Spring Camp (2) / Seoul Urbans Gallery

The moment the ball left my hand, Senior Geum Byeong-hyeon's face went white with panic.

There we go. Senior, that's 500,000 won wired to your account...

Crack!

The ball flew off the bat without a single rotation, whistling cheerfully as it streaked toward the outfield fence. The line drive was losing steam by the time it reached the outfield grass, sinking and dropping dead out of the air.

Thwip.

"Huh?"

The ball vanished with a soft ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠pop into the glove of Manager Han Seung-hyeop, who was standing at the very spot it came down.

Nobody was there a second ago. How long has he been standing there?

"Nice ball."

The manager fired the ball back to me as he spoke. It sailed from his hand toward the mound where I stood, tracing a lazy arc and arriving conveniently right in my glove.

It had been quite a while since he'd retired, but there was still a heavy, punishing power behind his throws.

"Ahh!! Manager!! That was a hit!!"

Senior Geum Byeong-hyeon flew into a rage, storming over to protest the out call the manager had just made on his ball.

"The quality of contact was dreadful. A little league outfielder could've caught that one. That's a fly out."

"What kind of nonsense is that!! That was 500,000 won down the drain!!"

Hey, you lunatic. You're not supposed to say that part out loud.

"Oh, was it? Han-sae. Let's have a word."

I'm dead.

Gambling with a teammate during spring camp. Was that the kind of offense the club would hand down an official punishment for?

"...Yes, sir!"

I'd agreed to the bet myself, so there was no point stacking up excuses. Better to take the punishment cleanly and move on.

And with that, I followed the manager off the field.

"Han-sae."

Fine. If I'm getting chewed out, let's get it over with quickly.

"Yes, Manager. I'm sorry—"

"What on earth was that pitch you just threw?"

"A negative pitch... fueled by personal greed that damages team discipline, sir."

"...What?"

"A few years ago the whole baseball world was in an uproar over gambling scandals, so I've always tried to keep my guard up and—"

"Did you gamble?"

"Pardon? Ah, no, not exactly... more of a wager..."

"What the hell are you babbling about? I'm asking what pitch you just threw."

Huh? So you weren't about to lecture me about the bet?

My face burned hot.

"Ah! Hahaha... it was a knuckleball, sir."

The manager stroked his chin and studied me for a long, silent moment.

Oh boy.

Something about the atmosphere had turned strangely charged, and I prayed to god it was just my imagination.

"You really are an interesting one."

"...Sorry?"

"I'm saying I've taken an interest in you."

Uh?

Okay, this is not the direction I saw this going.

"Ah... um... that is..."

"When Manager Ahn Jeong-won from the second team recommended you, I honestly thought you were nothing but a completely average-looking kid."

Gasp! The second-team manager recommended me?

Do the two of them share tastes as well? No, wait, more importantly—why are all of our managers men with such particular preferences?

My head was starting to spin.

"I watched you all through spring camp, and I have to say, there's something genuinely charming about you."

The manager draped a hand gently over my shoulder with that oily line of his, and before I knew it, my whole body had shrunk into itself.

"Th-thank you..."

"Oh? You're thankful? What exactly have I done for you?"

"Y-you included me on the first-team roster and let me train with you all..."

"Then why are you so jumpy?"

The hand on my shoulder slid away—and then came down hard across my back with a thunderous slap. It felt like all the junk piled up in my head got knocked clean out with it.

"Gah!"

"Solid command, and a wide variety of pitches you can actually handle—but a thoroughly ordinary right-hander whose velocity isn't anything special, so his ceiling is obvious. That's what I thought, right up until I saw it with my own two eyes."

Weight gathered in the manager's voice.

"And Ahn Jeong-won, that rascal, never bothered to give me the details. I open the lid and what do I find? Not just overhand—he mixes every arm angle all the way down to submarine. And he does all of it with his left hand too?"

I stood there slack-jawed under the sudden shower of praise.

"And just now you go and show me a knuckleball on top of it. You are first team this season. No question."

"Sorry... really?"

It should have been obvious in hindsight, but making the first-team spring camp roster did not guarantee a first-team spot once the season opened. Frankly, my conditioning and the rest of my training lagged far enough behind the others that deep down I'd already resigned myself to starting in the minors. And now the manager was confirming first team with his own mouth.

I was so overwhelmed I nearly burst into tears on the spot.

"That's right. Keep it secret from the others."

"Yes, sir! Understood!"

"Ah, and one more thing."

The manager held out the very glove he'd been wearing.

A right-handed pitcher's glove, made to fit on the left hand.

"In the exhibition games after we return from camp, you throw exclusively right-handed overhand. The whole time."

"Sorry?"

Exhibition games. The practice league played before the professional season begins. Plenty of fringe players pour everything they have into them, hoping to parlay a strong showing into a starting job. I'd been planning to do exactly the same.

"That's why I'm telling you in advance that you're first team. I have no intention of exposing our team's weapon to the other clubs."

It was an explanation I could accept.

"And focus on squeezing information out of as many different hitters as you can. Keep your pitch count of arsenals low, too. Four-seam fastball and one or two breaking pitches, nothing more."

"Understood, sir."

"Before camp, nobody had ever seen you pitch like this, right?"

"No, sir."

"Good. Work hard through the rest of training."

"Yes, sir! I will!"

And with that, my meeting with the manager ended, and I headed back to the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠field.

Time flowed on, and before I knew it, the final day of spring camp arrived. My head-to-head record against Senior Geum Byeong-hyeon stood ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠at twenty matches, nineteen wins, and one loss. I figured if I just kept winning forever, he'd never let it end, so I quietly tossed him the last one without making it obvious.

Ever since then, apart from mocking me at every opportunity about how I couldn't play baseball to save my life, he stopped pestering me with challenges—so I counted myself satisfied.

I'd also built up a fair amount of rapport with my first-team teammates. Even the men who'd once seemed like they lived in a completely different world turned out, once you talked with them and got close, to be no different from anyone else.

Training brought plenty of improvements, too. Above all, the pitches I'd taught myself finally got professional coaching, and the finer details got corrected one by one. Thanks to that, my command and my stuff both improved dramatically.

If there was one disappointment, it was stamina. Having never thrown long innings since childhood, my physical limitations were painfully obvious. Spring camp had hardened me considerably, but with such a weak foundation to build on, it was hard to expect any truly meaningful results there.

After a short break, the exhibition games began. I took the mound in quite a few of them, and just as the manager had instructed, I threw nothing but right-handed overhand, focusing on facing as many hitters as possible and soaking up every scrap of information I could.

Because of that, I got shelled plenty—but ironically, that just meant I got to face that many more hitters, which made it great material for scouting reports.

My exhibition stats looked like this:

21 games, 19 innings, 5.79 ERA

Even facing hitters with a limited arsenal, some days things clicked effortlessly, and other days—true to form—I got absolutely demolished. By any normal standard, it was a performance that fell short of cracking the opening-day roster.

But I'd received a personal guarantee from the manager, so I didn't lose any sleep over it. Naturally, the coaching staff felt the same way.

There were, however, people who took it very seriously indeed.

The Seoul Urbans Gallery.

"This, too, is mental training."

With fingers trembling, I connected to the gallery. The instant the page began to ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠load, I squeezed my eyes shut. Right now, in this moment, I was shaking several times harder than I had on draft day.

Through cracked-open eyelids, I let the dim sliver of vision reveal the thread titles scrolling past.

"Whew..."

I let out a breath of relief and opened my eyes the rest of the way. Thankfully, there didn't seem to be anything about me. A little steadier now, I boldly began flipping through the pages.

Even four pages deep, the name Jang Han-sae was nowhere to be found.

"Am I supposed to be relieved about that?"

By this point, I was honestly starting to feel a little hurt.

I kept scrolling down through the pages, then jumped back to the front to check the fresh threads that had spawned while I was away.

"Hmm. Now this one's interesting."

Among the new posts, one title caught my eye.

"Maybe there's something about me in here too."

Half hoping, half dreading, I clicked on it.

"They wrote nicer things than I expected."

It seemed the fans were inclined to cut me some slack because of my car accident history—which was fair, since based on the exhibition games alone, my pitching was in no shape to deserve a single compliment.

"Still, this is... nice."

And there it was.

The very moment I'd started to think things were going smoothly, a thread with a title aimed straight at my solar plexus popped up in real time.