Debut Game Aftermath / Game 2

What the manager handed me was a glove.

A pitcher's glove of rather unusual design.

"There was nowhere in Korea to get one, so I bought it in Japan."

It was a custom glove made for a switch pitcher. Unlike an ordinary glove, it had one extra finger slot, allowing it to be worn on either the left or the right hand.

Truth be told, I'd tried to buy one myself back during our spring training camp in Australia. When I mentioned it to the manager, he'd told me the organization would arrange one for me, so I'd just come home empty-handed. There was a procedure to verify whether it was legal for league use, and that had to be handled on the club's end.

Looking back now, I suspect that reason alone was partly an excuse—maybe they'd deliberately kept my left arm sealed away.

At any rate, handing this to me now as a gift meant one thing: from this point on, I was free to throw with whichever hand I pleased.

"Thank you so much!"

"You know what this means, right? From now on, pitch however you want."

"Ohhh... finally..."

Get ready, Korean pro baseball.

Prepare to welcome an invasive species into your ecosystem.

"Honestly, I was planning to keep watching you a while longer, but you pitched so well today it made the decision easy. Good work out there."

"You truly are the greatest manager in professional baseball."

Before I knew it, the corners of my mouth kept creeping upward.

"That good, huh? Go inside and get some rest."

"Huh? Aren't I pitching the next inning?"

"Kim Hyeok is taking the ninth."

Kim Hyeok.

The Seoul Urbans' setup man.

For five straight seasons he'd ranked among the league leaders in holds—the dependable heartbeat of the bullpen. He was exactly the right man for the closer's spot sitting empty right now.

"Ah..."

"What kind of lunatic hands a two-run save to a rookie?"

But handing a three-run, bases-loaded, nobody-out situation to one is perfectly reasonable, is it?

Anyway, my work for the day was done. All that remained was to sit back and cheer the team through the rest of the game.

Ushered along by my teammates' encouragement, I planted myself on an open spot on the bench. Right beside me sat Song Gyeong-seok.

But why did this guy suddenly decide to indulge me? Was it really just the hanwoo beef?

Things had worked out well in the end, but I couldn't help wondering what thoughts had driven this ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠man—the owner of a beast's heart who'd placed his faith in a wet-behind-the-ears rookie—to make that call in the first place.

"Senior."

"What?"

"Could you give me your address?"

"Why? So I can send you hanwoo? Forget it."

I knew the man was cool, but was he always this cool?

Then why on earth did he let me pitch however I wanted?

"Senior. I'm genuinely curious—why did you put your faith in me?"

"The manager's orders."

What was that supposed to mean?

"Excuse me?"

"The manager figured you'd pull something like that. Told me if you did, to just play along and pretend I couldn't stop you."

Oh. So even that was all part of the manager's plan?

So this is what it takes to be a manager—reading a player's mind down to this level of detail.

My respect for him swelled anew, and I sent a look of admiration toward the back of his head.

"Anyway, great work today. You've clearly got real talent."

Talent.

In all my ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠years playing baseball, no one but my father had ever said that word to me.

Something deep in my chest grew hot.

Seems like I keep feeling this today.

"Th-thank you very much."

"Let's work well together going forward. Who knows how many more years I've got behind the mask myself. Running into a pitcher like you at the tail end of my career—it puts me in a good mood."

"...Please, just give me your address. I'm begging you."

"Ah, enough already!"

His catcher's gear still half on, the senior shook off my wheedling for his address, sprang up from the bench, and made to move seats.

"Hey! You can't just run away like that!"

"What are you talking about? It's a pitching change. Bottom of the inning."

"Huh?"

Our last offensive stand in the top of the ninth had ended in a one-two-three frame before I could even blink.

Somewhere in that fleeting moment—since the Fighters, still within striking distance score-wise, had sent out their high-leverage relievers—it was perhaps only a natural result.

And so the final defensive half began, and Kim Hyeok, with his trademark blazing fastball and that suffocating, attack-first approach of his, struck out three batters in a row. The opening game's victory was ours.

"We won."

And so the stage of my first professional debut came to a clean, crisp close.

"You little rascals..."

Arin browsed the gallery with a contented smile.

Ordinarily, this gallery would tear into anyone—league MVP or otherwise—like a pack of wolves, picking bones clean and savoring every morsel. But on days like today, when the team won, it was invariably papered over with posts glorifying the players and the manager.

And a hefty share of that praise belonged to Han-sae.

"I told you I had an eye for talent."

With a faintly imperious air, Arin hovered her mouse over the new-post button.

A short while later, a post appeared in the gallery from the resident armchair-analyst fixture known as DancingGoose.

Hard on its heels came a saccharine love-letter post from HansaejjingSaranghae★, the comet of a fixed-nickname user who'd burst onto the gallery scene recently.

"Pffhahaha... there are some hilarious people in here."

Even after posting, Arin kept grinding away at the gallery for a good long while.

"Wait, it's already this late?"

Checking the time, she shut her laptop in a hurry. Then she picked up her phone from the charger and fired off a message to Han-sae.

She'd only sent a single message, so why did her chest feel so tingly? Arin pressed a hand against her sternum and fidgeted.

"He's probably swamped with congratulations now that the game's over. He'll reply late."

Contrary to her expectations, the reply came almost instantly.

"Ugh. Put some effort into your replies, would you."

Poking furiously at her phone, Arin set about composing a screed of cursing worthy of the offense.

The next day.

Game two: Seoul Urbans versus Seoul Fighters.

Before first pitch, Kim Su-han sat in the Fighters' dugout, his discomfort written plainly across his face.

Struck out... by that garbage pitch...

The truth was, the image of himself striking out against Jang Han-sae had replayed in his head all through the previous night and ruined his sleep.

It hadn't been some 150-km/h comet of a heater. It hadn't been a breaking ball with such violent, demented movement it bordered on a bugball. It hadn't even been a pitch of miraculous command, painting the corners of the zone with surgical precision.

It was just the classic Arirang ball—the kind neighborhood kids lob back and forth during a game of catch.

Well, to put it charitably, a slow curve.

Sure, what Jang Han-sae threw was technically closer to a curveball than a true Arirang lob, but whatever.

The simple fact that he'd been toyed with by a pitch like that burned him to his core.

He tried, like the professional he was, to shake off the ugly memory—but the face of Jang Han-sae smacking his lips up on that mound kept flickering before his eyes.

"Ugh... next time, I swear I'm crushing it."

The best bad-ball hitter in the country.

Pitches that ended as harmless outs off anyone else's bat became hits through his ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠hitting craft—that was how he'd earned the nickname the Alchemist.

All those accolades, rendered meaningless by a three-strike whiff at a rookie's lob.

Quite without intending it, Jang Han-sae's first career strikeout had left a very deep wound in his opponent.

Whether the perpetrator knew what was boiling inside his victim or not, he was over in the opposing dugout at that very moment, wearing the pleasant expression of a good-natured man, trading jokes with his teammates.

The victim, who happened to catch sight of that scene, was seized by fury all over again.

"Just you wait."

And so Kim Su-han gnashed his teeth and bided his time—but his chance for revenge arrived far sooner than he'd expected.

Score: 1–9.

Bottom of the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠seventh, the Fighters batting, and the deficit was substantial.

Carlos's at-bat ended in a flyout, and the lineup turned over to Kim Su-han.

He was just stepping toward the plate when a coach from the opposing bench jogged out to the mound, baseball in hand, to signal a pitching change.

And the incoming pitcher was none other than—

"Jang Han-sae."

The one name capable of raising Kim Su-han's combat power by 111 percent.