Magic
The called shot.
Whether it actually happened remains unclear.
It was more than a hundred years ago, after all.
Some say it meant he was going to blow the pitcher's head off, and the ball just happened to sail that way. Others claim he simply said one more pitch would do it with two strikes already on him. Or that the whole thing never occurred at all.
Plenty of theories float around.
The most famous, of course, is the one about the home-run king resolving to go deep that day for a sick fan in the stands.
But me? I was a long way from that kind of romance.
What I was doing amounted to threatening the pitcher: don't duck this fight.
And—
"…"
Judging by the burning glare the pitcher fixed on me from the mound, my message had landed.
…Miss this and I'm finished.
It was a massive burden on the batter, too. Succeed and you're a hero. Fail and you're an idiot.
Of course—
I only did it because I was sure.
Even in Jamsil Baseball Stadium, the widest park in Korea. Even with the Wolves' vaunted late-inning arms on the mound. Right now, I was certain I could put one over the wall.
Thwack!!
"Ball."
"Whoa…"
As long as he didn't throw at my head.
I scrambled out of the way of the incoming pitch, then offered an awkward smile.
"…That wasn't an actual beanball, right?"
"…"
I'd tormented the Wolves' pitchers plenty. A little fear was natural. Still, I decided to trust the battery's professional code and their pride.
If that trust was misplaced—
That would scare me too…
I was human. Pain sucked.
Thank god.
Thwack!!
"Strike!"
A four-seamer painted low in the zone. They had chosen to challenge me.
One ball, one strike.
I couldn't read the battery's minds, but their pattern was easy enough to guess. They would attack only down in the zone.
Embarrassing as it was to say out loud, this postseason Gong Ji-hoo was an eight-ton truck with a broken steering wheel.
You couldn't stop him.
Even if my taunt has him furious, he won't go completely wild. It's the eighth. Even if I make contact, they'll try to keep the damage to a minimum.
Whoooosh!!
Today's starter—the free-spending foreign mercenary. Do Jeong-hoo, who had sworn revenge. Looking further back, the Iron pitchers I'd faced in the playoffs. Every one of them had given everything against me.
But—
CRAAAAACK!!!
You never really know until the ball is hit. How good was the guy they used to call the Minor League Yeopo, really?
I tossed the bat with a slow spin and started walking, watching the flight.
I wasn't the only one. Everyone in the park stood frozen, tracking the white speck as it shrank into the distance. Even the right fielder, who was supposed to be moving to catch it.
-Waaaaaaaaah!!!
The scoreboard read:
Seoul Wolves 3 : 5 Suwon Wizards.
The hero's blast had landed.
Bottom of the seventh. The moment the Wolves' explosive lineup had forced a tie, Manager Dong Sang-guk of the Seoul Wolves had exhaled in relief.
Gong Ji-hoo's home-to-first assist had kept them from taking the lead—frustrating, but still the best possible outcome under the circumstances.
Top of the eighth. When the eighth hitter, Im Seon-jun, grounded out on the first pitch, Dong Sang-guk had been downright delighted.
As a senior figure in the baseball world, he felt genuine sympathy that a junior like Lee Se-ho had gone down with an injury. As the Wolves' skipper, though, the absence of an opposing regular was pure gold, and Im Seon-jun's numbers as a backup only confirmed it.
Yeah… not every backup is Gong Ji-hoo…
When the ninth hitter, An Sung-woo, reached base, Dong Sang-guk had felt a flicker of unease. Still, he trusted the man on the mound.
Then, with one out and a runner on first, while he was still weighing whether to put Gong Ji-hoo on intentionally, the kid raised his bat and pointed to the outfield. In that instant Dong Sang-guk realized the choice had never been his.
You cunning little bastard…
In private the kid had always seemed easygoing and decent. Who knew he could pull a stunt this shameless?
…Karma, maybe.
Gong Ji-hoo had been desperate in his own way. The Wolves' entire Korean Series strategy had been built on the premise of ignoring him.
Fine by me. After a show like that, if he makes an out he collapses. Even if he reaches base…
Unless it left the yard, he was still the one taking the loss.
And then—
CRAAAAACK!!!
"Ha…"
Why had the guy everyone dismissed as a Minor League Yeopo suddenly turned into a hero of the chaos, standing square in the Wolves' path? Why didn't the Wolves' own second team have someone like that? Why had Shin Tae-yong's injury dragged Gong Ji-hoo up into the light in the first place?
Watching the ball clear the wall, Dong Sang-guk reached one conclusion.
If taking down that kid with wings is this hard… then just make him one of ours!
Right there on the spot he started running through possible trade chips that could match Gong Ji-hoo—then caught himself.
Hoo… first we have to win this game. Worry about that later…
It was still far too distant a dream.
To protect the two-run lead in the bottom of the eighth, the pitcher who took the mound was Kim Mu-shin—the same arm who had faced only one batter in the seventh.
The fans' anxiety proved baseless.
Kim Mu-shin—
Thwack!!
"Strikeout!"
Thwack!!
"Strikeout!"
Thwack!!
"Swinging strikeout!"
—retired three straight hitters on strikeouts and shut down the bottom of the eighth cold.
The dugout was buzzing.
Even though it was the Suwon Wizards' turn to hit, the players on the bench couldn't focus on the at-bats. They just sat staring blankly out at the field.
"Snap out of it, all of you! The game isn't over!"
Manager Kim Tae-sik's roar brought some focus back into their eyes, but the strange atmosphere lingered.
Tick.
"Out!"
Park Sang-hee's fly ball.
Thwack!!
"Strikeout!"
Bae Jeong-ho's strikeout.
Crack!
"Out!"
Kim Chan-soo's grounder.
Even after a clean three-up, three-down inning, no one looked disappointed. If anything—
Glad it ended fast.
A few of them were probably thinking exactly that.
"One more inning! Hold them for one more inning and you write yourselves into history! Stay locked in until the last out!"
Only then did the fire return to the Suwon Wizards' eyes. Each man steeled himself for what would be the final inning of the season.
And then—
The 2024 Suwon Wizards' immovable ace. Charlie climbed the hill to put the final period on the game.
To the franchise's first championship, only three outs remained.
Thwack!!
Thwack!!
Jamsil Baseball Stadium had gone quiet. The only sound was Charlie's warm-up pitches thudding into the catcher's mitt.
He had started Game 3 and was originally scheduled for a potential Game 7. Manager Kim Tae-sik had no intention of letting the series go that far—and neither did anyone else in a Suwon Wizards uniform.
Charlie had thrown brilliantly through a brutal playoff schedule. Fully rested now, his stuff carried real heat even from the outfield.
The Wolves' lineup he faced started with the same top of the order that had forced the tie in the seventh. Yet Charlie's expression stayed flat, as if pressure simply didn't exist.
Thwack!!
"Strike!"
He jammed a fastball hard onto the inner edge for strike one.
Thwack!!
"Strike!"
The second pitch, a slider, spun the bat cleanly through empty air.
Thwack!!
"Strikeout!"
Another pitch inside froze the hitter completely.
Leadoff man Seo Ha-jin gritted his teeth after being retired on three pitches, but there would be no second chance.
Then—
Tick!
"Damn it!"
The impatient second hitter swung through the first pitch and produced a weak grounder that rolled harmlessly into the infield.
Tak.
It settled into shortstop Park Ji-han's glove.
Thwack!!
"Out!"
The five-tool star the Suwon Wizards boasted about was never going to butcher a routine play.
To the franchise's first championship, only one out remained.
The stadium was so silent you could hear breathing—or rather, the complete absence of it.
— PH Jang Je-hyeok
The third hitter, Lee Mun-woo, who had singled in the seventh, had already been lifted for a pinch-runner. A backup catcher had been behind the plate since. But—
That guy's bat wasn't anything special.
A backup was still a backup. In the end the Seoul Wolves reached for another pinch-hitter.
A speed-and-eye type. They clearly decided that to erase a two-run deficit they first needed a baserunner.
Crack!
A short flare in front of the left fielder—right in front of me.
I took off as if something had possessed me.
Thud.
No one had expected me to climb this far either.
Everyone had said it was over. I had thought so myself.
A miracle had happened.
Whether heaven had helped me, I couldn't say. But—
I had always believed that heaven helps those who help themselves. It came a little late.
In the end, heaven hadn't forgotten me.
No one called me the Minor League Yeopo anymore.
A moment as magical as the team's name. Even if that magic someday broke—
I would never forget this day.
Plip.
For reasons I couldn't name, a single tear fell onto the baseball resting in my glove.
The 2024 KBO season was over.
The Korean Series ended 4–2. The Suwon Wizards had claimed their first championship in franchise history.
And the first Korean Series MVP in club history—
the Minor League Yeopo who had been called up from the second team a month before the fall classic began because a regular went down with an injury—
was Gong Ji-hoo.