Honey-Glazed Bread
Twelve exhibition games were officially in the books. My numbers? While hardly satisfying by my own standards, they were at least presentable.
Batting average .400, on-base percentage .500, slugging percentage .750, OPS 1.250. Zero strikeouts, five home runs, eleven doubles, and seven walks.
I posted a higher slugging percentage from the left batter's box and a higher on-base percentage from the right, balancing out to virtually identical OPS figures on both sides. Even if it was just a small sample size, it was more than enough of a commanding stat line to permanently imprint my name on KBO fans across the country.
Then came Saturday, Opening Day for the KBO first team. Because league regulations barred developmental players from the active roster until June, I began my regular season down with the reserves.
From my perspective, it was a massive relief. My body was far from game-ready, and attempting to grind through a full professional season in this condition would have been reckless.
I had to build as much functional strength as humanly possible over the next two months. Truthfully, two months was nowhere near enough time, but given the relatively forgiving pacing of the KBO, it seemed manageable enough to survive.
A Major League schedule was outright homicidal by comparison. A regular season alone spanned 162 games, and a team like the Philadelphia Phillies racked up nearly fifty thousand kilometers in travel distance across a single year.
Unlike the KBO, where Mondays were universally reserved as off-days, MLB teams routinely played ten consecutive games without a break, all while constantly adjusting to subtle jet lag across multiple time zones.
Compared to that meat grinder, this league was a walk in the park. People said the Titans had the heaviest travel burden in Korea, yet their total seasonal travel didn't even reach ten thousand kilometers.
"Why on earth are you still down here?!" a voice roared. "Get your butt up to the first team right now!"
"What are you screaming about?" I replied flatly. "League rules dictate I'm stuck here until May."
"Oh. Really?"
I stared deadpan at Park Jaehyung, silently praying that he would turn his personal volume down by at least ten decibels.
Life in the reserves—or the Futures League, as they called it here—stood in stark contrast to the American system, mainly because the working environment was shockingly luxurious. The training facilities, the meals, and the team dormitories were frankly exceptional.
Even with recent improvements to Minor League pay, a Triple-A salary barely cleared the equivalent of forty million won a year. Double-A and Single-A players earned far less than that, scraping by on pennies.
One might argue that Korean minor league salaries were similar on paper. And they were. But when factor in the cost of living across the United States, the real purchasing power of an American minor leaguer's paycheck plummeted by more than thirty percent.
In my past life, when I was grinding through the minors, I never would have survived until my big-league call-up without Eunha's financial support.
"By the way, are you really okay sitting out today's game?" Jaehyung asked.
"Do I look like you? Instead of wasting breath on useless chatter, shouldn't you be practicing your receiving drills?"
In truth, I had already held a thorough consultation with the second-team manager and coaching staff, mutually agreeing to minimize my game appearances.
I made it abundantly clear that my physical conditioning was incomplete. Furthermore, since the level of pitching in the Futures League hovered roughly around Single-A to Double-A, I told them I would rather face the Traject Arc pitching simulator. Almost every pitcher down here threw four-seam fastballs that topped out in the low 140s—a baseline velocity that offered very little developmental value for my bat.
While the Futures League Opening Day game was currently underway down in Ulsan, I hadn't even been listed on the travel roster. Instead, I stayed behind at the secondary training facility in Gimhae to focus on my strength program. Incidentally, the minor league season had opened about a week earlier than the first team's.
"Are you seriously never going to pitch again?" Jaehyung pressed, eyes gleaming. "Your pitches were insanely heavy, man."
"Hmm. Offer me ten times my current salary, and maybe I'll think about it."
"Well, since we're on the subject, want to throw a few right now? I'll catch for you!"
"Sure. Why not."
If someone genuinely handed me ten times my salary, I would gladly say thank you and join a starting rotation. After all, whether in my past life or this one, I had begun my baseball career on the mound.
In my past life, I fell in love with pitching after watching a specific pitcher's mesmerizing mechanics. In this life... well, Park Jaehyung was responsible for at least half the blame.
"Wait, what?" Jaehyung blinked, stepping back. "You're throwing right-handed?"
"Yeah."
"I know you're ambidextrous, but can you really throw heat from that side too?"
"Starting with a four-seamer. Heads up."
I slipped into the exact mechanics of the man who had inspired me to become a pitcher in the first place. The windup began by driving the left knee up sharply and aggressively, gathering elastic potential energy deep within the core.
From that coiled stance, I twisted my upper body so drastically backward that the batter would catch a full view of the nameplate on my back. Then, extending my stride to over half my total body height, I hammered my lead foot violently into the turf.
Keeping the upper torso tightly torqued, I ensured my left shoulder didn't fly open prematurely. The instant my left cleat planted firmly into the ground, I unleashed the stored rotational energy—snapping my hips forward, arching my back, and whipping my arm through with violent whip-like momentum.
It was a delivery designed to wring out every last ounce of force from the human frame. Needless to say, it was the unmistakable signature delivery of Tim Lincecum.
He had been the very embodiment of the ancient proverb that no flower stays in full bloom forever. Aside from a minor adjustment where I kept my head angled toward third base before snapping it forward at release, the mechanics were built entirely upon his blueprint.
In my past life, I hurled baseballs with this exact motion and earned praise as the second coming of Lincecum. Terrified of suffering the same premature twilight that curtailed his career, I obsessively managed my arm with rigorous icing, meticulous strength routines, and strict conditioning, which allowed me to sustain a long and prolific run on the mound.
Eventually, by my age-thirty season, dead-arm syndrome sapped my peak velocity and forced me to transition into a full-time hitter. But the muscle memory remained eternal.
CRACK!
"Gaaah!"
"It was just a basic four-seamer," I scoffed. "You're struggling with that?"
"Dude... the ball was way too fast!"
Why this guy insisted on playing catcher was completely beyond me. To be blunt, Park Jaehyung was not gifted with exceptional talent. His baseball IQ was far from stellar to begin with.
A catcher was the commanding general of the defense. Yet here was a backstop who struggled with fundamental receiving and lacked consistent blocking technique. Prioritizing offense over defense had its limits, but fundamentally compromising the position was unacceptable.
There was a reason people said baseball was ninety percent pitching. Everything began with the man on the mound. The moment a pitcher lost faith in his catcher, his deliveries inevitably grew timid and leaked over the heart of the plate.
"Stop being such a baby," I said. "How fast could it possibly have been?"
"I'm serious! Out of all the pitchers on the reserve team, Gihyun-hyung's ball was the hardest to handle... but that? That felt even faster than Gihyun-hyung's heat!"
According to Chae Gihyun himself, his four-seam fastball had once touched 148 kilometers per hour. Having joined the organization as a developmental walk-on as well, he was currently building up his velocity while biding his time until June.
"The talent pool down here is truly depressing..." I muttered under my breath.
My body was nowhere near peak condition, which meant that fastball probably sat somewhere in the low 140s. Finding even that overwhelming was a testament to how shallow the talent reserves were.
Then again, that exact deficit was the only reason a guy who hadn't played organized baseball in three years could walk in and sign a developmental contract.
My takeaways from playing through the KBO exhibition schedule boiled down to two clear observations: the league was an uneven mixture of legitimate talents who could hold their own in the majors and fringy players who would get cut from a Single-A roster; and while the hitting was thoroughly respectable, the overall pitching depth fell drastically short.
"Hey, Jaehyung."
"Yeah? What?"
"Have you ever seriously considered converting to pitcher? No matter how I look at it, you have zero aptitude for catching."
"Ha! Yoo Seonghyun, you just haven't recognized my true genius yet. I've improved massively lately, I'll have you know!"
"Fine. Let's head over to the Traject Arc and test that theory. You can comfortably handle a hundred and fifty clicks, right?"
"Uh... well... that might be a bit much..."
What on earth had the Titans scouts seen in this kid to hand him a signing bonus in the draft? It remained one of life's great mysteries.
"Man, this food is ridiculously good," Jaehyung beamed later that afternoon, shoveling rice into his mouth with sheer bliss.
"No kidding," I agreed. "Feels like eating honey-glazed bread every single day."
"Huh? You mean like a sweet hotteok?"
"Forget it. Just eat."
Triple-A teams had recently mandated team meals, but nothing came close to the spread before us. Here, the organization laid out a full-blown buffet. In the American minors, such luxury was completely unfathomable.
People often described the grind of the minor leagues as 'eating bread soaked in tears.' It wasn't an exaggeration. The salary gap between the majors and minors exceeded a factor of ten, and the comprehensive welfare provided to big leaguers defied imagination.
In my previous life, Eunha spent nearly a decade confined to hospital beds, enduring every experimental medication known to modern medicine. The only reason we didn't drown under the notoriously crushing weight of American healthcare bills was the top-tier health insurance provided by Major League Baseball.
The sole reason I had clawed tooth and nail to keep my roster spot in the majors was to pay for Eunha's treatments. By comparison, life in the Titans' reserves felt like biting into warm, honey-glazed pastry.
They paid a reliable monthly salary, provided dormitory housing for anyone who wanted it, and supplied breakfast, lunch, and dinner. For a minor league setup, the hospitality was almost absurdly generous.
"Look who's already eating," a voice called out.
"Oh, Kanghyuk-hyung," Jaehyung chirped. "What took you so long?"
"They told me to try out pilates today, so I spent an hour stretching my hamstrings," Choi Kanghyuk said, pulling out a chair. "Where's Gihyun-hyung?"
"How should I know?" I replied.
"Come on, Seonghyun, you're the youngest of the crew," Kanghyuk chided playfully. "You're supposed to look after your elders."
"Kanghyuk-ah," a calm voice cut in from behind. "I'm not quite old enough to need a babysitter yet."
"Ah, speak of the devil! Have a seat, hyung-nim."
The Stray Cat Trio—the three of us who had walked on together—alongside my high school battery partner Jaehyung. The four of us routinely shared lunch together, and today was no exception.
"Jaehyung," Gihyun asked, sitting down with a loaded tray. "Did I hear right that you're the starting catcher next Monday?"
"Yes, sir! Loud and clear!"
"I heard I might get the nod to pitch on Monday as well. I'm counting on you."
"Leave it to me, hyung-nim!"
"How is he supposed to trust you?" I remarked between bites. "You can't even frame a basic four-seamer."
"Cease this slander right now!" Jaehyung protested, face flushing. "I caught your pitch earlier, didn't I?!"
"*Sigh.*"
"What was that sigh for?!"
As the four of us continued our meal amid the usual bickering, Kanghyuk suddenly paused, his eyes drifting toward the cafeteria television.
"Wait a second. Isn't today Opening Day for the first team?"
"Yeah," Jaehyung answered. "First pitch is at two."
"That means it's about to start, right?"
"Kanghyuk-hyung," I said smoothly, cutting into his train of thought. "Just catch the highlights tonight and go hit the batting cages."
"Come on, man, it's Opening Day..."
"Once you get called up, you're going to have to cover second base. If I were in your shoes, I'd run straight to the infield coach right now and beg him to hit me three hundred fungoes."
"Wow," Kanghyuk chuckled, shaking his head. "Yoo Seonghyun's ruthless personality never takes a day off, does it?"
"Seonghyun-ah... come on, man," Kanghyuk whined with a wry grin. "I'm still your senior, you know."
"Start playing better baseball than me," I replied without missing a beat, "and I'll gladly treat you like an elder."
"Right, so what you're saying is I should just start calling you Seonghyun-hyung from now on, yeah?"