Spring Training (4)
Following the intra-squad scrimmage, a woman holding a video camera approached our trio of developmental players. Media team?
"Hello! Do you have a moment for a quick interview?"
"Uh, are you from the Titans TV production team?"
"Yes, that's right!"
Gihyun-hyung, having prior professional experience under his belt, stepped forward as our representative. It seemed to be the club's official YouTube content crew.
"All three of you put on quite a show in today's game. To start off, could each of you introduce yourselves for the fans?"
"Ah, I'm Chae Gihyun... and I'm a pitcher."
"I'm Choi Kanghyuk."
"Yoo Seonghyun."
"Aww, come on, guys! If you do it like that, I can't use any of this footage! You've got to really sell yourselves!"
Can't we just sell ourselves through our play on the field? Flustered by the sudden demand, Gihyun-hyung darted his eyes toward the two of us, but Kanghyuk-hyung and I coolly ignored his plea.
Hey, when it comes to things like this, the oldest guy should naturally take point. Mhm.
"All three of you were signed as developmental players through the winter open tryouts, correct?"
"Yes, that's right. I'm a pitcher, and these younger guys next to me are position players."
Once Gihyun-hyung and Kanghyuk-hyung finished their brief remarks, the staff member turned the lens directly on me.
"Hello, Player Yoo Seonghyun!"
"Hello."
"You're remarkably tall!"
"I get that a lot."
Over the course of spring training, I had grown another centimeter. I now stood at 198 centimeters tall. Seriously, body, stop growing already... She lobbed a few more routine questions my way, which I answered plainly, and by that evening, the clip had already been edited and uploaded to Titans TV on YouTube.
The view count hovered around twenty-five thousand. Compared to the channel's other videos, it was a noticeably modest number. Naturally, that was to be expected—we weren't franchise cornerstones or hyped first-round draft picks, just walk-on developmental players.
Yet Kanghyuk-hyung, who had never tasted the professional ranks before, seemed deeply moved. He repeatedly refreshed the comment section on his phone, breathlessly relaying the reactions aloud to me.
"Hey, Seonghyun! Someone says you're the perfect fit for the Titans!"
"Well, I suppose that fits."
Titans. Meaning giants. Seeing as I was quite literally a giant, I had no grounds to argue. At this rate, I'd probably keep growing well into next year. Would I eventually break two meters?
"'Stray Cat Trio'? What does that mean?"
"Ah," Gihyun-hyung chimed in. "They call it 'stray cats' on this team? Usually, people just call us 'untouchables' or 'plebeians.'"
"Gihyun-hyung, do you know what it means?"
"It literally means we're from the streets. Because we went undrafted and snuck onto the roster through developmental contracts. Typically, top-round draft picks are treated like nobility, while developmental players are labeled plebeians. But here, they don't even consider us human—we're just stray cats plucked off the asphalt."
"Ah... so it's not a compliment."
"Kanghyuk-hyung," I said flatly. "Instead of wasting time reading comments, you should either get some swings in or go to sleep. Is reading that going to change anything? Play good baseball, and people will stop calling us stray cats."
"Seonghyun's right," Gihyun-hyung agreed. "As long as you perform, the fans will shower you with love."
"...And if we play poorly?"
"Then you become public enemy number one. Back when I gave up three runs in a single inning for the Fighters' first team, the fans told me to quit baseball and go drown myself."
Gihyun-hyung chuckled heartily after saying that. No matter how you looked at him, the guy was a remarkably solid pitcher. His mental fortitude was top-notch.
The following morning, the three of us officially joined the first-team spring training camp.
There was still a long road ahead. Yesterday's home run had simply been capitalizing on a flat, hanging mistake pitch. To consistently launch home runs against legitimate first-team arms, I still needed to condition my body further... Time. There just wasn't enough time.
When we arrived at the main diamond, Jaehun-hyung was the first to greet us.
"Ey, nephew, you made it! Who're these fellas next to ya? Gihyun, right? Thought I ran into ya in a game once."
"Good morning, Jaehun-hyung. Go ahead and introduce yourselves."
"Hello, Sunbaenim! My name is Choi Kanghyuk! By any chance, could I possibly get your autograph?!"
"Sure, sure. Say your hellos first, and I'll sign it for ya later."
"Wait, you remember me?" Gihyun-hyung asked, surprised.
"Course I remember! Didn't I crank a home run off your circle changeup?"
"That was actually a slider..."
"Huh? Really?"
Hwang Jaehun was a classic right-handed pull-hitter with immense raw power. If he turned on a slider like Gihyun-hyung's, sending it into the bleachers was child's play for him.
After paying our respects to the team captain, the three of us naturally huddled back together. It was only natural, really. Three developmental players had suddenly dropped from the sky and joined the first-team camp out of nowhere.
From that very moment, we were direct competitors for active roster spots. Unless someone possessed an ironclad starting role like Hwang Jaehun, they couldn't help but look at us with wary eyes.
"Hey, Papi!"
"Unbelievable. We literally met for the first time yesterday."
"What's the big deal? Anyone who speaks Spanish is Papi! Man, where did you learn your Spanish anyway? You sound like a native!"
Papi. A warm term of endearment used among close friends in Spanish-speaking Venezuela. Alberto was an exuberant, high-spirited fellow, fitting every stereotype of an energetic Latin American import.
Standing in the high 180-centimeter range, Alberto sported the bronzed complexion characteristic of a mestizo, alongside a thick, full beard. Standing right beside him was another player I already recognized.
Last season: a batting average of .347, an on-base percentage of .401, a slugging percentage of .512, and an OPS of .913. A foreign slugger who had captured the league's hit crown by racking up two hundred hits—Raul Ruiz.
When I first signed with the Busan Titans, I looked up the first-team regulars just to know the lay of the land. Last season, amidst a devastating plague of injuries that turned the clubhouse into a hospital ward, only Hwang Jaehun and Ruiz had played full-time to carry the entire offense on their backs.
He was a player etched in my past memories as well. Originally, he had been a true five-tool talent whose blistering speed allowed him to patrol center field.
However, after an ACL reconstruction and severe hamstring tears completely robbed him of his wheels, he faded out of Major League Baseball. To think he was playing ball here in Korea.
His contact ability was something even the Majors had acknowledged. His only minor drawback was an exceptionally expansive strike zone, which kept his walk counts low and narrowed the gap between his batting average and on-base percentage. But paired with the raw pop generated from his massive frame, he had still managed to belt twenty home runs last year.
Even if his home run tallies weren't astronomical, he was the quintessential hitter who racked up base knocks and reached base relentlessly.
Aside from his stature, what he shared most in common with me was that he was a switch-hitter. Latin American players often pursued switch-hitting in hopes of commanding slightly higher contracts.
Typically, if there's a stark disparity between left- and right-handed splits, there's little point in remaining a switch-hitter, yet Ruiz produced nearly identical numbers from both sides of the plate. The only difference was a slightly lower home run count from the right-hand box.
"Are you the Papi Alberto mentioned? Pleasure to meet you. I'm Raul Ruiz."
"I'm Yoo Seonghyun. Call me whatever's comfortable. 'Yoo' works fine."
Is he subtly shy? Ruiz greeted me in a quiet, reserved voice. It wasn't really my place to talk, but for a man of his size, his demeanor was surprisingly timid.
"Are you two from the same country?"
"Oh, Papi! Spot on. We're both from Venezuela," Alberto chimed in.
"Cut the 'Papi' nonsense and go practice, will you?"
Alberto grinned broadly at my dry remark. His cheekiness was truly world-class.
"Your swing yesterday looked fantastic," Ruiz said, his curiosity piqued. "Are you a switch-hitter as well?"
"Yeah, that's right."
"But your mechanics looked completely different from each side. Is there a specific reason?"
"Well... it's a bit of a long story..."
Contrary to his gentle exterior, Ruiz's eyes lit up the moment the topic turned to hitting mechanics. One way or another, the man was deeply serious about the craft.
The most immediate difference upon arriving at first-team camp was the direct involvement of the manager and coaching staff. It was completely unlike the second-team manager and hitting coach, who had largely observed my workouts in silence from a distance.
"You're Yoo Seonghyun, correct?"
"Yes, sir."
"Looking forward to working with you. I'm Manager Park Taeseok."
Park Taeseok. A rebuilding specialist renowned for uncovering raw position players and managing the clubhouse. While he maintained sensible bullpen usage and player management, he had a notorious reputation for misjudging high-leverage moments during critical junctures... or so TreeWiki claimed.
He was in the final year of a three-year contract. In his previous two seasons, the team had finished dead last in tenth place back-to-back. However, his first year had been treated as a transitional phase following veteran retirements and an influx of rookies, and last year had been completely derailed by the injury wave.
Because there were legitimate mitigating factors, the front office had let the consecutive cellar finishes slide. Nonetheless, the prevailing consensus was that failing to reach the postseason this year would make a contract extension impossible.
"So you're here. Long time no see. I'm Bench Coach Kim Jinyoung."
"Ah, hello, Coach."
The coach who had exchanged sharp words with me during the open tryout stood right beside the manager. Considering he had personally urged the front office to grant me a signing bonus, he didn't seem like a bad person at heart. Turns out he was the bench coach.
Another notable detail was that the first-team pitching coach was Japanese, while the first-team hitting coach was a foreigner. Judging by his English and Caucasian features, he appeared to be American.
"Hey, Yoo. Let's run a quick check on your swing balance."
The interpreter beside him started to translate into Korean, but I raised a hand to wave him off.
"Ah, no need to interpret. I can speak English."
"Oh, Yoo! That accent sounds native. You from the States?"
"One hundred percent pure Korean."
"With that build?"
The hitting coach chuckled warmly. He had a genuinely genial impression, complete with a hefty belly that looked like it would make a satisfying target for a punch. He led me over to an indoor facility designated as the batting lab.
Oh, hey, this is an Edgertronic.
An ultra-high-speed camera capable of capturing hundreds to tens of thousands of frames per second in high-definition slow motion. It was widely utilized by both pitchers and hitters for granular mechanical adjustments.
Kershaw, Verlander, Scherzer, Greinke. In Korea, they were often grouped together as 'Ker-Ver-Scher-Grein'—legendary aces who defined an entire era. Among them, Justin Verlander's famous use of this very camera to overhaul his slider mechanics was a well-known piece of baseball lore.
In addition to that, the lab was outfitted with an array of state-of-the-art equipment straight out of Major League Baseball. Following the Traject Arc came the Edgertronic and Swing Catalyst. I had thought the second-team facilities were decent, but the first team operated on an entirely different level.
"You're a switch-hitter, right? Let's take ten swings from the left, then ten from the right."
"Got it."
Once the swings concluded, the coach reviewed the high-speed footage and delivered his analysis.
"Yoo, when you swing from the right side, your front shoulder flies open a fraction too early. Would you be open to trying a two-part swing mechanic?"
"A two-part motion?"
"Drop the back elbow into the slot first, and then follow through with the shoulders and arms. Think of it as separating the sequence into distinct beats."
Hmm, something like this? Dropping the elbow into the hitting slot first before allowing the shoulder to rotate open?
"Nice, that looks good. Let's take ten more swings like that. Of course, if it feels unnatural or uncomfortable, we can explore other options."
"It's fine. Doesn't feel uncomfortable at all."
"Damn, Yoo. I'm really liking your attitude."
He was a solid coach. He knew how to leverage modern technology, and rather than forcing his dogmatic beliefs onto players, he provided options and fostered collaboration.
To finish dead last despite having equipment and coaches of this caliber... what on earth had the Titans been doing all this time?