Spring Camp (1)
The 1st-team manager's office of the Seoul Urbans.
The meeting to finalize the spring camp roster was in full swing.
"So, excluding anyone injured, this is what we're looking at."
Han Seung-hyeop, the Urbans' 1st-team manager, said this as he studied the sheet of paper bearing the names of players and coaching staff.
"Just like last year, I plan to add a few more players to this list — the ones Manager Ahn Jeong-won recommends."
"Yes, I've already got a few names in mind."
Ahn Jeong-won, the 2nd-team manager, pulled out several prepared player profiles and handed them over.
"Hahaha. Ho-ji and Won-sik. It seems your eye matches mine, Manager. I've been keeping an eye on these kids myself."
As he examined the last remaining profile, Han Seung-hyeop's expression turned puzzled, and he asked Ahn Jeong-won about it.
"The last one is... Jang Han-sae. Isn't he the kid who just got discharged from the military recently?"
"Yes, that's him. The one who got into a car accident the very day he was discharged."
Han Seung-hyeop recalled a memory from the past for a moment.
He had taken a vacation for the offseason and was abroad with his family.
In the middle of enjoying that rare time with his loved ones, the club had called.
A pitcher named Jang Han-sae, playing in the 2nd team, had been discharged from the military and gotten into a car accident on his way home, landing him in the hospital.
Fortunately, his life wasn't in danger — but worry was worry all the same.
A call soon went out to Manager Ahn Jeong-won, who visited the hospital in person to check on his condition. Though Han-sae was still unconscious, there turned out to be no broader health concerns — and only then did Han Seung-hyeop start looking into whether there was a flight back he could catch right away.
Later, when he heard that consciousness had returned, he called Han-sae to ask how he was doing.
He said he'd visit the hospital as soon as he returned to Korea, but the reply came back that Han-sae was due to be discharged immediately, so there was no need.
Even so, he'd wondered — could anyone really be discharged that fast? By the time Han Seung-hyeop got back to Korea, Jang Han-sae had already returned to the 2nd team and was in the middle of training.
It had been barely two weeks since the kid came back.
Coming off both military service and a car accident, in less-than-perfect condition, he had sharpened his feel enough in that short span to earn a spot on the recommendation list. That left a deep impression on Han Seung-hyeop.
"Right-handed overhand, right? Average velocity is... around 140. Good control, and a kid who can handle a wide variety of pitches."
Since Han Seung-hyeop had only taken the job last year, he'd never seen Jang Han-sae play in person — the kid had been in the military at the time.
Nothing particularly exceptional, though. But our bullpen is a bit thin this season, so he might be worth bringing along.
"He's a solid, unremarkable kid."
"He's a peculiar kid."
At Ahn Jeong-won's words, Han Seung-hyeop gave him a puzzled look.
"I didn't find anything like that in the profile."
"I left it out on purpose. Seeing it yourself would make more of an impact."
"Hahaha. When you say it like that, Manager, of course I get curious."
Han Seung-hyeop studied the photo of Jang Han-sae attached to the profile carefully.
Alright then. Let's see what kind of pitches you throw.
Australia.
Spring camp, day n.
"Hah... hah... I'm gonna die."
So this is what it feels like for your brain to literally short-circuit, huh.
I mean, I suppose this level of training is just par for the course at the pro level.
"Han-sae! What are you doing! Don't walk, run!!"
"Hah... yes, sir!"
At the coach's bellowed command, I forced my wobbling legs into motion and started bounding forward again.
Maybe I should've done some conditioning in there too, not just pitching practice.
Of course, even if I went back to that Chamber of Time With My Sanity, I'd still do nothing but throw pitch after pitch until my arm fell off — but the training here was brutal enough to put the thought in my head anyway.
After the hellish conditioning ended came a brief moment to catch my breath.
"Hey, why's a fresh-faced rookie wheezing like that already?"
A voice dripping with an endless, bottomless smugness.
Damn it. It's Dae Byung-hyun again.
"Senior... I did get into a car accident, you know. It's the aftereffects. The aftereffects."
"Sure, sure~"
Geum Byeong-hyeon.
The first 1st-team player I'd gotten close to since arriving at spring camp.
He'd joined the Urbans via free agency two years ago, a 10-year veteran now — the kind you could properly call a grizzled old hand.
Position: outfielder.
And.
"Hey, forget aftereffects, forget breathing room — get up already."
"Are you serious right now? I'm dying over here."
"Hey! Yang Ho-ji! You come too. This time, for sure, I'm winning."
What a sucker.
"What are we betting this time?"
"Let's do five hundred thousand won. Dammit."
"I'm genuinely getting a kick out of this."
"I'm dead."
He was the one who'd marched up and demanded a showdown out of nowhere on the first day of camp.
Something about how it was part of his routine — that he had to take down a pitcher before his day's training went well, or some such nonsense.
Anyway, apparently I'd looked like the easiest target.
The result, of course, was my victory.
A clean three-strikeout takedown on just three pitches.
He was so cocky about it that I'd been a little nervous going in, but once we actually faced off? Nothing special.
I thought that would be the end of it, but the next day, and the day after that, and the day after that, he kept demanding rematches.
My all-time head-to-head record against Senior Geum Byeong-hyeon: seven matches, seven wins.
Seriously, I've smoked him every single time.
Today I thought he might quietly let it slide. Fat chance.
Still, he always puts something on the line for our matches, so I've been raking in modest little windfalls along the way.
"Again?"
Ho-ji appeared wearing an expression of pure exhaustion.
Every time one of these showdowns opened, he got dragged into suffering alongside me.
"You little punk. A senior as high as the heavens asks you to work out with him and you're making that face? Lighten up, you son of a—"
And so the stage was set for the rematch-rematch-rematch-rematch-rematch-rematch-rematch-REMATCH against Senior Geum Byeong-hyeon.
"Here I come."
"Just shut your mouth and throw fast. Today I'm getting past you for sure."
His career home run count sails well past 100, but his batting average sits in the mid-.200s — the textbook 'if I connect, it's leaving the park' type of hitter.
Hitters who chase one big blast like that are absurdly easy to deal with.
All you have to do is throw a pitch they physically can't resist swinging at with everything they've got.
Curiously enough, Senior Geum Byeong-hyeon is a hitter who's strong on low pitches.
He swings like he's playing golf, lofting the ball magnificently over the fence.
So I went with my right-handed sidearm and threw a changeup, aiming a good notch below the bottom of the strike zone.
First pitch.
His bat came around with a satisfying whoosh as it sliced through empty air.
Swing and a miss.
"Argh, damn it!"
How was he supposed to hit that?
The changeup flies in looking like an ordinary fastball, only noticeably slower — and right on cue, the bat came around again.
"Senior, I think your ceiling fan's blowing a bit too hard."
"I'll skin you alive right here and now..."
Seven wins into our rivalry, I already had his weaknesses completely mapped out.
With every pitch he reacts to and every corner of the zone he's weak against fully analyzed, there was simply no way left for Senior Geum Byeong-hyeon to beat me.
"Here's pitch number two."
"Just throw it already!!"
This time I threw the same pitch to the same spot.
Ball.
I got the ball right back from Ho-ji.
"Hey! You think I'd fall for the same pitch twice? This little punk is seriously disrespecting me!"
Now's my chance!
While he was busy ranting with great enthusiasm, I immediately fired a fastball jammed tight against the inside of the plate.
Pop!
The ball smacked into the catcher's mitt with a crisp, delightful sound.
"Strike."
"What?! You lunatic! You threw the ball before I was even set at the plate, you little—!"
"Ah, fair point. So that one doesn't count?"
"You're calling the obvious like you're doing me some grand favor, you little bastard?"
His reactions are genuinely delicious.
"Ready this time?"
"You got eyes, don't you? Throw the damn ball!"
This time, overhand.
I slowly extended my arm above my head and settled into my windup.
I held that position for a beat, then lifted my leg and flowed into my delivery.
And then I began pumping the raised leg up and down. And up and down again. And again.
The face of Senior Geum Byeong-hyeon standing in the batter's box started to twist.
God, this is fun.
I doubt there's another hitter alive who's this transparent.
After he'd fumed at me long enough, his batting stance wavered, just slightly.
Now!
Seizing that exact instant, I painted a fastball flush against the inside corner.
He couldn't react at all. Strike.
"Ha... son of a..."
Senior Geum Byeong-hyeon glared at the mound with the expression of a man who hated my very existence.
I avoided his eyes with exaggerated effort and whistled idly.
Either way: two strikes, one ball.
Exactly one strike stood between him and five hundred thousand lost won.
"That was a balk! Wasn't that a balkkk! Dammit!"
More cursing, his temper getting the better of him again.
Truly, if baseball didn't exist, this is a man who'd be running a back alley somewhere.
"That's true if there are runners on base. But there aren't any right now, are there?"
A pro baller shaky on the rulebook. Impressive.
"Aghh!!! This is infuriating!!!"
Furious, Senior Geum Byeong-hyeon threw every tantrum in his repertoire before squaring back into his batting stance.
Let's end this with this one.
For the final finisher, I decided to try something a little special.
He's on our team, after all — I owed the man a chance to level up through a genuinely good experience.
When I flashed the sign to Ho-ji with my fingers, the guy tilted his head in confusion.
Good sign.
I gripped the ball with my whole body relaxed and started my delivery toward the strike zone.
Fly! Bring me my five hundred thousand won!
The ball left my hand and traced a drifting, wavering arc, fluttering toward home like a butterfly set free.
"Wh-what the hell is that?"