Chapter 9
Chapter 9
A cool breeze blew across the field.
It was a little chilly, but thanks to the heat coursing through my body and the high sun above, it felt pleasantly refreshing.
Even so, from the moment I stepped out of the bullpen, the pounding in my chest didn’t ease at all.
It wasn’t even my first outing, yet I felt nervous.
No, in a way, it was like my first.
I was about to throw a pitch in a real game that I had never thrown before.
And this was outdoors.
A breeze that felt gentle to others could become a storm for me.
But there was one emotion stronger than that.
Honestly, my fingers itched.
I wanted to throw the ball as soon as possible. I wanted to test immediately how my pitch would behave, how it would hit the zone.
After finishing my warm-up throws, as my heart started to settle, a batter whose name and face I didn’t know stepped up to the plate.
I had no idea of this batter’s skill, what pitches he preferred, or which zones he dominated or struggled with.
But he did know.
He knew I was throwing a knuckleball.
Maybe I was at a disadvantage.
But after my injury, I had never once faced a matchup that was truly in my favor.
And this was no different.
Play ball!
I just had to throw my pitch.
The ball left my hand, and the red stitching was clearly visible.
It meant the ball would move in ways even I couldn’t predict.
It floated toward the center of the strike zone, teasing the batter like a street hustler stirring the crowd.
When the batter moved, the pitch finally revealed its true nature.
-Whap!
Strike!
The ball landed just outside the batter’s knee.
Even if I had thrown the first pitch with full force, the difference from the bat’s path was massive.
A sharp thrill ran through my whole body.
How long had it been since a batter swung and missed at my pitch?
But I couldn’t relax yet.
If it had been a straight pitch, that batter would already be rounding the bases toward home.
I got the ball back and prepared for the second pitch.
No signs were needed.
I could only throw a knuckleball anyway.
Second pitch, trusting Song Min-seok, I pushed the ball toward his mitt again.
Strike!
Again, the batter swung and missed at the wildly moving ball, but Song Min-seok missed it and it rolled back.
If it had been a strikeout or if runners were on base, it could have been dangerous.
But there was no need to worry about what hadn’t happened.
Trust the catcher.
Third pitch, I felt it as soon as it left my hand.
This time, instead of a big dropping curve, it slipped into the zone like a changeup, subtly moving yet threatening.
The result:
-Whap!
Strikeout!
Three swings, three strikes.
The unknown batter looked at me in disbelief.
Well, if I were him, swinging and missing three times at a ball under 70 mph, I’d react the same.
The second batter was a lefty.
Strikeout!
But the result was the same.
Unlike the first batter, he watched carefully, but when a mis-thrown ball entered, he was forced into a swing he couldn’t handle.
And later, when the count was tight, the knuckleball struck again for a strikeout.
The stadium fell silent.
But when a batter appeared from the opposing dugout, the crowd instantly erupted.
“Eden! Eden! Eden! Eden!”
The one who shared my locker.
I didn’t know who he was, but he was the only one to draw such a reaction among the players today.
The batter named Eden stepped up to the plate.
I didn’t know how good he was.
But from the moment he stepped into the batter’s box, it felt completely full.
I’d felt this before.
Facing a batter who could dominate the league.
I didn’t know if it was fear from the unknown or instinct as a pitcher.
I steadied myself, recalling David’s advice.
Clear your mind. Whether the batter before you hits 60 home runs or zero, it’s the same. If you throw your pitch, no one can hit it. If you fail, anyone could be a slugger.
No force, no weakness.
Repeat the same motion under any situation, against any batter.
And accept whatever result follows.
The ball left my hand.
-Wham!
With a deafening sound, it vanished beyond the fence.
Foul!
The players and spectators froze for a moment at that call.
It had just been a matter of course; it would have been a home run on contact.
As expected of Eden.
The unfamiliar Asian pitcher on the mound had thrown a shockingly good knuckleball, but the opponent was Eden Kelly.
Currently the most talented player in the Major Leagues.
Everyone watching assumed Eden could produce any result he wanted.
And seeing him pick out the 2nd pitch that missed the zone confirmed that belief.
At this moment, Eden was the star of the stage.
I on the mound was just a device, perfectly set for Eden’s batting.
“Eden! Eden! Eden! Eden!”
Among the one-sided cheers, a few still supported me.
“He’s a monster. How can he take that trajectory?”
“Siwoo’s pitch was great. If he throws it again, he can’t miss.”
“Can Siwoo throw it again?”
David, Oliver, and James.
At James’ question, a brief silence fell among them.
Meanwhile, my third pitch began.
Ball!
Right on the boundary of the strike zone.
The umpire called it, and Eden got a ball. Count 2-1.
“Siwoo, please.”
Even at James’ silent prayer, the fourth pitch went wild.
3-1. Count against the batter.
Anyone could see that I was on the edge.
Strike!
For the first time, I won the duel.
Eden swung and missed, and I caught my breath.
But anyone who knew Eden would realize the real battle was just beginning.
The more home runs a batter hits, the lower his average, and the more strikeouts.
A slugger’s fate.
The more you chase home runs, the more vulnerable you are to breaking pitches.
But Eden maintained a high average despite over 30 home runs.
On a 20-80 scale, his best ability—contact.
-Wham!
Right after joining, he scored 70+, after call-up 80+ for contact—the best in the Major Leagues.
With incredible bat control, he cut the ball perfectly and stepped out of the box briefly.
Crazy. He hit even that?
More fun than expected. Huh, just one more at-bat.
While Eden and I exchanged glances, the stadium grew hotter.
Even now, I had no idea where to throw.
It seemed impossible to get Eden out with any pitch.
But even when I lost velocity, when countless balls flew over his head, when I thought there was no place for me on the mound anymore,
I gripped the ball again.
72 mph, 116 km/h.
‘A mistake.’
Eden instinctively noticed this pitch was faster than before.
Others might not realize it, but for a knuckleballer, this was proof of a mis-thrown pitch.
Following the trajectory visible only to Eden, his bat moved with destructive force.
But about five meters from home plate, the ball suddenly lost stability.
It’s dropping.
Eden bent his knees, trying to catch the trajectory, but all he felt on the bat was emptiness slicing through the air.
Strikeout!
The umpire’s call drew a range of reactions from the crowd—shock, disbelief, thrill, excitement.
But soon, everyone had the same reaction.
“Wooooooah!”
Applause and cheers for the unknown Asian pitcher.
They genuinely supported Eden, but everyone present loved baseball.
And the duel just now reminded them of a moment they had long forgotten.
Once, pitchers who barely threw 70 mph ruled the league.
They had many names, but were sometimes called one.
Knuckleballers.
After R.A. Dickey, knuckleballers had disappeared.
Now one had returned, striking out Eden Kelly.
Even if Eden wasn’t at his best, those watching recognized the skill.
And receiving their cheers, I, Park Siwoo, removed my cap, bowed, and walked into the dugout.
The dugout was equally excited.
“@#$$@!!@$”
In the excitement, words I couldn’t understand poured over me, and I, in a dazed expression, enjoyed the welcome.
“Well, even in a charity game, losing like this isn’t fun. Batter, are you ready to make the pitcher who struck out Eden the winning pitcher?”
A temporary team of coach, players, and manager, but at that moment, united.
Watching the ball carefully, never missing a mis-thrown pitch.
Even if slightly lacking in skill, a united team is strong.
With two outs and bases loaded,
-Wham!
A double that brought in all the runners ignited the dugout.
Park Siwoo and Song Min-seok jumped in joy, enjoying the moment.
-Wham!
Out!
In the top of the 9th, the last batter popped up normally, and the charity game ended.
Score: 5-4.
The winning pitcher was Park Siwoo.
“Here, catch this.”
Can I catch it?
“Yes. No one else, and it was Eden. You deserve it.”
I silently stared at the ball in my hand, the final out I had longed for.
My first win.
Though not an official game, facing only three batters, it was memorable.
“Hey, bro.”
Eden Kelly approached me.
“Thanks. That was a fun experience.”
“Me too.”
“If you throw pitches like that, it can only be fun. Especially that last pitch. Even now, I have no idea how to hit it.”
“I got lucky.”
“For a knuckleballer, that’s the highest compliment, isn’t it? Anyway, let’s meet in the big leagues soon.”
Then I realized Eden didn’t even know who I was.
“Well, that’s hard. I play in another league.”
Eden sighed in disappointment.
“What? At least seven years? That’s too long.”
“That’s for others. It’ll probably take me a while. I might not even be qualified yet.”
Eden’s expression subtly changed.
“Bro, you should first have confidence in your pitch. It was perfect. Oh, here’s my SNS, can you follow me? I’ll follow you too.”
“This… really?”
“Oh, this? Last year’s Silver Slugger, All-Star photos, Rookie of the Year from my first season.”
Finally, I understood what kind of batter I faced and why people reacted that way.
I smiled wryly and gave my SNS.
“Siwoo, nice name. Let’s keep in touch.”
Until then, I thought this connection would just pass.
“Hey, Siwoo. You’re here?”
“Eden?”
The next day, after learning from the game, checking data, and my condition, Eden Kelly welcomed me, and I was surprised.
“Siwoo, Eden says he’ll help if needed.”
“I heard you’ve only been learning the knuckleball for a month? Well, if I’d ever seen a knuckleball, I could hit it. Except the last pitch. That was perfect. But you can’t throw it freely, right? I’ll help.”
Oliver added,
“Eden is a player who will lead the Major Leagues. Listening to what he notices at the plate will teach you a lot.”
I now knew who Eden was.
I had checked after the game.
The question was why he would want to help me.
His answer was simple.
“To get revenge, I need to meet you in the big leagues as soon as possible.”
A simple, yet ruthless reason.
But it wasn’t a reason to refuse.
“Thanks. Let’s do this.”
As my knuckleball gradually improved with the help of many, news of me slowly reached Korea.