Bases-Loaded Specialist (3)
"That scared me..."
For a second there, I genuinely thought it was gone.
If that ball had drifted even a little more toward the infield, it would have been a grand slam, no questions asked.
That was a moment where I felt the weight of "risking ten years of my life" with my entire body.
"Whew..."
I let out one long breath and did my best to act like nothing had happened. Poker face. Locked in.
Never, ever let the batter see you waver.
On this field, the difference between showing that expression on your face or hiding it is the difference between predator and prey.
A pitcher who becomes the prey can do nothing but throw balls running for their lives. Naturally, that never ends well — and it drags the whole team down to defeat with it.
"I am not losing this."
Even a living legend carving his name into the history books can't escape the raw probabilities of baseball. All it means is that, compared to other hitters, his odds of producing a better outcome are somewhat higher. Nothing in this game is absolute.
I squeezed the ball hard inside my glove.
Sinker down and in, one more time. This time, too, I was hunting for a double play.
"Hoo..."
Steady my breathing.
"Hup!"
Focus everything, coil my body, and let it fly.
Crack!
"Ah!"
The instant the ball met the bat, the liner came screaming straight at my face.
A comebacker. Right at the pitcher.
This one's mine. I have to take it.
I threw my glove out to snag it, but the ball was riding higher and faster than I'd expected.
Can't drop it!
I stretched my body as far as it would go, but it wasn't enough. If I could just graze it — shave even a little speed off —
Tik—
Got a piece of it!
The ball was already out of my sight, but I felt it die in the air, losing its velocity entirely and bouncing off the leather. From here, all I could do was trust my teammates.
Damn it, I shouldn't have thrown that pitch again.
My judgment must have wavered for a moment there. Drowning in that regret, I collapsed face-down onto the mound.
My vision swam, a dizzy blur.
What just happened?
WAAAAAAAH!
A roar of noise — impossible to tell whether it came from our cheering section or the visiting one.
I twisted around and looked toward first base.
Jung Hae, sprinting down the line, was easing off his pace.
A hit?
Just as I turned my head again to look at the outfield, the vacated first baseman settled into position to catch the throw.
And then —
The Vanguards runner sprinted back toward first, but the ball arrived at the first baseman's glove just a hair ahead of him.
Jung Hae was trudging back toward the Vanguards dugout with hollow, defeated steps.
Third, second, first. Runners stood on every base.
Which meant one thing — we had survived the threat of defeat.
"Han-sae! You okay?"
Slowly, I picked myself up off the ground and offered my gratitude to the man who had just saved my baseball career.
"Hyung... thank you so much!"
"Don't thank me — you nicked that ball, that's the only reason I could catch it. That was way too close for comfort."
Not a single thing about him stands out — but not a single edge, either. A perfectly ordinary, well-balanced second baseman whose every stat hovers right around the league average... or so the people say!
Maligned by baseball illiterates everywhere! The greatest second baseman in the world — no, in the universe!
Elite defense! Dependable bat! Legs quick enough to log double-digit steals season after season! Even his personality is smooth and rounded at every corner!
The Seoul Urbans' second baseman — Go Sang-hoon!
From the state of his uniform, it looked like he'd gone full diving catch to haul that ball in.
Dae Sang-hoon...!
An attack on Go Sang-hoon is an attack on me. If anyone so much as dents that holy body of his, I will charge out of the dugout and lead the bench-clearing brawl myself — even if the one who did it is a legendary pitcher like Randy Johnson.
And then I'll get his autograph, obviously.
"Han-sae. You're doing great. Just one out left to go."
"Hyung..."
"Fighting!"
What kind of angel is this...? Did he leave his wings at home because they got in the way of turning double plays?
Not only had he turned a would-be drop into an out with pure hustle, he'd frozen every runner on the bases while he was at it. Defense doesn't get more complete than that.
And to put on a Defensive Player of the Year performance like that, then just walk back to his position all calm and cool to make the next play — that's what being a pro looks like.
I bowed my head to the other infielders too, passing along the apology for not finishing the job myself and the thanks that came with it.
Two players had hit the dirt, so the game paused for a moment, but since both of us popped right back up, the medical staff never had to take the field.
Play resumed almost immediately. My eyes turned to the next hitter.
Two mountains climbed. One final peak remained.
The last of the cleanup trio — the Vanguards' fifth batter, Kang Gae-seok.
A hitter in the .230s. But a textbook co-gal-po — a blank cannon — who cranks out twenty-plus home runs every single season. You could call him the same breed as senior Geum Byeong-hyeon.
Compared to the two hitters before him, he's obviously the easier out. But what makes these hitters frightening is that one wrong pitch and they'll put you under.
The unpredictable type who can't so much as foul off a pitch for six straight at-bats, then suddenly uncorks a go-ahead three-run bomb in his last plate appearance. All your scouting goes out the window.
Nobody knows when his bat will catch fire — not the pitcher, not the fans, not even Kang Gae-seok himself. A hitter who can go deep from anywhere, which is exactly why you're never allowed a single mistake.
"Head in the game. All the way."
Somehow this defensive inning felt longer than any I could remember. It was time to put the period on the sentence.
Kang Gae-seok was a lefty, so my glove switched sides yet again.
"Hoo!"
A short exhale, and my foot found the rubber.
***
Yang Ho-ji was, at this very moment, probably the most desperate man in the stadium for this inning to end.
His first game ever starting as the No. 1 catcher. That part had been fine.
When senior Geum Byeong-hyeon blasted a go-ahead homer to shatter the tense 0–0 deadlock — that part had been fine too.
When Gyu-min, the team's fourth starter and super-rookie of the day, had held the opposition scoreless through seven innings against everyone's expectations — that had been wonderful.
Eighty pitches. With his pitch count still comfortable, Manager Han Seung-hyeop had decided to hand Gyu-min the next inning as well. It was a little nerve-wracking, but okay — even Ho-ji had to admit Gyu-min's stuff looked sharp today.
Then the eighth inning arrived, and Gyu-min's control suddenly abandoned him. Two straight hitters walked on four pitches apiece.
And to top it off, a flared single that dumped unluckily right between the infielders...
In the blink of an eye: bases loaded, nobody out.
That was when the crushing pressure landed on Ho-ji's shoulders. By the time Gyu-min got pulled and Han-sae jogged in as the next pitcher, Ho-ji wanted to run away.
It wasn't that he didn't trust Han-sae. It was just that the burden of it all was making him feel this way. And of course, he couldn't let it show.
Ho-ji steadied himself and forced his focus back onto the game.
Edison. Han-sae's erratic knuckleball came fluttering in — a ball that could have skipped yards behind him — and Ho-ji hauled it in with everything he had. Strikeout.
Then Jung Hae. This time Han-sae signed for the underhand delivery.
That was fine too. If anything, Ho-ji thought, let's take this head-on.
A few pitches into the duel, Jung Hae made contact, and when the liner screamed back at the pitcher, Han-sae deflected it with his glove — right into the path of second baseman Go Sang-hoon, who made an impossible diving grab.
Ho-ji had been bracing for a play at the plate, but Sang-hoon's veteran savvy had pinned every runner in place, and one weight lifted off his chest.
And now, just one out remained.
Kang Gae-seok. No pushover of a hitter. But somehow they'd gotten to two strikes.
A little breathing room had finally opened up.
Then why is this lunatic shaking me off?
Ho-ji had been calling for a chase pitch off the zone, but Han-sae flatly refused, shaking his head side to side.
Fine, then what the hell are you throwing?
Ho-ji waited for the sign, thinking it through.
He's not seriously about to throw another knuckleball... right?
Yang Ho-ji, who had been telling himself that anything but a knuckleball would be fine, changed his mind the moment he read the pitch sign from his pitcher.
He jammed his fingers frantically between his legs and fired back the sign for a knuckleball — please, for the love of god, throw the knuckleball.