The Baseball Prodigy and the Nation's Little Sister

I gave up baseball when I was around twenty-three.

I still remember that time vividly. How could I not? It was the single most brilliant, dazzling chapter of my life. Everyone survives by feeding on the scraps of their glorious past, and I was no different.

My rookie year in the pros hadn't been bad at all. I carved out a spot in the starting rotation and walked away with Rookie of the Year. The following season went even better.

A batting average of .380 with forty home runs. An ERA hovering in the 1.00s. I tossed over two hundred innings, claimed the strikeout crown, and even belted the championship-winning walk-off home run in the Korean Series. When the season wrapped, my name was naturally etched onto the league MVP trophy.

That was when Major League scouts began swarming every single game I played. Articles flooded the presses, hailing me as the next Shohei Ohtani and guaranteeing my game would translate effortlessly to the American big leagues. Naturally, I believed it too. Honestly, it was confidence backed by cold, hard proof. Not once had I ever imagined that the performance I'd put on display was anywhere near my ceiling.

The problem struck that very winter, right as I was prepping for the upcoming season.

At first, I brushed it off as a simple cold. But soon, even the lightest jog left me gasping for air and swimming in dizziness. When I blacked out cold during weight training, I figured I had just slept poorly the night before. But at the club's urgent insistence, I went in for a thorough hospital screening, where the physician sat across from me in a silence that stretched on and on, unable to open his mouth.

Only then did I realize that something had gone terribly, irrevocably wrong.

"It's hereditary dilated cardiomyopathy."

It was a diagnosis I had never heard in my entire life.

"When will it heal?"

The doctor's face hardened into stone.

"...It would be best if you no longer considered a career as an active athlete."

"Will the rehab... take a long time?"

"It isn't a matter of rehabilitation."

In my daze, I lost count of how many times I asked variations of that exact same question. Naturally, his answer never changed.

No more baseball. No strenuous exercise. Avoid anything that puts strain on the heart at all costs.

I still clearly remember the final question I asked that day.

"Then... I can't even play catch? I can't throw a ball?"

The doctor offered no answer.

That had already been fourteen years ago.

Crack!

On the screen, the batter turned sharply on an inside pitch.

Foul.

Tap.

I paused the video on my tablet.

First pitch: four-seam fastball, outside. Second pitch: cutter, inside. Third pitch: four-seam, tight inside.

Next one's gotta be outside.

I tapped a corner of the strike zone displayed on the glass. A spot fading slightly away from the right-handed hitter's outside edge. If I were calling the game behind the plate, that pitch would be a changeup.

Tap.

I tapped play. The frozen pitcher sprang back into motion.

Whoosh. Thwack!

The batter's swing sliced through empty air, and the ball snapped cleanly into the catcher's mitt.

A changeup.

"See? Called it."

I was still happily muttering to myself when the door clicked open. A nurse stepped inside, caught sight of my tablet screen, and wore a look of utter exasperation.

"Watching baseball again?"

"What else is there for me to do?"

"You were up watching until dawn yesterday too, weren't you? Do they even broadcast games at dawn?"

"I have to catch the Major Leagues live."

"I don't know much about baseball, but... still, please make sure you're asleep after ten o'clock from now on."

"I sleep all day anyway."

It was true. Lately, merely shuffling to the restroom and back drained so much energy that I had to lie flat on my back for hours just to catch my breath. While the nurse checked my IV drip, I dragged the video slider back to the start of the at-bat.

"Don't you ever get sick of it?"

"...Of baseball?"

"What else? Every single time I come in here, all you ever do is watch baseball."

I pondered her question for a quiet beat before answering.

"No. Never."

If anything, after being reduced to this pitiful state, my craving had only grown sharper, more desperate. For the first few years, I clung like a madman to rehabilitation. I even tried sneaking in secret workouts, only to collapse and get rushed to the emergency room. I believed I could run again. No—I wanted to believe it. But once I was finally forced to give up, all I had left was watching the game from afar.

The KBO was a given, but I didn't stop there. I devoured NPB, MLB, and minor league games indiscriminately. I broke down pitchers' mechanics frame by frame. I charted how pitch sequencing evolved alongside modern trends. To vent the frustration of a body that couldn't move, I played computer baseball simulations like a lunatic.

After living in that obsessive fever for years, a switch flipped. At a certain point, I could predict the exact pitch a hurler was going to throw before his front foot even hit the dirt. Things I had relied on pure instinct to sense during my playing days were now neatly indexed and categorized inside my head.

Of course, none of it was of any use. I would never play baseball again.

"Time to sleep now."

The nurse plucked the tablet right out of my hands. I tried to resist, but my scrawny, fleshless arms couldn't muster even an ounce of leverage.

"The game isn't over yet..."

"You can watch the replay tomorrow."

"It's no fun unless it's live..."

"Your health is far more important, sir."

A hollow chuckle escaped my dry lips. What good was a body that couldn't even play baseball?

A few days later, I was transferred to the intensive care unit.

My condition had plummeted off a cliff. The doctors had already warned me months ago to prepare for the end, so I felt little in the way of shock. Fourteen long years. Being an orphan, I had no family or relatives to speak of, and because I had lived like a fanatic consumed only by baseball, I had never made close friends either. The reporters who once wore out the threshold of my hospital room had vanished a lifetime ago.

Beep. Beep.

The heart monitor beside my bed chimed with steady, monotonous rhythm. Every inhalation sent a dull ache throbbing across my ribs. Even with oxygen being pumped straight into my nose, there was never enough air.

...It hurts.

Had it not been for my lingering attachment to baseball, I would have surrendered to death long ago. Whenever the agony crested, I tried distracting myself with hopeful fantasies. What if, by some miracle, my body were completely healed right this second? It was a daydream I had indulged in countless times over the past fourteen years.

Looking back, the younger me who ruled the diamond had been raw and naive. I barely understood the deeper science of the sport, getting by purely on god-given athleticism and gut instinct. Even so, I chewed up the entire league and spat it out. But what if I stepped onto that mound today, armed with the mind I had now?

I would refine the spin axis of my four-seamer, sharpen the bite of my slider, and add a tumbling splitter to my arsenal to carve up hitters with effortless precision. And standing in the batter's box, I would be far more lethal than I ever was back then, because now I understood the catcher's and pitcher's psychology inside out.

Ah.

The fantasy granted me a fleeting reprieve from the pain, only for a crushing wave of reality to slam into me right after. It seemed a man couldn't change his stripes even when standing at death's door.

Just then, a sudden clamor erupted from outside the ICU doors.

"Clear the way! Move!"

A gurney rushed past at breakneck speed. Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted half a dozen medical personnel swarming around it.

"Han Seo-jin, seventeen years old! Suspected acute sleeping pill overdose!"

"Estimated time of ingestion?"

"Unconfirmed! She was already completely unresponsive when her guardian found her!"

Han Seo-jin.

It was a familiar name. Where had I heard it before? After sifting through the foggy recesses of my memory, it finally clicked.

The Nation's Little Sister.

A child star who had practically owned the airwaves ten-odd years ago, popping up in dramas and commercials until people were sick of seeing her. Back during my playing days, she featured in almost every commercial played between innings, so I knew her face by heart. At some point, she had quietly slipped out of the spotlight, and I had forgotten all about her.

She's already seventeen?

Time really flew. I closed my heavy eyelids. I didn't know what drove a teenager to swallow a lethal dose of pills, but I was hardly in a position to pity anyone else. My own breathing was growing shallow and ragged.

A few minutes ticked by. Frantic shouts rang out from the bed across the ward.

"Pulse is crashing!"

"Seo-jin! Seo-jin, stay with us!"

"Prep the defibrillator!"

Faint, chaotic noises drifted toward me: the frantic patter of nurses' shoes, raw shouts laced with desperation, the metallic rattle of crashing trays. And then, a single, drawn-out mechanical tone pierced the air.

Beeeep—

Strangely enough, that sound didn't feel like someone else's misfortune. Because right beside my own bed, an identical flatline tone began to shriek.

My eyelids grew impossibly heavy. The strength drained from my fingertips. Air refused to enter my lungs.

So this is it. I'm really dying.

It wasn't as terrifying as I had imagined. I just felt a quiet pang of regret. Just a tiny, lingering sliver...

...Fuck that. Truth was, I was drowning in regret.

I want to play baseball.

Just once. If only I could have just one more chance.

With a healthy body.

I won't ask for wealth, or fame, or anything else.

Just please... let me play baseball.

For the first time in my life, I offered up a prayer, though I had no clue whom I was praying to. And with that, my consciousness plunged into the void.

Thump.

A heart beat.

Thump.

Once more.

"......!"

My eyes snapped open. A sterile, blinding white ceiling filled my vision. In the very same breath, urgent voices erupted around me.

"Pulse is back!"

"Check her blood pressure!"

"Seo-jin! Han Seo-jin! Can you hear my voice?"

Han Seo-jin? My mind was a blank slate. Unable to comprehend what they were yelling about, I acted on pure, primal survival instinct and dragged in a massive lungful of air.

Gasp!

I froze solid.

The air rushed inside. So easily. There was no crushing constriction in my chest, no bitter, metallic taste of blood welling up from the back of my throat. Pure oxygen surged all the way down into the deepest recesses of my lungs, flooding me with a sensation of wholeness I had long forgotten existed.

Am I dreaming?

I inhaled again. Deeply.

I exhaled.

And pulled in another breath.

"...What the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠hell? Huh?"

Wait. My voice sounded bizarre. It was high-pitched and delicate. Trembling, I raised my hands before my eyes.

They weren't my emaciated, skeletal hands. What met my gaze were fair, slender fingers. The tips of the fingernails were even coated in a faint, neat coat of pink polish.

"What is this...?"

Once more, an unfamiliar feminine voice spilled from my lips.

In that split second, something detonated inside my skull.

A film set from childhood. Camera flashes popping blindingly in front of my face. The warm sensation of adults ruffling my hair, cooing over how adorable I was.

The Nation's Little Sister, Han Seo-jin.

She had received that title when she was just eight years old. And then, time raced forward like a runaway train.

An audition. Rejected. Another audition. Rejected again. Years of scathing public criticism mocking her terrible acting, accompanied by an ever-dwindling list of roles. At the final film audition she had pinned all her hopes on, a middle-aged director had tossed her profile onto the table with a derisive snort.

"Seo-jin, you aren't still acting under the delusion of your glory days, are you?"

In the memory, Han Seo-jin bit her lower lip until it bled.

"...No, sir."

"Even the 'Nation's Little Sister' comes with an expiration date. You've clung to that title far too long. Don't you think?"

Hahaha!

The director's mocking laughter had echoed relentlessly through her head all the way home. Without even turning on the lights, Han Seo-jin had dumped a handful of pills onto the table. Drank a glass of water. Laid down on her bed. After that, there was only darkness. The memory cut off right there.

"......"

I blinked slowly. These weren't my memories. Yet at the same time, they were undeniably mine.

"Ha."

A disbelieving laugh slipped past my lips. Turning into a girl? What kind of absurd, daytime television soap opera plot was this?

...Wait ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠a second. Why the hell did it matter if I was a girl?

I moved my hands again. I clenched and unclenched my fists. I wiggled my toes. I drew in another deep, chest-expanding breath.

Nothing hurt. No throbbing aches, no breathless suffocating agony. My body moved exactly as my mind commanded. For the first time in fourteen years!

Hot tears pricked the corners of my eyes. That overwhelming rush of liberation eclipsed the shock of being in a woman's body. But then, a thought struck me like a bolt of ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠lightning.

Wait. Does this mean... I can play baseball again?

The moment that thought crystallized in my mind, something bizarre flickered into existence before my eyes.

A translucent window hovered in midair. At first, I assumed it was an optical illusion brought on by the drugs, but no matter how many times I blinked, it refused to vanish. Rather than appearing crystal clear, it overlaid my vision like a faint afterimage. When I tried straining my eyes to focus on ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠it, it actually grew fainter—almost as if I were peeking at something I was never meant to see.

The instant the word Baseball surfaced, my heart hammered against my ribs with exhilarating force.

"......"

I held my breath and waited, but no further messages appeared.

All at once, the sheer tension snapped, and an overwhelming wave of drowsiness crashed down upon me.

"This... isn't a dream... right...?"

Darkness swallowed my vision once more.