Cliché
“Hahaha… I thought I could tough it out, but it turned out like this.”
Lee Se-ho tried to scratch his head with his left hand and immediately winced.
“You’re wincing just from bending it?”
“Yeah…”
“How long has this been going on?”
“W-well…”
Park Ji-han thumped his own chest in frustration. The tone was rougher than usual for him.
“Hey… don’t talk to him like that. It’s not like Senior wanted to get hurt.”
Oddly enough, it was Lee Dae-beom who stepped in to soothe Lee Se-ho.
“No, I really did screw the team over.”
“That’s not what I meant!”
“I know you’re saying it because you’re worried about me… but sorry is still sorry.”
Park Ji-han let out a long breath and dropped heavily into a chair.
Was he always this sensitive about injuries?
For a player, injury is basically a tax. You want to dodge it, but you never can. Even the so-called Iron Men can’t keep a perfect body through a long season. I was no exception. This year I’d already missed a long stretch with a lower-back injury before the mental stuff even kicked in.
“…I’m sorry. It just reminded me of someone I know who went through hell because of an injury…”
Ryu Hyun-seo, huh.
Ryu Hyun-seo had once lost an entire season to injury. That one lost year was still the reason he couldn’t jump to the majors until this season ended.
“It’s fine, it’s fine. Dae-beom’s one thing, but everyone knows you’re a good kid, Ji-han.”
“I was the one shielding him just now?!”
Lee Se-ho’s story went like this. He’d felt the pain starting in the playoffs, but once the Korean Series began the ache had vanished.
“So I figured it was nothing…”
He’d actually been showing peak form, so the pain had gradually slipped from his mind.
“Then yesterday it suddenly got worse.”
In short—
“You got careless.”
“Yeah.”
On the flip side—
“We’re lucky we found out now while it still hurts.”
“…”
Injury management is a skill too. No matter how overwhelming a player’s talent, a glass body means he’ll never become a truly great one. Still—
“I usually take care of my body pretty thoroughly…”
Lee Se-ho was one of the better condition managers on the Wizards. The reason he hadn’t noticed until his wrist got this bad was simple.
“Because the championship was right in front of us…”
As an original member of the Suwon Wizards, Lee Se-ho had wanted that first title more desperately than anyone—so desperately he couldn’t even feel the pain.
“Getting hurt can’t be helped. You’re not retiring the second we win, right?”
So—
“Just watch from the bench. We’ll bring you a championship ring.”
“Alternatives?”
“…We do have Seon-jun.”
At the same moment, the Suwon Wizards’ front office was discussing third base.
“He’s too weak.”
“Still, among the infield backups, Seon-jun is the best we’ve got.”
First option: Im Seon-jun. A utility backup who could handle every infield spot, but—
“Hitting aside, even his defense is iffy.”
“He won’t give us the same stability Se-ho does.”
He could merely “handle” the position, nothing more.
“And he’s only a second-year rookie. First time in fall baseball?”
“…Yes. There’s a chance he stays calm like Ji-hoo and performs, but…”
Even so, his ceiling was nowhere near Gong Ji-hoo’s.
“Anyone besides Im Seon-jun?”
“…”
The coach’s second option was—
“…Ji-hoo.”
“What?”
Gong Ji-hoo.
“He has a decent amount of third-base experience in the minors. I asked the second-team coaches—his defense itself wasn’t bad. They said he’d pass with a solid grade.”
“…”
Gong Ji-hoo’s third-base defense being serviceable wasn’t the problem. The problem was—
“If we move Gong Ji-hoo to third, who takes left field?”
“…Jeong Geun-wook, I suppose.”
“Is there any upside to that?”
The coach couldn’t answer easily. Jeong Geun-wook had more years under his belt, so he’d adapt to fall baseball faster than Im Seon-jun, but in the end he was still the same guy who—
“Got pushed aside by Shin Tae-yong when he was here, then got pushed aside by Gong Ji-hoo the moment he came up. Both sides of the ball.”
“Yes.”
“Is he better than Im Seon-jun?”
“About the same…”
“Then there’s no reason to dump extra defensive burden on Gong Ji-hoo.”
“Yes.”
Changing defensive positions is a delicate issue. It can mess with a hitter’s swing. And Gong Ji-hoo was—
“Right now the core of our lineup is Gong Ji-hoo, no question. We can’t risk him losing that bat feel for nothing.”
“So we go with Seon-jun?”
“…”
Manager Kim Tae-sik stayed silent.
“No choice. Still, ask Gong Ji-hoo. You never know—he might actually want third base.”
Kim Tae-sik crumpled the cigarette pack in his pocket out of sheer frustration.
“Huh? Can I play third base?”
The question came out of nowhere.
They’re asking me? Must mean the alternatives are that thin.
“Yeah. You played a few games at third in the minors.”
“Hmm… I don’t think I can. I’m just not used to it.”
“Hoo… Yeah. Even I thought it was a stretch.”
The coach nodded and walked off. Watching him go—
“I thought we were about to see third baseman Gong Ji-hoo.”
Lee Dae-beom said.
“Hard to pull that off. This isn’t the regular season—it’s the Korean Series.”
“Why not? You just fill the hole like novel Gong Ji-hoo and become the hero of the chaos, right?”
“That’s a novel.”
Truth was, I was pretty confident at third. I’d been an infielder in high school. Back in the minors, when I couldn’t crack the first team with my bat, I’d practiced infield defense hard just so I could at least make it up as a utility guy.
The regression is the problem.
For Minor League Yeopo Gong Ji-hoo, regression was a blessing. Everything I was doing now was possible because of it. But sometimes regression became the problem—exactly like now.
How long has it been since I last stood in the infield… six years? Seven? Definitely more than five.
In the time only I had lived through, I hadn’t been a player at all. I’d lived a life completely unrelated to baseball.
After regressing, hitting had come back fine. The muscle memory and my talent had instinctively found the answers. Defense, though—
Even adjusting to the outfield took a little time.
I was never a defensive prodigy to begin with. What I had now was pure grind. So—
“I can’t play third right now.”
“Tsk tsk… Reality really has no romance.”
Lee Dae-beom looked oddly disappointed, so I said—
“There is a way for me to play the infield, though.”
That made the muscle pig bite the bait instantly.
“What is it?”
“You play third. I can still handle first.”
“Ha… Time to dust off the memories of Gyeongsang High shortstop Lee Dae-beom?”
“You crazy bastard…”
Where the hell did that confidence even come from?
“I was called Spider Hands in high school, you know!”
“Now you’re Pig’s Feet.”
Anyway—
“Better to leave it to the actual backup than have either of us move to third and wreck our swings.”
“Think Seon-jun can handle it?”
Hmm. He was a good junior, but—
“As long as he doesn’t freeze up, he’ll be average. The bat… just think of it as a rest spot in the order.”
“Cold-blooded.”
“It’s an important game.”
The real problem was—
“So our lineup already has two rest spots. Haha. Even a highway doesn’t put rest stops right next to each other.”
This team already had one built-in rest spot.
“A designated hitter as a rest spot… what kind of weird team is this…”
On the Suwon Wizards, the DH was basically just filling a roster spot. Because the best hitters were also the best defenders, and defense mattered even more in a short series. We didn’t have a pure defensive specialist like the Wolves’ Park Jeong-woo. We didn’t have pure bats either. Only the starters carried every burden. That was the Suwon Wizards.
Still—
“Let’s just take one more win. Even without Se-ho Senior, one win is doable, right?”
Beep!
Standing in the on-deck circle waiting for my turn, Gong Ji-hoo heard the final whistle and thought: I’d told Lee Se-ho to wait on the bench while I brought him a ring. Looks like that would have to wait for next time.
Korean Series Game 5, with starting third baseman Lee Se-ho out with injury. The winner was—
Seoul Wolves 6 – 4 Suwon Wizards.
The Seoul Wolves.
Top of the first.
I stepped into the box before anyone else.
“Good work out there~”
I opened the door on Korean Series Game 6.
“Yeah.”
Lee Mun-woo, the guy I’d seen so much of over the past week I was sick of him.
“Starting to feel attached.”
“Same here.”
We seemed to be feeling the same thing.
“So…”
“Yeah…”
But—
“See you tomorrow?”
“Why does it feel so sad that today might be the last?”
In the end, he and I were enemies.
“Hoo…”
I took a deep breath and waited for the first pitch.
Whoosh!!
The first pitch of Game 6 was—
A ball out of the zone.
“Ball.”
A fastball that missed the strike zone by a mile.
“…”
“You know it’s not, right?”
“Yeah, whatever.”
I stepped out and took a couple of practice swings.
Game 5 had been frustrating. Honestly, the lineup had done everything it could. Even without starter Lee Se-ho we’d still scored four runs. The Im Seon-jun we’d been worried about—
He’d been basically air at the plate, but he’d done his job on defense.
The reason we lost wasn’t Lee Se-ho or Im Seon-jun. It was simply—
Looks like we won’t be seeing Jack next season.
Our foreign pitcher had hit rock bottom again after Game 1. KBO will keep giving chances to a guy who can’t even hit .200 for years, but the same league will start talking release the second a foreigner bombs a big game—no matter how good his regular-season numbers were. The inevitable sorrow of the foreign worker, I guess.
Thwack!!
“Ball.”
Second pitch, another ball.
His name was… Wheeler, right?
The foreign pitcher on the mound was the same. He’d been terrible in Game 2.
“I heard people were already talking about releasing him…”
“What? Wheeler?”
“Ah, yeah.”
“That’s because of you.”
“How is that my fault?”
Is working hard a crime now?
Hmm…
The Suwon Wizards still led the series. But—
Everyone’s only thinking about the worst-case scenario…
Especially Im Seon-jun and Lee Se-ho.
“…”
“What are you staring at?”
“Tch.”
The biggest difference between the Suwon Wizards and the Seoul Wolves? Mentality, pure and simple.
“I’m jealous.”
“Of me?”
“No, of the Wolves.”
Winning mentality. The Seoul Wolves, perennial Korean Series guests with plenty of titles, had it. The Suwon Wizards—
…None of them have ever won anything.
Whoosh!!
I swung at the third pitch.
Tick.
“Foul!”
A disappointing foul.
And honestly, I didn’t have that winning mentality either. Of course not.
I’m a regressor.
Regression is for failures. I was basically a world-certified failure. But regressor Gong Ji-hoo now knew something important.
Two balls, one strike. I called time and stepped out of the box.
“Senior.”
“What?”
Lee Mun-woo’s face said he was bracing for more nonsense.
“Do you know what’s most important in a competition?”
At my follow-up question—
“This one’s too obvious. An unbreakable heart, right?”
He answered. But—
“Nope.”
“Huh… it’s not?”
An unbreakable heart is something only the strong can have. Teams like the Seoul Wolves. Objectively, even though we led the series, the Wolves were stronger than the Wizards. They were the regular-season champs, after all.
What mattered for us underdogs was—
“What’s important… is the heart that just keeps going even after it breaks.”
It’s fine if your heart breaks. Fine if you collapse. As long as you don’t give up until the end.
“Oh… that’s actually pretty cool.”
“Right?”
So today I was going to do every single thing I could without giving up. First—
Whoosh!!
The Wolves battery’s—
Tick.
“Foul!”
—starting by poking their PTSD.
After all, a kind-hearted protagonist going through regression and turning mean is the cliché of all clichés.