vs. Major League (Real) — The Best Hitter in the League Today (1)
Three MVPs in seven seasons of KBO baseball, a career slash line of .300/.400/.500, and the only player in league history to win the batting Triple Crown eight times.
Those are the words that describe San Wool-lim, my senior, who was currently settling into his batting stance right in front of me.
A head-to-head between a reliever fresh off his military service in the minor leagues and the greatest hitter in all of South Korea.
For this bizarre showdown, the manager had stationed full outfielders and infielders around the minor-league park, recreating live-game conditions down to the last detail.
Hoji would stay behind the plate as catcher throughout.
The stakes: a three-at-bat showdown. If I retired him even once, I won.
The manager, who had arranged this whole match, had also put up a reward.
"Han-sae, if you win, I'll put in a serious recommendation for you with Manager Han Seung-hyeop."
The first-team manager of the Seoul Urbans.
This matchup could be my ticket to a call-up. A sudden showdown against a national team cleanup hitter I never expected to face, and on top of that, a probability-boosting power-up card for a first-team promotion? My knees were shaking so hard I could barely stand.
San Wool-lim went through his signature warm-up routine and stepped into the left-handed batter's box.
"Alright, let's see what you've got. Show me a pitch."
Overwhelming presence.
Ah. So this is what the league's deadliest hitter feels like.
Forcing down my trembling nerves, I stared through Hoji's legs and waited for the sign.
Hoji flashed it: low and away, fastball.
I nodded, set my delivery, and prepared to throw. Biomechanically speaking, three-quarters was the most stable arm slot, so that was the plan—reach up over my head in the windup, then snap the ball into the corner Hoji had called for.
"Strike."
The manager, an earpiece radio fitted snugly in his ear, made the call. He'd mentioned using the new automatic ball-strike system (ABS) that was being rolled out this season, and apparently this was how it worked in practice.
Either way, I'd landed a first-pitch strike.
San Wool-lim grinned and squared back up.
Pitch two. Hoji called for the same spot again, but harder.
Let's try sidearm this time.
I stretched my arm high like I was working out a cramp, mimicking the exact same windup as before—then, this time, I slung the ball out low from my side, painting the same corner.
Crack!
A crisp contact sound, and the barrel of the bat exploded through the zone, sending a scorching line drive screaming toward the left-field wall. It sailed just inches foul of the pole—thankfully—but judging by the launch angle and the velocity of the ball, it was a towering foul home run of monstrous proportions.
"Whoa, that's insane."
The awe escaped my mouth out loud before I could stop it. That pitch had been located exactly where the catcher asked, threaded in perfectly. And he'd just flipped it over the fence anyway? That was monstrous hitting skill.
"So close."
San Wool-lim prepared for the next pitch with a sly, knowing smirk. There was nothing malicious in that smile—and yet I felt pure dread looking at it.
Anyway. Two strikes.
A very favorable count for the pitcher. I could afford to bury a breaking ball well off the plate if I wanted.
But Hoji wanted to attack.
He's no ordinary hitter either.
His logic was that right when the pitcher assumes the batter will lay off a ball, an aggressive pitch catches him off guard. I decided to trust Hoji's read and nodded.
The pitch he called this time was a cutter. A pitch that looks like it's coming right down the middle, only to bore in on a left-handed batter's hands. And since I'd thrown away twice, suddenly busting him inside should be hard to react to, even for the best hitter in the league.
Right—a .300 hitter fails seven times out of ten.
Reading a batting average pessimistically—that's pitcher thinking for you.
Overhand this time.
Same setup as always. I gripped the cutter, then threw from the overhand slot I'd used longer than any other. I felt the ball catch on my fingertips at release.
That's sharp!
The pitch, ripped with wicked spin, shot toward the plate—then broke off at a razor angle just in front of the strike zone, diving in at San Wool-lim's ribs.
"Got him!"
An unquestionably perfect pitch.
Crack!
But the hitter known as San Wool-lim was a far, far greater hitter than I had imagined. The bat was already swinging at a ball that looked like it was coming down the middle—I'd stolen his timing. Then he contorted his body, adjusted the barrel's angle mid-swing, and barreled up the pitch that was darting in at him, flaring it out to right field. The ball rocketed over the right fielder's head and slammed into the wall.
"Oh my god..."
This was the sound of hitting a wall.
In a real game, I could have made excuses. But this time, even I knew the pitch was perfect. And a pitch I'd been that confident in had just been flattened.
Still, I decided not to dwell on it. My opponent was the best hitter in the country. I was just a minor-league bullpen arm fresh out of the army.
A gap in talent is only natural.
"Nice pitch!"
San Wool-lim swung the bat through empty air, loosening up his body, and shot me his signature mischievous grin along with a word of encouragement. Or was that sarcasm?
"Ha... ha... The honor's all mine."
He was such a colossal figure that I hadn't even been able to feel competitive against him—but now, for the first time, I actually wanted to win.
"Two at-bats left."
"Yes, sir."
The count reset, and the second showdown began. As I was kicking the mound dirt into place, Hoji ambled over.
"Man... Wool-lim really is on another level."
"Tell me about it. He turns that stance into a base hit..."
"Hey, throw nothing but underhand this time."
"Underhand?"
"Yeah. You know my hobby is analyzing hitters when I'm bored, right? Obviously I've studied Wool-lim too. Wondering if even a hitter that perfect has a weakness."
"And the weakness is underhand pitching?"
"I think it's because the delivery itself is so rare. Even accounting for that, his average against submarine pitchers drops a full hundred points compared to every other arm slot."
"Hmm... okay, got it."
With that, Hoji started walking off the mound—and a sudden curiosity made me call him back.
"Hey, so what IS his batting average against underhand pitchers?"
"Oh, .280."
"Damn it."
His worst matchup average was still late-twenties. He really was a player from a different dimension.
But the fact remained that he hit underhand pitching worst of all, so like Hoji said, I planned to throw nothing but submarine this at-bat.
Once Hoji had resettled behind the plate, the showdown resumed.
The first-pitch gambit: fastball, naturally. The location—up and out of the zone. Hoji flashed the sign and rose into a hunched receiving stance.
The whole point of submarine pitching is that the ball looks like it's launching straight out of the dirt, which to a hitter feels like the ball is jumping upward as it arrives. If he just took the pitch, it would be an easy ball—but the idea was that a fastball suddenly leaping skyward would bait him into a whiff. Anything up that high, even if he touched it, would end as a flyout at best.
Skipping the windup entirely, I fired the fastball straight out of the submarine slot. Rosin dust scattered into the air as the ball flew toward the plate.
San Wool-lim was not a man who missed a fastball over the heart of the plate—sure enough, the bat came around. Right on schedule, a swing and—
CRACK!!
The ball, crushed to its very core, soared sky-high like an escape rocket. It vanished from my field of vision, and a moment later dropped into the outfield stands like a meteor. A flawless, majestic home run.
"Looks like somebody's been studying me. But you should know—right after the season ended, I trained like crazy on hitting submarine pitchers. The work's clearly paying off."
So that's how it is.
To climb to the very top, that level of preparation was just the baseline. It didn't even surprise me.
"Did you deliberately pull your swing forward?"
"Yeah. And you caught it. You're a good catcher yourself."
Hoji was genuinely impressed. And honestly, so was I. To nonchalantly execute that kind of hitting—simple in theory, insanely difficult in practice—where you just match your timing so the bat meets a jumping pitch right at its sweet spot in front of the zone? No way I could win like this. That was my conclusion.
Which meant it was time to try something else.
I beckoned Hoji to the mound.
"What?"
"Hey. There's no way we beat this guy."
"I know. Were you planning to?"
"Obviously, you lunatic."
"Honestly, I wanted to win too, but that home run was just on another plane. How are we supposed to beat that?"
"I've got an idea."
A secret weapon I hadn't even shown Hoji yet. I whispered my trump card into his ear. His squinted eyes blew wide open, the whites showing all the way around.
"For real?"
I nodded, and Hoji jogged off the mound practically buzzing with excitement.
I pulled off my glove, called time to San Wool-lim in the batter's box, and walked over to the manager, who was watching from the dugout.
"Giving up already?"
"No, sir."
"Then why'd you take off your glove?"
I flexed my gloved left hand open and closed as I answered. "I'd like to switch gloves."
"And you think that'll make a difference?"
There was a faint note of mockery in his voice, but I just smiled and paid it no mind.
"Could I borrow a left-handed pitcher's glove?"