Symmetry
The rain delay they called cleaning time ended after roughly forty minutes.
The sixth inning resumed with a four-run lead. Even though their starter had been pulled early, the Irons reached for the win-now bullpen cards they had been hoarding so carefully.
And then—
Tick.
“Out!”
Fifth batter, third baseman Lee Se-ho, infield fly.
Pop!
“Strikeout!”
Sixth batter, catcher Park Sang-hee, looking.
Crack!
“Out!”
Seventh batter, center fielder Bae Jeong-ho, grounder to short.
The time it took for the inning they had waited forty minutes to start to finish:
Just ten minutes.
“Huh…”
We had come all the way to Gwangju for an away game, waited forty minutes, and then watched our half-inning die in ten.
Honestly, if I had been sitting in the stands as a fan, something ugly would have come out of my mouth. It was that hollow.
But our fans?
Waaaaaaaaah!!
They were the opposite. They just cheered harder, shouting that we just had to hold them.
So the bottom of the sixth began—and unlike the top that had ended in a blink, this one looked ready to stretch.
CRAAACK!!
“Safe!”
The ninth batter’s single.
Then—
Batting first, shortstop Ryu Hyun-seo.
The Irons’ captain stepped in.
And—
CRAAACK!!
He crushed the pitch from the Wizards’ win-now arm like a thunderbolt. Watching the ball clear the wall, he flung his bat with raw force.
A ceremony so fierce it barely looked like the usual Ryu Hyun-seo. The message was clear: this game wasn’t over yet.
Waaaaaaaaaah!!!
The home crowd exploded.
Right after—
Crack!
The Irons’ second batter ripped a single over the second baseman’s head and kept the fire going.
In the end—
“Change!”
Manager Kim Tae-sik himself walked out to the mound with the ball. An absurdly early pitching change.
Whooosh!!
That first pitch looked like good news for the Suwon Wizards.
Crack!
A line drive screaming straight at the third baseman.
But—
Line drive to third! Third baseman Lee Se-ho… wait—what?!
Maybe the long wait before the game resumed was the problem. Veteran third baseman Lee Se-ho couldn’t cleanly glove the ball.
Instead—
Tick.
The ball caromed off his glove. He lunged with everything he had, stretching the leather out again, but the ball was already past him, headed somewhere uncatchable.
The runner on first took off for second.
Ah…
A groan from the Wizards fans in left field.
Waaaaaaaaah!!
A roar from the Irons fans packing the stadium.
In the middle of it all, Gong Ji-hoo was already thinking this inning was going to be rough and planning the next play—when only one player refused to quit.
Thwack.
The ball off Lee Se-ho’s glove…! Park Ji-han! It’s Park Ji-han! The ball that popped up after hitting Se-ho’s glove—Park Ji-han appears out of nowhere and snags it clean! Immediate throw to first!
Pop!
The baseball nestled into the glove Lee Dae-beom instinctively stuck out, his face pure panic.
Double play! The runner from first never makes it back—he’s out! The Suwon Wizards turn two in one swing! Park Ji-han’s super play! If the Irons have Ryu Hyun-seo, the Wizards have Park Ji-han—an unbelievable defensive gem!
Watching it, Gong Ji-hoo knew for certain.
“We won.”
How important is momentum in baseball?
Honestly? I still don’t really know.
When Ryu Hyun-seo hit that homer and lit the comeback fuse, that was the Irons’ momentum. When Park Ji-han snagged the ball that popped off Lee Se-ho’s glove and turned the double play, that was the Wizards’ momentum. And if the Irons’ lineup had scored again right after that double play?
Then it would have been the Irons’ momentum all over again.
In the end, momentum is a little bit of a results-based word. And right now, the team riding the wave was us—the Suwon Wizards.
Score: 4–2.
What had looked ready to turn into a slugfest after the delay settled down under strong pitching from both sides.
A two-run gap. Close enough to feel catchable, far enough that it never quite closed. Before I knew it, we were in the eighth.
Whoosh, whoosh.
I was swinging in the on-deck circle, finishing my prep for what would probably be my last at-bat of the night.
“….”
I gave a quick nod to Han Seong-gon, who wore a stone-hard face, and settled into my stance.
On base: Park Ji-han, who had just doubled. His second double of the game.
Game Four. Park Ji-han was producing on both sides of the ball—enough to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with Ryu Hyun-seo.
Ah, maybe not quite…
Ryu Hyun-seo with the two-run shot. Park Ji-han with the two-out defensive masterpiece.
Close enough, I guess.
He said his dream was to beat Ryu Hyun-seo once…
I wondered if Park Ji-han would walk away from tonight satisfied.
I glanced over. Han Seong-gon sat behind the plate, eyes burning, silent. Early in the game we had actually chatted pretty comfortably. That told me how desperately he wanted this one too.
I wasn’t so socially bankrupt that I would waste words in a moment like this.
“Hoo.”
A deep breath.
My last at-bat would be the dagger that sealed tonight’s win.
Why?
Because I decided it would be.
The pitcher on the mound. The ball leaving his hand and coming toward me.
Whooosh!
Ever since I took him deep twice in Game One, Han Seong-gon had stubbornly lived down in the zone. The idea was that even if I made contact, it wouldn’t leave the yard.
How had that actually worked out?
This entire playoff series—after Game One—I had homered in every single game. Today was no different.
I tracked the low, well-located sinker.
CRAAAAAACK!!
I like symmetry.
The first game of the playoffs had two home runs. So the last game should finish with two home runs too.
The white speck vanishing into the distance was headed for Seoul.
Pitter-patter.
Rain starting to fall again.
Thud.
I lifted my glove and caught the ball coming my way. No early-game mistakes this time.
And—
Beep!
The ball I caught became the final out of the night.
The playoff series was decided in Gwangju.
Final winners: the Suwon Wizards.
…
A stadium full of silence.
Waaaaaaaaaah!!!
From left field—where I stood—a sudden, massive roar erupted. The pocket of Suwon Wizards fans tucked into the corner of the outfield.
To them—
Whoosh.
I lightly tossed the ball that had just put the period on the game, then headed for the mound, which already looked like a party.
“Yes! This time it’s real! We’re going for the championship!!”
Lee Dae-beom, wearing a bright, sunny grin, had already hoisted closer Kim Moo-shin—who had shut down the ninth with a clean inning—onto his shoulders and was looking around.
“Hey! Charlie!”
The foreign-worker abuser called out in clumsy English to the foreigner who had worked the hardest today. Charlie, today’s winning pitcher, looked just as happy; he came over for a handshake when Dae-beom called.
But—
Squeeze.
“Oh…”
Instead of shaking hands, Dae-beom pulled Charlie into a one-armed hug—while still holding another full-grown man aloft with the other arm.
As expected, that muscle pig’s raw strength was no joke.
Then—
“Congratulations.”
Someone in a red uniform walked up and offered us his congratulations.
“Sunbae.”
It was Ryu Hyun-seo.
“Hoo… It’s disappointing, but our skill just wasn’t enough. Still, personally, I really hope you guys win it all.”
That way we won’t feel as empty either.
He finished the short speech and walked away.
“Man… that sunbae stays completely calm right to the end.”
Lee Dae-beom said it while watching him go, but—
“I don’t know about that.”
Up close, his eyes were as red and bloodshot as his uniform.
After the game, the player-of-the-game interview went, of course, to me.
Charlie, who had come back on three days’ rest and thrown five scoreless for the win. Park Ji-han with the spectacular defense. Lee Dae-beom, who had launched a monster home run over 125 meters. All of them were there.
But honestly, none of them could touch my numbers.
Charlie, fine. Park Ji-han had been excellent on both sides of the ball, but stacked against my two home runs it still felt a little light. And—
I had something that was basically a web gem of my own, too.
A defensive play no one notices is still a defensive play.
As for Dae-beom—he was never in the conversation. How dare he try to snatch player of the game with a single home run.
Before the interview I stopped by the restroom for a second.
“…Ji-hoo.”
I ran into Ryu Hyun-seo by chance.
“You worked hard, sunbae-nim.”
“Yeah. Heading to the interview? I always look forward to yours.”
We exchanged a few words and parted ways.
“Yeah. He wasn’t calm at all.”
I checked his eyes one more time. Still red.
“Hmm…”
Ryu Hyun-seo already owned a Korean Series ring. He had been Korean Series MVP once. Next year he was already set to leave Korea for the big leagues. Throughout the playoffs you could spot foreigners who looked like Major League scouts in the stands.
And still—
“Is he really that disappointed…?”
I’ll be honest. I still don’t fully understand that feeling.
Of course I hate losing too. Nobody who plays sports actually likes losing more than winning. Athletes especially.
But—
A championship he had already tasted once… was it really that desperate for someone already headed higher?
“Tsk.”
For a guy whose only goal used to be escaping the second team, it’s something I just can’t know.
Right now I’m simply happy that I get to play baseball on a baseball field at all. Someday, will I—
“Feel that disappointed too?”
I still don’t know. But I hope the day I feel that emotion comes as late as possible.
That’s what I thought.