was far from the 155 km/h he had thrown before, but it was enough to make him smile.
“Thank you.”
“No, it hasn’t even started yet. But it will be tough.”
“I survived Tommy John rehab,” he said.
‘Mental toughness,’ James thought, impressed.
Even players who endure Tommy John rehab often describe it as hell. And yet Park Si-woo endured it—and still faced a sudden drop in velocity. Any ordinary player might have given up, but Park Si-woo held hope.
“Rest today. Start tomorrow.”
Even after Park Si-woo left, James stayed at the center.
‘5 mph is the max if everything aligns perfectly.’
A month was short. Every second mattered if they wanted to maximize his speed recovery.
‘And maybe, just maybe…’
If luck favored him, Park Si-woo might regain his velocity. The chance was nearly zero, but it existed.
“Hey, James.”
After hours of focus, someone called him. Distracted, he frowned but smiled brightly when he saw the caller.
“Oliver? When did you get here? You said it’d take another month.”
“Lucky timing. That’s another story. Who’s this?”
“A pitcher from Korea. He lost all his velocity after Tommy John.”
“Tommy John? So?”
“We examined him. No particular symptoms, but we’re working with what we have.”
James looked to Oliver with hopeful eyes. Oliver was one of the top Tommy John rehab specialists in the U.S. If anyone could find something, it was him.
“Hmm. Is that so?”
Oliver sat in the chair without further comment.
“When you’re done, let’s grab dinner. Haven’t eaten yet, right?”
“Yes. Might take some time, though.”
“No problem.”
James chuckled inwardly. ‘Even Oliver has his limits.’
Even the tests hadn’t revealed an issue. And yet someone diagnosing without seeing the player? Impossible for anyone else.
“Wait, show me that again.”
“Yes? One moment.”
“Do you have any high school footage?”
“Yes, the team can provide it.”
“Let’s watch it.”
Oliver’s casual suggestion made James impatient to ask:
“Oliver, is there even a method for this?”
“Hmm. Let’s see. I can’t know without watching.”
Oliver’s indifferent answer made James sigh but immediately contact Korea. Still, Oliver’s eyes blazed as he watched the footage.
“145…”
I first threw at that speed in the third year of middle school. The command was awful, just a fastball—but that thrill remains in my memory. Later, when I surpassed 150 km/h and hit 155 km/h, that memory faded. But now it felt vivid again.
I had thought I’d never throw that hard again. Even if it was less than before, it was enough.
But…
“If Park is like I was, you can throw like before.”
“Oliver? What do you mean?”
I barely slept from excitement and went straight to James in the morning. A man I’d never met was there—James introduced him as a highly skilled trainer. But even he seemed surprised by Oliver’s words.
“…Can you explain?”
“Of course. First, a few questions. Your current form—when did you start pitching? Our data doesn’t tell us exactly.”
“Winter break of my second year in high school. Before that, my control was terrible.”
“So elbow pain began then?”
“Yes. That’s right.”
At first, the pain was minor. A slight discomfort, but I thought it was necessary to endure for speed. It wasn’t significant.
“After rehab, no pain? And suddenly velocity dropped?”
“Yes.”
“Hmm.”
Oliver took a long moment, which felt endless.
Then he spoke, making my heart pound:
“In short, there is a way to regain your speed.”
“...Really?”
“Yes. The drop isn’t due to the body. It’s here.”
Oliver tapped his temple with his left index finger.
“The brain is refusing to throw. More precisely, it’s avoiding pain.”
“Pain?”
“For about two years. You felt the elbow pain for two years. Then surgery. You recovered faster than expected and threw full force. All that built up… and then—bam.”
“…But there’s no pain now.”
“Yes. But the brain remembers. The pain that tormented Park for two years. So even now, it puts the brakes on. That’s why velocity dropped. Even at 100% physical condition, the brain refuses.”
I didn’t understand.
James, standing next to Oliver, was equally shocked.
“Oliver, is that possible? I’ve never heard of that!”
“Sure, it’s rare. I’ve only seen it once.”
“Who was that?”
Oliver pointed to himself.
“Oliver White. I went through the same thing 20 years before Park.”
Oliver White.
First-round MLB draft, 27th pick. Highly promising, called up to the majors within four years. Then Tommy John surgery—gone from the league after one year. The reason? The same as mine.
“Post-surgery, no pain. I could throw harder. Then speed vanished—just like Park.”
Oliver spoke calmly, but I imagined the frustration and pain. I had felt it too.
In silence, James finally spoke:
“…Wow. Oliver, I had no idea. Sorry.”
“I hadn’t told anyone. Anyway, here’s the point. Why I can be confident Park’s speed can return? Because mine did.”
“Really?”
“Yes. Nothing changed, yet suddenly—speed returned. Like a miracle. I was scared, though.”
“…Scared it would vanish again?”
Oliver smiled.
“Yes. I wouldn’t have endured it again, so I ran from the mound. Then I began studying this phenomenon.”
I understood completely. If my speed returned and vanished again for no reason, could I endure it?
“Still, I made progress. That got me here, and I developed a strong hypothesis. Problem was, no player existed to test it… until now.”
Oliver looked at me intensely.
“I never imagined such a player would exist on the other side of the world.”
“Oliver, what’s the hypothesis?”
“You seem more impatient than Park,” he said.
James gave a sheepish smile.
“His four-seam was perfect on video. Seeing it in real life is thrilling. Oliver, so what’s the method?”
“Simple. Trick the brain.”
Simple? Nothing simple has ever seemed simple. How do you trick the brain?
“Basically, throw softly. Avoid straining the elbow, but execute the rest perfectly. Park, when your speed dropped, you tried harder, right?”
“Yes…”
“The more you strained, the worse it got. Think of our method as the opposite—train the brain to know throwing doesn’t hurt.”
“Relax at the last moment?”
“If that worked, great—but mostly impossible. Most pitches still stress the elbow. Only one pitch makes it possible.”
Oliver pulled a ball from his pocket, held it, and extended it toward me.
I knew the grip. But I had never thrown it.
“…Knuckleball.”