A Preview of the Korean Series

Suwon.

I pulled on a thick jacket against the chill and checked the article on my phone.

Game 144 of 144. Today was the final day of the regular season.

"Damn, it's lonely in here."

I was the only one in the locker room. Part of that was because I'd gotten to the ballpark earlier than usual — but the bigger reason was that the three teammates I always hung around with were off at a fan signing event.

"A fan signing… wonder if I'll ever do one of those."

Park Ji-han, Lee Dae-beom, An Sung-woo. The three of them were star players who consistently ranked at the top of the Suwon Wizards' jersey sales charts. From the moment they debuted, they'd been trading first, second, and third place among themselves like it was some kind of friendly arrangement.

Even on a so-called unfashionable team like the Suwon Wizards, they commanded serious name recognition. On any other club, they would have been even bigger. I'd seen posts to that effect floating around other teams' fan communities.

"I'm famous too, you know."

My own profile wasn't lower than theirs. If anything, it was higher. If they were the kind of players sitting around a dragon's neck, then I had been, without question, the snake's head.

Even if it was in the lower leagues, I had posted a .400 batting average two years running — an immortal record. In a certain sense, I was treated like a legend of the baseball world.

Except that high name recognition and a large fan base were not the same thing. And the word "legend," when applied to me, didn't mean respect. It meant the kind of curiosity and mockery reserved for a freak of nature — wow, a guy like that actually exists.

A bitter truth, but in the end, that too was my karma.

Slurp.

I was nearly finished with my iced americano when a booming voice announced its owner's arrival from down the hall, accompanied by a quieter, steadier one.

"Haa… there were so many of them. Who the hell said our team has no fans? These signings kill me every single time."

"But it feels good, right? You were grinning ear to ear the whole time."

"Well… of course! Those are my people."

Lee Dae-beom's big voice and Park Ji-han's gentle one carried all the way into the locker room. As I listened, someone else slipped in beside me.

"…"

"Hey."

I greeted An Sung-woo, who had appeared without a sound. He nodded wordlessly. Once again, I failed to hear this quiet friend's voice today.

"Yo, Genius! Been waiting long?"

I couldn't help thinking — if only An Sung-woo would speak even half as much as the loudmouth next to him.

"Don't you ever get tired of calling me that?"

"What? It's a compliment. The more you hear it, the better it feels, right?"

Back at the season's first start in Busan, we'd had a brief collision — though "collision" was generous; I'd been on the receiving end of a one-sided beatdown. The very next game we faced each other, Lee Dae-beom had slammed his forehead to the ground in apology. He'd meant to pull off a full prostration, but his massive frame got in the way and he botched it.

Ever since then, he had taken to calling me Genius every chance he got. Something about being a genius's rival making him a genius too. I really wished he would stop.

Because Dae-beom wouldn't shut up about it, the other players had started calling me Genius as a joke as well — and it was mortifying. I was not nearly as shameless as Kim Jae-sang. Even the stern Manager Kim Tae-sik occasionally called me Genius now.

"Whatever. You see the Wolves' lineup for today?"

"Yeah… checked it on the way over."

Dae-beom smacked his lips.

"Those guys came ready to lose."

"No kidding."

Today's Wolves lineup looked like a team that had decided, flat-out, to throw the game. There was no other way to put it.

"The starter's their regular fourth guy who's been cycling through the rotation fine, but the hitters… half these names make you wonder if they even play for the team."

A so-called 1.5-squad lineup. No — they'd gone past that. Call it a 1.8-squad lineup.

Plenty of articles had been hyping this as a preview of the Korean Series, but the reality was different.

"Ever since they locked up first place, they've been doing this in every game that isn't at home. Only guys chasing personal records stay in the lineup. Maximum rest, basically."

It might end up a disappointing game for the reporters. Our home fans, on the other hand, would love it.

"We've got our full starting lineup, so… we should win, right?"

"Still, it's baseball. You never know. We can't let our guard down."

That was Park Ji-han.

"Full starting lineup…? You little shit. Are you saying you're the starter over Tae-yong hyung now? Just casually dropping 'full starting lineup' like that?"

"Uh…"

Honestly, I thought it was fair. Ever since I'd entered the starting lineup, I'd been performing better than anyone. That beautiful month was turning into a truly, blessedly beautiful month.

In every ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠start since the Busan series, I had never once gone hitless — and most of those games had been multi-hit affairs. Even if Shin Tae-yong came back from injury, wouldn't Manager Kim Tae-sik seriously consider keeping me as the everyday guy?

But thinking it and saying it out loud were two different ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠things. Say it, and I was the only villain in the room. So instead—

"Hey… Dae-beom."

"What? Genius."

"Today's the last game. Which means…"

"Huh?"

"This is your last chance to crack forty home runs."

"Ah…"

The magic words that shut Lee Dae-beom's mouth. I was still wearing a satisfied look when Park Ji-han smoothly redirected the conversation.

"By the way, Ji-hoo. Aren't you cold? You're always drinking iced americano."

"I'd rather freeze to death than give up iced americano. Nobody can stop me."

I meant it. Even a mainland-born old-timer had tried to force a hot coffee on me and failed.

"Ball."

Gong Ji-hoo took the free pass and walked slowly toward first. Even with a good result, he tilted his head as if something felt off.

"Hey… is the analytics team right about this?"

Watching from the dugout, Seoul Wolves manager Dong Sang-guk turned to his coach.

"Yes. So far, it's been accurate."

"Is that so…"

The Seoul Wolves were a data-driven organization. These days, what team wasn't? But the manager himself had never been particularly fond of it. He wanted to shout that keyboard-tappers sitting far from the field couldn't possibly understand what happened on it — except that following the analytics team's recommendations had produced unmistakably better results. To avoid becoming a relic in the back room, he had no choice but to accept that this was simply how baseball worked now.

The Suwon Wizards were the team most likely to meet them in the Korean Series, and among that roster, the player who had become a priority target was Gong Ji-hoo — a mid-career rookie currently carving out a serious place in the baseball world with a blistering stretch of production.

"Hmm… is that kid really that special? He's decent enough, sure, but I still don't know if he deserves more attention than Lee Dae-beom or Park Ji-han."

"The analytics team hasn't been wrong yet, so let's keep watching."

"Fine. At least we closed out this inning cleanly."

Crack!

Lee Dae-beom lofted a high fly ball that settled into the right fielder's glove, ending the inning.

Something felt off.

The game itself was going well. Batting third, I was watching the Suwon Wizards put up four runs before the fourth inning was even over, thoroughly dominating the Wolves. The Seoul Wolves, meanwhile, looked nothing like a regular-season champion — scoreless and sloppy. Our starter, Charlie, hadn't allowed a single baserunner through four innings outside of walks.

"Hoo… what's with that uneasy face? I'm the one whose home runs aren't coming."

"I know… something just feels weird."

My own numbers weren't bad either. Two times on base already. But still—

"Two straight walks… Dae-beom. Does their starter have bad command?"

"No way. This is a pitching factory of a team, and the guy earned his rotation spot on command alone. Velocity's below average, but his location is sharp. Good off-speed stuff too."

The type who could paint ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the edges of the zone at will. Come to think of it, every pitch he'd thrown me had been surgically placed — just barely off the strike zone, every single one.

"Maybe I'm imagining it…"

"O great Genius, please stop ignoring me and teach me something. How do I hit more home runs?"

"Why are you asking me, Mr. Thirty-Nine Homers…"

I was not a home run hitter. I didn't know how to swing for ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the fences, and I didn't want to.

"At your current pace, people say you're on track for fifty."

"Who says that?"

"Wizard fan community. Some kind of projected stats thing."

That was ridiculous. I was riding a peak stretch of form, sure — but the regular season was a long race where you never knew when everything might fall apart.

"Maybe forty home runs really is the wall that only true geniuses can climb. Of course a mere thirty-nine-homer guy like me could never be Kim Jae-sang's rival… ah, I'm terrified!"

This bastard had aired out his inferiority complex once, and ever since then he'd been weaponizing even that to mess with people.

"Dae-beom. Home runs are simple."

"Alright. Let's hear the genius speak."

"You see the ball. You hit the ball. You hit the absolute shit out of it. It goes over the fence. That's a home run. Easy, right?"

Can't do that? Well, what did he want me to say?

Dae-beom glared at me for the deadpan delivery, but I didn't particularly care.

It was a beating.

Even the broadcast crew was saying it. There was nothing to be done about it.

And then—

"Ball."

Gong Ji-hoo's at-bat. The first pitch was a ball, as always. Not just the first pitch.

"Ball."

The next one too.

"Ball."

And the one after that.

"Hoo…"

Gong Ji-hoo exhaled, called time, and stepped out of the box. After a few practice swings, he spoke.

"Uh… hyung, is this another pitch they're just going to waste?"

"Why? Isn't it nice and easy? Free base without swinging once. I'm jealous."

The catcher answered with a sly grin.

A strange frustration settled over him as he stepped back in, but Gong Ji-hoo refocused on the pitcher.

Whoosh—!

Here it comes…!

An off-speed pitch drifting into the zone. A clear mistake.

Gong Ji-hoo's bat—

CRACK—!

—came around like lightning, as if determined to collect payment for all the waiting.

At first base, Gong Ji-hoo unstrapped his protective gear. Watching him, Dong Sang-guk spoke.

"Analytics team right again?"

"…Yes. It's genuinely remarkable. Gong Ji-hoo."

Even with a runner on base, the manager simply watched, unmoving.

"Gong Ji-hoo only swings at pitches in the zone… is that even possible?"

"It's a small sample, but that's what they say. And watching him live…"

It matched the sample exactly.

"And they're saying that very thing could be a weakness. What do those suit-wearing guys even think baseball is?"

Gong Ji-hoo wasn't the only one feeling frustrated. Wolves manager Dong Sang-guk felt it too.

"Well, those guys haven't been wrong yet, so for now we follow."

Gong Ji-hoo only swung at pitches that entered the strike zone. Whether that was because his eye was genuinely exceptional, no one could say for certain.

"Tsk. So the answer is to poke at that kid's trauma… is that cocky bastard from Busan really right about this method?"

In the end, Gong Ji-hoo swung at pitches that entered the zone — only those. Fastball or breaking ball, it didn't matter. If it was in the zone, he swung. If it wasn't, he didn't.

The analytics team believed this stemmed from an extreme aversion to failure. Their conclusion was simple.

Gong Ji-hoo had not yet overcome his trauma.