Chapter 8
Chapter 8
The last bit of luck.
That was what David’s words struck me the most.
At the same time, I understood why David and Oliver didn’t get along.
I wasn’t learning casually either, but I felt embarrassed.
Now, though, there was no time for regret.
I stepped onto the mound with the ball David had placed in my hand.
“Keep your form as comfortable as possible. Just stay consistent. Aim for the center first.”
Following his instructions, I threw toward the center.
The spin was visibly low, and the ball fluttered in the air before dropping sharply.
“66 mph, 157 rpm. Good.”
Maybe it was the effect of trimmed nails; gripping the ball felt easier than usual.
After a few throws, David nodded approvingly.
“Good. Now let’s throw to a catcher.”
Suddenly, the training center went quiet.
“…There’s no catcher?”
“Yes. There are almost no pitchers throwing knuckleballs these days.”
Technically, there was a catcher—but no one who could catch a knuckleball.
For the past week, several catchers from the center had attempted to receive it, and all had failed miserably.
Gradually, they began avoiding it entirely.
Even if Oliver asked them, it didn’t mean they could actually catch the ball.
David nodded when he heard the situation.
“If the catcher can’t catch it, it’s better not to have one. Shame, though.”
Now I understood why knuckleballers had vanished.
Even if someone could miraculously throw a knuckleball, there was no one left to catch it.
Just as I was about to continue throwing, someone entered the training hall.
“Oh, Si-woo. Coming soon?”
“No, I was taking a break. Why?”
Senior Song Min-seok had arrived, carrying some gear.
“I’m heading out of the center today. Came to say hi to you and James. Haha, feels just like getting discharged from the military.”
Oliver and James exchanged glances.
“Song, can we talk for a moment?”
With a brief conversation aided by an interpreter, Song opened his suitcase.
Inside were catcher’s gear and his familiar hockey-style mask.
“You sure about this?”
“Yeah. It’s just one time anyway. No catcher, right? I’m here to help. Shall we start?”
“Oh, use this mitt.”
Oliver handed over a softball mitt about 1.5 times larger than a standard one.
“Wow, haven’t used something like this since elementary school.”
Song adjusted the gear and nodded, ready to catch.
“The catcher’s ready.”
I climbed back onto the mound.
“Senior, I’ll just throw toward the center. I don’t even know where it’ll go myself.”
“That’s fine. Just throw.”
He held the mitt wide, confident.
I got into position and threw toward it.
“…Nice ball!”
His instinctive shout made my face flush.
“Speed was 69 mph, RPM 791.”
According to James, that was a perfect batting ball.
That’s the knuckleball.
A mistake is a long hit, but it must stay in the strike zone.
If a batter has a chance to get on base just by standing still, the pitcher is already defeated.
The thought made me catch my breath.
David’s voice cut through.
“Trust your catcher. For a knuckleballer, the catcher is more reliable than any pitcher.”
“…Yes.”
Faces of previous catchers flashed through my mind.
They’d let balls slip, go off to the side.
Song would probably struggle too.
But I had to throw.
As the ball left my hand, the seams blurred, and drastic movement followed.
The ball hit Song’s body instead of the mitt and fell just in front of home plate.
“Wow… what the hell is this?”
Even Song couldn’t handle the extreme movement of a knuckleball in one try.
But unlike others, he didn’t give up.
“Again. This time I’ll try catching it. Throw the same. Well, you can’t do the same, huh? Just throw anyway.”
His eyes blazing, he held the mitt again.
I gripped another ball.
Failed.
Again.
Again.
Belly, shoulders, side, even the mask.
The ball finally stopped after hitting everything except his arms.
After nearly ten throws, Song finally snagged the ball at the edge of the mitt.
“Si-woo! You saw that!? Caught it properly! Okay! Again!”
I realized once more that throwing to a catcher is far more satisfying than throwing at a wall.
“Impressive.”
David’s muttered words carried two meanings.
One was Si-woo’s knuckleball.
The control and movement after just a week of training matched the videos Oliver had sent.
But the second reason David was impressed?
Consistency.
Even after Song missed, Si-woo immediately regained focus.
‘The most essential talent for a knuckleballer.’
It may seem ironic, but a knuckleballer must always throw the same ball.
Anytime, anywhere, under any conditions.
Even experienced pitchers struggle with this.
Especially when the catcher falters.
Thinking the catcher can’t catch it unsettles the pitcher, causing the knuckleball to lose its characteristic movement.
But Si-woo threw it again immediately.
Even in practice, not a real game, it was a positive moment.
The second thing that impressed David? Song Min-seok.
For a knuckleballer, the catcher is everything.
Why so many essentials? Because that’s why knuckleballers disappeared.
A proper pitcher is rare, and the requirements for a catcher are extreme.
Having a catcher like Song was a huge blessing.
Positive, daring, and skilled.
‘Lucky.’
Such a catcher happened to be by Si-woo’s side.
But there was one problem.
Song was soon returning to Korea.
Just when Si-woo finally had a catcher, tomorrow he’d be back to throwing at a wall.
“I’ll handle that,” Oliver said confidently—and he did.
“…Senior?”
The next day, Si-woo saw Song, who should’ve been back in Korea.
“Uh… this?”
Mask on, mitt on left hand.
“Oh, tried it yesterday and it was a bit uncomfortable. Gotta wear it until I get used to it.”
“You… didn’t go to Korea?”
“No. Oliver told me, and there was some event here. I got selected, so I can stay one more month. Haha, isn’t that awesome?”
“…I see. But didn’t you want to go? You even said you’d pay to go.”
“Sure, I wanted to. But I know what’s important now.”
Through the mask, Si-woo met Song’s intense gaze.
“You’ve been secretly preparing, huh? That’s why you asked me to keep it quiet. Now I get it—nobody would hit it. You’ll play in the first team, need a catcher, and I’ll be right there. How’s that?”
“…Yes. Pretty much.”
Si-woo didn’t tell the full truth: the knuckleball was for rehab, and whether he’d pitch in Korea was undecided.
“Okay! Let’s do it! I’ll catch all your balls!”
Si-woo felt less burdened because Song, with James’ help, was preparing properly for the next season.
“Nice ball!”
As Song gradually adapted to Si-woo’s knuckleball, Oliver made a suggestion.
“Si-woo. Do you want to try throwing the knuckleball in a real game?”
At the Arizona Tread Athletics Baseball Center, a major year-end event took place: a charity game among players, with proceeds donated.
Many players participated, and it was a well-meaning, annual tradition.
Si-woo scratched his head.
“Can I participate?”
“Yes. Any center player can join. You might not throw well, but it’s a chance to gain experience and data.”
“Getting real game experience isn’t bad.”
David approved as well, though one concern remained.
“I’d rather it not be known in Korea that I’m throwing a knuckleball.”
“That’s fine. Only you and Min-seok are Korean here, and it’s not being broadcast.”
Si-woo finally nodded.
‘I want to try it in a real game.’
Throwing was fun, but he wanted to test it.
“Yes. Alright.”
Thus, Si-woo and Song’s participation in the charity game was confirmed.
December 23, two days before Christmas.
The center was bustling with the charity game.
What started due to a few past players had now become a tradition.
Since the center specialized in player care, injury prevention was strictly enforced.
Si-woo’s condition was no exception.
“How’s your condition?”
“Good. Just a little nervous to get on the real mound again.”
“We won’t throw much. At most, three batters, maybe 20 pitches, then I’ll swap you out.”
“That’s plenty.”
“Good. See you later.”
Oliver left to check other players. Si-woo went with Song to the locker room.
Players glanced at them but quickly looked away, knowing who they were.
“Looks like there’s an empty spot?”
As they unpacked, the door opened again.
This time, all eyes fixed on one incoming player.
“Eden?”
“Eden’s playing today?”
Most players were minor leaguers, even in the charity game.
Even major leaguers were usually bench players.
But Eden Kelly was different.
Called up to the majors in his second year, securing a starting spot instantly. Last year, as a third-year, he had been an All-Star and Rookie of the Year.
Even in a charity game, his presence caused a stir.
Eden casually scanned for an empty spot—right next to Si-woo.
“Bro. Mind if I sit here?”
“If it’s empty, sure.”
“Thanks.”
Others watched every move, but Si-woo and Song stayed calm.
They didn’t know who Eden was.
“Where are you from? Korea?”
“Yeah.”
“Hi. Learned this before, right? Sounds correct?”
“Good pronunciation.”
While chatting, Eden asked, “What’s your position?”
“Pitcher.”
“Lefty? What do you throw?”
Si-woo hesitated briefly.
Eden chuckled.
“If you don’t want to say, it’s fine. We’ll see during the game. Didn’t expect you could check runners already. Bro, maybe we’ll be on the same team.”
Eden misjudged, but Si-woo didn’t correct him.
Instead, he asked something.
“If we’re in the same locker room, doesn’t that mean same team?”
“Maybe they balance teams even in charity games. First time for me too. Oops, gotta go for a test. See you later, bro. Hopefully same team.”
After Eden left, all eyes returned to Si-woo.
But he didn’t notice, caught up in excitement about pitching.
On the field, he waved back at Eden across the dugout.
Fans entered, and after opening events, the game began.
Both Si-woo and Eden started in the dugout.
In the first inning, starting pitchers for both teams allowed no runs, but in the top of the second, Si-woo’s team pitcher faltered.
Even as an AA league pitcher, it was the offseason; batters had the advantage.
The game remained quiet due to its charity nature.
By the top of the fifth inning, commotion rose.
“Eden’s getting ready?”
For Eden, still at the end of rehab, there was only one at-bat.
And he could choose his opponent.
Similarly, Si-woo went to the bullpen with Song.
Oliver and David watched closely and nodded.
In the top of the sixth inning, both pitcher and catcher were changed.
The Korean battery.
A rare sight at the center, all eyes were on them.
As Si-woo threw a warm-up pitch,
“Knuckleball?”
The excitement intensified.
Eden paused and stared at Si-woo.
A nearly extinct pitch.
But Si-woo’s knuckleball looked remarkably refined.
As he threw his first pitch to the batter, Eden grinned and sought the interim coach.
“I’ll go in this inning.”