Prologue: Why My Protagonists Never Regress
"Author-nim. Why don't any of the protagonists in your novels ever regress?"
Four years into life as a full-time unemployed shut-in. It was around the time the writing I'd started as a hobby had somehow become enough to put food on the table.
My third novel had been pretty popular. Popular enough that even after the story wrapped, I ran a Q&A of my own free will.
"Hmm… this is purely my personal take, but—"
I scratched at the catcher's mask I'd pulled over my face to hide it and started answering the question.
"Regression usually happens to people who've failed, right?"
"The Gong Ji-hoos in my novels are perfect people, plain and simple. I never wanted to give them any history of failure—not even in the past."
Three works. Three protagonists.
Every last one of them was named Gong Ji-hoo.
The moment one comment brought up the actual Gong Ji-hoo, the chat window erupted—flooding with hooked reactions.
…Does nobody know who Gong Ji-hoo is?
There had been a time when the name Gong Ji-hoo showed up constantly across baseball communities.
A legendary hitter who posted .400 averages two years running. A power bat who crushed thirty-plus home runs a season.
Baseball fans looked at those dazzling numbers and gave him a nickname.
Minor League Yeopo.
Because every one of Gong Ji-hoo's glittering records existed only on Futures League score sheets.
His major-league line across four seasons: a .100 average and ten home runs.
Those minor-league numbers got his name called up to the first team over and over. And every time, he whirled the bat around like a desk fan and vanished again—a permanent prospect who never stuck.
My pen name was Minor League Yeopo. My real name was Gong Ji-hoo.
Obviously, that baseball player Gong Ji-hoo was me.
Sweat itched under the catcher's mask.
Is it because I just got hit with a straight fact bomb…? Still, nobody should know I'm Gong Ji-hoo. Was naming every protagonist Gong Ji-hoo too obvious?
I gripped my reeling mind and decided to keep talking with the readers.
"Gong Ji-hoo the player, huh… Hitting .400 two years straight in the minors doesn't exactly make him a failure, does it? Haha."
If I'm making a living off novels, my baseball career might've tanked, but my life isn't a total failure… right?
That single mocking "lol" drove straight into my chest.
"Beats me. I'm not him, so I wouldn't know—but if he did regress, he'd probably become a Yeopo in the majors too, wouldn't he? I heard somewhere that his bad numbers had a lot more to do with mental issues than anything else…"
The reason I'd been useless in the first team was genuinely simple. The problem was, I only fixed it after I retired.
"What did you just say?"
A sudden wave of dizziness hit me. The catcher's mask on my face tumbled to the floor.
The last thing I saw was a chat message reading Oh crap it's Gong Ji-hoo!—and then my vision went black.
Ah. I guess I can't use the name Gong Ji-hoo for a protagonist anymore.
That was the last thought I had before I lost consciousness.
Crack!
"Strike!"
The stinging sunlight needled at my eyes.
Huh?
"Gong Ji-hoo! What the hell are you doing?! You here to sightsee?!"
Four years had passed, but the scene was burned into my brain with perfect clarity.
"What is this, some cheap novel plot…"
"Novel, my ass. Was the injury in your head instead of your back? Get ready already!"
I had regressed to the final at-bat of my playing career.