Before the Bench Cools
An unfamiliar commute.
By my standards, a full six years had passed before I once again faced Suwon Stadium. Unlike the shabby minor-league grounds, it greeted me looking clean and polished.
“In the old days, just looking at that stadium made it hard to breathe…”
Back then, the moment I heard about a first-team call-up, I was already out of my mind from the second I left Iksan.
This time, though, my chest had been swelling with excitement from the moment I boarded the bus to Suwon. It was anticipation.
“Hello!”
After buying an iced americano at the café, I headed for the stadium.
“You’re here.”
The first-team manager of the Suwon Wizards, Kim Tae-sik, spoke to me in a tone as cold as his expressionless face.
Kim Tae-sik.
The legendary ace of the now-vanished Suwon Dolphins. A pitcher-turned-manager who, during his playing days in the nineties, had thrived even on the national team with fastballs that regularly cracked 150 km/h.
The Suwon Wizards—constantly bashed in the communities as a rootless franchise because of their short history—had hired Manager Kim Tae-sik in an attempt to show they had inherited the legacy of the Suwon Dolphins in their own way.
Or so the club’s operations team had claimed in past interviews.
“The Suwon Wizards inherited the Suwon Dolphins? I don’t know about that. I’ll just work hard for the team’s victories.”
When asked about it, Manager Kim Tae-sik had answered exactly like that.
It wasn’t a particularly loaded statement. Yet in the communities it became the representative phrase for the Suwon Wizards—proof, they said, that the team still had no roots.
Controversy aside, he was undeniably a capable manager.
He’s made the postseason every single season for the three years since he took over…
In the KBO, five of the ten teams compete in the postseason. It sounds simple enough, but actually cracking the top five is no easy feat. There are teams that have failed to make it for seven straight years.
And for a club with depth as thin as the Wizards’ to reach the postseason three years running? That alone showed how thorough Manager Kim Tae-sik’s player management really was.
The problem was—
“I just called you up to fill the roster numbers. Don’t even think about playing.”
Manager Kim Tae-sik hated me.
Despite Kim Tae-sik’s icy words, Gong Ji-hoo left with a bright smile.
A coach who had watched the exchange spoke up.
“Manager… are you really not going to use Gong Ji-hoo?”
“Do you believe in Gong Ji-hoo?”
“…”
The coach couldn’t bring himself to say yes.
Who was Gong Ji-hoo, after all?
A prospect among prospects—the kind every coach and the manager himself had high hopes for after two straight years of .400 averages in the Futures League. Yet for reasons no one could pin down, he struggled more than anyone to adapt to the first team. A classic Minor League Yeopo.
The longer his first-team slump dragged on, the more disappointed they became—more disappointed, even, than Gong Ji-hoo himself.
“Honestly, even while calling him up to Suwon yesterday, I didn’t have high expectations.”
“But his second-team numbers after coming back have been overwhelming, haven’t they?”
“Has Gong Ji-hoo ever failed to hit in the second team?”
“No…”
“Still, I get the feeling that maybe this time it could be different.”
“Huh?”
The coach fell silent, wondering if something really had changed in Gong Ji-hoo.
“He’s smiling even after walking into the stadium… In the past he looked like he was about to die starting from the entrance.”
Contrary to Gong Ji-hoo’s own assumption, Kim Tae-sik did not hate him. If anything, he considered the kid a player overflowing with talent and rather cherished him.
“Then shall we put Gong Ji-hoo in the starting lineup today?”
“With the ranking race this tight, you want to take a gamble? Are you a spy?”
Even so, Gong Ji-hoo’s karmic debt ran deep.
Manager Kim Tae-sik was an honest man.
Before the game started, my name was nowhere on the starting lineup.
“I didn’t particularly expect it, but…”
Shin Tae-yong, out with injury, was a solid player. Not someone who dominated the league, but always a reliable mid-tier performer—like a bowl of gukbap. Manager Kim Tae-sik must have been racking his brains over the replacement.
The player who got the nod was—
“Hoo… If I just seize this chance… I’ll be the starter.”
Jeong Geun-wook, tension written all over his face.
He wasn’t a player who left much of an impression on me.
Once again, before the regression my social skills had been in complete ruins. I didn’t even have close friends in the second team; how could I have any among the first-team guys I only saw occasionally?
Even though I had spent a full five years with this club, outside of the locked-in starters I mostly couldn’t even remember names.
His stats… low .200s. Still higher than my career first-team average, though.
It was a pitiful record.
And the one who inspired even less trust than a player with those pitiful numbers was none other than me, Gong Ji-hoo.
Still, just in case an opportunity appeared, I loosened up and focused on my warm-up.
The empty stadium. Soon it would be packed with fans. Sighs and cheers would rise and fall with every single action the players took. Now I wanted to be one of those players too.
“Ji-hoo.”
At the voice calling my name I turned and saw three players.
“Is the injury okay?”
Park Ji-han, the shortstop with the friendly face, asked with genuine concern. Buried under the shortstops who were devouring the league on other teams, he was still an outstanding five-tool player.
“Of course it’s fine. Looking at your second-team numbers, you were flying.”
Lee Dae-beom, the first baseman whose “good physique” was the polite way of putting it, said so. That massive frame told you everything—he was one of the league’s representative power hitters.
“…”
An Sung-woo, the second baseman, silently held out a bottle of water. With his speed and elite baseball IQ he was Manager Kim Tae-sik’s beloved disciple, receiving endless affection.
The three infielders the Suwon Wizards were proud of. Same draft class—first, second, and third round. Familiar faces who had been everyday starters since their rookie years and had already logged five full seasons as first-team regulars.
My classmates.
“Thanks.”
And then me—the guy who boasted the highest name recognition on the Suwon Wizards as the object of mockery.
The Golden Generation of the Suwon Wizards. That was what the 2020 draft class was called.
“What’s up, everyone? I don’t think you guys have ever spoken to me first before.”
A man who rarely even talked with his own classmates. That had been the Gong Ji-hoo of the past.
“Well…! You—”
Lee Dae-beom started to shout something, but Park Ji-han hurriedly clamped a hand over his mouth and spoke quietly.
“Honestly, Ji-hoo, you weren’t exactly the kind of friend who was easy to approach back then, right?”
“Um…”
I couldn’t deny it.
“But… now it feels like we can talk to you. We’re classmates after all, right?”
According to Park Ji-han, these three had wanted to talk to me for a long time. Every time we crossed paths in the first team, though, my face looked so miserable they couldn’t bring themselves to approach—afraid they might make things worse.
In other words—
“It was my problem, huh.”
“That’s right.”
Lee Dae-beom, true to his name, boldly agreed with my self-deprecation. Seeing the silent An Sung-woo nod as well, I could guess just how many problems the old me had carried.
“Then… shall we start over as friends?”
“What kind of cringey line is that… Ji-hoo.”
It was true my personality had brightened after I finished playing and started writing. But brightening up and becoming a social butterfly were two completely different things.
“Puhahaha! Gong Ji-hoo was this kind of character?”
Park Ji-han burst out laughing and continued.
“Anyway, I wanted to get closer, and I also have something to tell you, so I came over.”
What the undisputed starters would say to a guy who had just been called up.
“What is it?”
“Well… there are a lot of seniors who don’t like you, so be careful.”
Was this that thing I saw online—“lately I’m hearing bad things about you from above”?
“It’s not that I’m criticizing you or anything…”
Park Ji-han trailed off, looking embarrassed to even say it.
“As you know, our team isn’t exactly popular. But there’s talk that even if people don’t know the Suwon Wizards, they know the name Gong Ji-hoo… so some seniors apparently find that annoying.”
He added that the way those seniors looked at the three of them wasn’t exactly warm either, and his expression turned a little hollow.
“So… there are seniors who don’t like my name recognition? It’s all notoriety, though.”
“Anyway, a baseball player without fans’ attention is meaningless…”
“In short, it’s lowly jealousy!”
Lee Dae-beom declared boldly.
“Hell, there are guys who hate even aces like us—so how do you think they feel about you, Gong Ji-hoo?”
I thought about it for a second.
A junior who was clearly worse than me. Yet whether it was notoriety or fame, his name value was high. The guy wasn’t friendly, always wore a stiff face, and somehow kept getting chances.
“Wow… I’d hate him too if I were them.”
I could understand why some seniors looked at me unfavorably.
But—
“They do that to you guys too?”
The three infielders were the pillars of the team. Jealousy that reached even them felt like it had crossed a serious line.
“Hoo… Exactly.”
Park Ji-han just sighed.
I thanked him, ended the conversation, and found myself thinking:
With a team this completely messed up, what kind of war is Manager Kim Tae-sik fighting just to stay in the second-place race?
It was 6:30. The game always started at the same time.
Kim Tae-sik watched the players coming in after finishing their defensive half.
Tsk. The relationship between Jeong Geun-wook and the infielders is worse than I thought.
He already knew the chemistry among the players wasn’t smooth. He also knew that a few backups like Jeong Geun-wook harbored one-sided jealousy toward the starters.
He had managed to hold the team together so far, but he could feel that running it was only going to get harder.
It was one thing when he was just a backup… but even after becoming a full-fledged starter once Shin Tae-yong went down, that attitude…
I’m not some elementary-school teacher, damn it.
Kim Tae-sik muttered the rough words inside but outwardly greeted the players with the same blank face as always.
Then—
“Whoa~ As expected, the aces are different! Park Ji-han’s defense is great!”
A cheerful voice rang out from somewhere. Gong Ji-hoo.
He walked over holding a water bottle he had grabbed himself and exchanged a few words with Park Ji-han.
That guy really does seem to have changed a lot…
Gong Ji-hoo’s new demeanor kept catching Kim Tae-sik’s eye.
Thwaaack—!
“Whoa~ Lee Dae-beom! He hit that!”
Even when Lee Dae-beom crushed a home run.
Thud—!
“Wow! Nice ball.”
Even when the starting pitcher Charlie punched out a hitter.
Gong Ji-hoo was cheering with everything he had even though no one was watching him. Truly—
A dugout cheerleader.
It wasn’t only Kim Tae-sik who noticed Gong Ji-hoo screaming himself hoarse.
He was called up today, right? Gong Ji-hoo’s enthusiastic cheering keeps showing up on camera.
After returning from a sudden lower-back injury, he posted a batting average close to .500 with eight home runs in the second team. With numbers that good, it was a natural choice for Manager Kim Tae-sik, who needed to fill Shin Tae-yong’s vacancy.
Those second-team numbers are enormous.
Gong Ji-hoo is a player who has nothing left to prove in the second team. The concern from the Wizards’ side is that he hasn’t performed as well as expected in the first team…
Will we get to see Gong Ji-hoo’s at-bat today?
With a game this tight, that situation could easily come up late. I’m curious whether today will finally be the day he sheds the label of Minor League Yeopo.
Click—!
Ah~ Gong Ji-hoo. Did he realize they were talking about him? He just looked straight at the camera and gave a thumbs-up!
Hahaha! That player always only showed serious faces, but he can show this side too!
I really did cheer my heart out.
Since I figured there was zero chance I’d bat today, I decided that if I couldn’t play I might as well cheer properly.
The hard-fought game had somehow reached the bottom of the ninth.
3–3. A high-level contest where both sides hit well and defended well.
It might even go to extras.
But—
It’s a walk-off setup, though…
The opposing team was the Daegu Rhinos—the first club I had faced in the second team after regressing. And the first team I met right after being called up to the majors was also the Rhinos. A strange connection.
One out, runner on second.
The runner had decent speed, so one clean hit could end it.
The next batter was the eighth hitter: Jeong Geun-wook, who had stepped into the starting role after Shin Tae-yong’s injury.
Today’s line: three strikeouts and nothing else…
He was a guy whose average sat in the low .200s to begin with.
“Tsk. We’re going to extras.”
Lee Dae-beom muttered from the seat beside me.
“Uh-huh. Our friend seems a little short on awareness.”
Truthfully, I also thought extras were the more likely outcome.
Manager Kim Tae-sik felt the same unease about leaving the game in Jeong Geun-wook’s hands.
“Hey.”
After a brief moment of thought, Kim Tae-sik spoke to the coach.
“The noisy one. Get him ready.”
“Huh?”
“Gong Ji-hoo! Get him ready.”
The instant I heard those words I was on my feet, bat already in hand, waiting for the coach’s call.
“Gong Ji-hoo, pinch hitter!”
“Yes!”
I started walking toward the batter’s box.
“Hey, can you end it?”
To Lee Dae-beom’s question I answered like this:
“I’ll be back before the bench cools.”
My back looked every bit as confident as the words.
“You crazy bastard. That just sounds like you’re saying you’ll hurry up, make an out, and come right back.”