Chapter 7
Chapter 7
Watching Pak Si-woo pitch, Oliver felt an emotion he hadn’t felt in a long time.
Jealousy.
‘I had forgotten for a moment.’
The world is made up of geniuses’ unfair advantages and the jealousy of ordinary people who watch them.
Baseball, especially, was like that.
Someone could throw a pitch in one attempt that others couldn’t master after thousands of tries.
But Oliver wasn’t there as a baseball player. He was Oliver White, the trainer, there to help Pak Si-woo.
“Si-woo, try throwing again.”
One pitch could be a fluke.
So Oliver hid his emotions as he spoke.
Si-woo nodded and stepped up for the next throw.
His form was still awkward, not fully adjusted, but the result was devastating.
When describing the trajectory of a knuckleball, people often say it’s like a drunk butterfly.
Even the pitcher doesn’t know where it will go.
That’s exactly what Si-woo’s pitch did.
This time, the trajectory seemed slightly more consistent than the first, but it still wobbled unpredictably from side to side all the way to the plate.
‘This is the knuckleball.’
If you throw a hundred pitches, each one follows a different path.
That was exactly what was happening now.
Sometimes deeper than a forkball, sometimes sharper than a slider.
Of course, since it was his first time, many of the pitches were flat and unimpressive.
But the frequency of those mistakes decreased over time.
Oliver, who had been observing carefully, swallowed hard.
‘The ball is getting faster.’
The first pitch had been 63 mph, barely over 100 km/h, but now it exceeded 65 mph.
It meant he was getting used to it in real time.
Both the pitcher throwing the ball and the trainer watching it were captivated by the moment.
Then James interrupted them.
“Si-woo, what was that just now?”
James, coming after finishing his own work, had been shocked by the knuckleball and called Si-woo over.
“Oh, you’re here?”
Si-woo finally stopped pitching and looked at them.
“How was it?”
“…Is that supposed to be a question?”
Si-woo gave an awkward smile, uncertain of Oliver’s tone.
“I just wanted to ask. I’ve never actually seen a knuckleball before.”
“It looked more like a knuckleball than any I’ve ever seen.”
That was the most thrilling compliment Si-woo had heard in a long time.
But Oliver remained rational.
“It’s only been one day. Tomorrow might bring different results. And remember, Si-woo, this is rehabilitation.”
“Yes. I know.”
Rehabilitation to regain his velocity.
The knuckleball existed only for that purpose.
“You threw more than I expected today, so let’s first check your condition. James, I’ll go ahead. Take a short break, then join me.”
Oliver left, but my mind was buzzing the entire way.
‘A knuckleball is easy for a beginner. But Si-woo’s knuckleball is different.’
If anyone else had seen it, Oliver might have recommended switching to a knuckleball immediately.
But Oliver had experienced firsthand how harsh the path of a knuckleballer could be.
And Si-woo already had everything: performance, willpower, and talent.
‘Once his velocity returns, Si-woo will be an incredible pitcher.’
No one could even imagine what kind of pitcher he’d become after successful rehabilitation.
Still, Oliver let out a quiet sigh as he watched Si-woo’s knuckleball improve visibly with each throw.
“Let’s call it a day.”
“Yes.”
Si-woo looked disappointed, and Oliver spoke.
“Rehabilitation is going smoothly. The stimulus to your elbow is less than I expected. If things continue like this, the results will be good.”
“Really?”
“Yes. But that’s assuming you maintain this intensity. I can’t guarantee what happens if we push beyond this.”
After nearly twenty years, he was working with a patient experiencing the same symptoms he had.
If his hypothesis proved correct, he would be recognized as an outstanding trainer and researcher.
That’s partly why he was helping Si-woo.
Conservatively, safely.
Scientifically correct.
But the baseball player inside Oliver stirred.
‘Does Si-woo even want this?’
He saw the joy on Si-woo’s face as he pitched and the regret when told to stop.
Seeing that, Oliver spoke almost instinctively.
“But if we manage it systematically and check your condition, you could even pitch in games with the knuckleball—while rehabilitating.”
“Really?”
He realized too late he’d said too much.
“Yes. I’ve been throwing knuckleballs consistently myself. But I’m still not enough.”
Oliver raised three fingers toward Si-woo.
“I told you, you need three kinds of luck to throw a knuckleball. Congratulations, Si-woo. You already have one. Your talent is amazing. But you still need two more.”
Si-woo had the talent.
What he lacked were someone to help with the knuckleball and the sky’s permission.
Even if the last one couldn’t be helped, a knuckleball is nearly impossible to master alone.
He was throwing well now, but in a real game, who knew what variables would appear?
You need someone to teach you the know-how and a catcher to work with.
“Oliver can teach me, right?”
“No. I’m not enough to be a knuckleballer. But I know someone who is. He’ll probably come right away when he sees your knuckleball. But…”
Oliver trailed off.
“Is it a cost issue?”
“No. It’s me. I had a conflict in my approach to the knuckleball.”
He had been sincere while learning, but later changed his mind.
A ball for rehabilitation.
In the process, he had a falling-out with his master and never contacted him again.
Would that person teach Si-woo, who was throwing a knuckleball for rehab?
“First… I’ll contact him. Don’t get your hopes up too high.”
He wondered if rejection might be better for everyone.
“…It’s been a while, David.”
But his master, David Cole, arrived immediately, making that worry meaningless.
Even after so long, David’s gaze was sharp.
But there was something different—he looked excited.
“Right. So, where’s the pitcher who threw that ball?”
The more Si-woo threw the knuckleball, the more one thought came to mind.
This is fun.
How long had it been since he thought that while pitching?
At least, not since adulthood.
Looking back, after joining the team, he had thrown as if chased.
Anything to get a single win.
Then he got injured, and afterwards, he pitched just to survive on the mound.
But the knuckleball was different.
Throwing it reminded him of his first pitch.
It was fun to throw, and stopping felt disappointing.
He wanted to throw more. To throw better.
So when he heard Oliver’s knuckleball master had arrived, he ran at once.
“I’m Pak Si-woo.”
“David Cole. Nice to meet you.”
Cold first impression.
Even at 187 cm, he had to look up.
And his behavior was unusual.
He extended his left hand.
But it wasn’t a handshake.
His left hand grabbed mine and examined it carefully.
“Tsk. A mess. You just stood there?”
“…As I said, Si-woo is throwing the knuckleball for rehabilitation.”
“And yet your nails are in this state?”
“My nails?”
David clicked his tongue, took something from his pocket, and began meticulously trimming my nails.
I flinched at the shiny, sharp tool, but he handled it expertly.
“Remember, a knuckleballer’s nails are like a pitcher’s elbow. Keep them consistent to throw the same knuckleball.”
It wasn’t the first time I’d had my nails managed, but never by a two-meter-tall, intimidating man.
Yet David’s touch was delicate.
“Much better. Keep them like this.”
“…Thank you.”
“I’ve heard from Oliver. Rehabilitation with a knuckleball? I never thought anyone would follow that foolish hypothesis.”
Despite the hostility in his tone, I wasn’t surprised.
Unlike Oliver, David had devoted his life to mastering the knuckleball.
And now a student was suddenly using it as a rehab tool?
A reasonable reaction.
“David. That’s me—”
“Oliver. Can I speak?”
Oliver gave a small nod.
“Yes. That’s right. I’m learning the knuckleball for rehab. Honestly, I still don’t know if throwing it will really bring back my velocity.”
Oliver said it was a hypothesis.
Unproven, with only him as the sample.
I clung to it because I was desperate.
Even with the luck of the lottery, what I truly wanted was to throw the pitches I used to, even once.
“So I won’t deny learning it. But I won’t throw it carelessly either.”
Throwing a knuckleball, I finally felt the joy of pitching again.
Even if rehab failed and my velocity didn’t return, I would keep throwing the knuckleball.
If that fails too? I’ll still throw, as long as my body allows.
“So I need help. Please teach me to throw the knuckleball.”
“Hm. Seems there’s a misunderstanding. I never said I wouldn’t teach you.”
“…What?”
“Do you know who taught me the knuckleball? Phil Niekro. He attached only one condition: teach anyone who wants to learn it without any conditions.”
…Ah.
“I’ve lived by his will, and I’ll do the same for you, no matter your reason for learning.”
My face felt hot.
“That’s a lot of passion. Good. Then I’ll ask one question: do you think you’re lucky?”
Luck.
An inseparable part of my life.
I could have answered immediately in the past.
My life had been nothing but misfortune.
As a child, I never imagined this life.
I thought I was the protagonist of the world.
But as an adult, everything changed.
I lost my pride, my velocity, and everything collapsed.
It was as if velocity, not me, had been the protagonist.
Then I was traded, almost kicked out of the team.
But now? Everything’s been going well, even winning the lottery.
And since I’m throwing the knuckleball, I guess I should call it luck.
Oliver had said it required three kinds of luck.
But I spoke honestly.
“…No. Even if I’ve had some luck recently, I’m not lucky.”
“Good.”
“Eh?”
“Good. People usually think knuckleballs are thrown only with luck. But most who throw them have no other options. Were they really lucky?”
David approached, holding a ball.
“Most knuckleballers are players struggling at the bottom of baseball. They hope one last bit of luck brings them back to the field. So…”
He placed the ball in my left hand.
“Show me your last bit of luck.”