Lucky, I Guess
Ten wins without a single loss.
First place in the regular season.
With that overwhelming record, the shoulders of every Rhinos fan were soaring high enough to pierce the sky.
Back in high school I couldn't even look a bully in the eye. I used to litter wherever I wanted and spit on the ground all the time. But ever since I became a Rhinos fan, I've been trying hard to maintain some dignity.
Just now I saw a snack bag lying on the sidewalk, so I picked it up and threw it in the trash.
In school I couldn't even make eye contact with fellow losers, let alone the bullies. Now I can order delivery food in a loud, clear voice, and I can even look the part-timers at the convenience store PC bang right in the eye.
No matter how shitty my day gets, when I shower and ask myself, "Who am I?" and answer, "A Daegu Rhinos fan," I end up smiling and feeling better.
I guess that's why they say the position makes the person.
Rhinos fans carried a fierce pride. Part of it came from the fact that the Rhinos were an original franchise that had existed since the very first day of the KBO. But more than anything else, it came from their glorious past.
From 2011 to 2014 the Rhinos had achieved four consecutive overall championships. Back then baseball fans used to joke that "baseball is the sport where everyone bickers among themselves until the Rhinos win the title." They had dominated the KBO so completely that people simply called them a dynasty. That was the Daegu Rhinos.
And because of that, after the Rhinos dynasty fell, the fans developed an incurable disease of their own.
The revival of the Rhinos dynasty begins this year…
The fall of the Rhinos dynasty had been inevitable. Behind the dazzling four consecutive overall titles there had, of course, been a dark side as well.
Constant first-place finishes pushed their draft picks lower and lower, so they never got the chance to select top prospects. On top of that, a listless scouting department half-assed its job. The Rhinos failed to properly develop the next generation of dynasty heirs.
After they failed to win the Korean Series in 2015, most of the core players either transferred or retired, and the once-overwhelming roster strength inevitably weakened. From then on the Daegu Rhinos never suffered a dramatic freefall, but they did endure the bitter experience of missing the postseason five years in a row.
That combination of longing for the fallen dynasty and lingering affection for the current team made Rhinos fans especially prone to premature celebration. Online communities began calling it "dynasty disease."
The moment the team showed even a little success, the fans would declare the dynasty reborn and shout that their team was the greatest. Yet looking at five straight years of postseason failure, it was obvious the dynasty had never returned—not even by 2025, a full decade later.
This year, however, was different. At least, that was what the Rhinos fans believed. After all, they had opened the season with ten straight wins.
What those slowly emerging dynasty-disease patients were overlooking was a simple truth: no team wins forever, and the higher you stand, the harder the fall.
Changwon Gamers, Game 3.
Despite Gong Ji-hoo's consecutive hits and the rest of the lineup's desperate efforts, the collapsed pitching staff handed the Rhinos their first loss of the season.
The fans still declared themselves satisfied with a winning series.
Ten wins, one loss. Still first place. Two games ahead of second.
Gwangju Irons, Game 3.
Facing the Irons again after the opening series, the Rhinos pitchers threw well, but the bats fell silent and they lost.
Gong Ji-hoo managed one hit and two walks.
The fans called it nothing more than a two-game skid and voiced mild disappointment.
Ten wins, two losses. Still first place. One game ahead of second.
Gwangju Irons, Game 4.
Having lost momentum on both sides of the ball, the Rhinos dropped a third straight game and recorded their first losing series of the year.
Fans who celebrated early were just as quick to complain; they were already raging that the team was showing "DTD" already.
Ten wins, three losses. Now tied for first.
And the next day…
Glug-glug.
I sipped my iced americano and took stock of the locker-room atmosphere. It was brighter than I expected.
Pretty bright…
After the season's first three-game skid had dropped us into a first-place tie, I figured everyone would be quietly stewing. Apparently not.
"Ji-hoo, what's with that face?"
"Huh? What's wrong with my face?"
"It's already rough enough. When you scrunch it up like that you look even scarier, you punk."
"I look… rough?"
What the hell.
"If anyone here looks rough, it's you, Ho-san hyung."
"What?!"
I happen to think I have a pretty decent face.
"At least I don't have tattoos… Every time I see that arm ink and gold chain of yours I feel like I'm looking at some street thug."
"Hey, the tattoos and the gold chain are—"
"A baseball player's symbols? Along with the clutch bag?"
"Exactly!"
They must have learned their civilian fashion from actual gangsters living somewhere.
Maybe the reason gangsters walk around carrying baseball bats is some deep correlation between ballplayers and thugs…
Anyway.
"Why bring up my face all of a sudden?"
"Because you looked like you were in a foul mood."
Was it that obvious? Still.
"We're on a three-game skid. Isn't it normal to feel bad? And now we're only tied for first…"
"The Wolves are something else, huh? They went on a three-game winning streak while we were losing three."
"Well, yeah…"
They were a strong team. I wondered if Manager Dong Sang-guk felt a little bitter about it. Watching your old club keep winning even after you leave always leaves a weird taste in your mouth, no matter how well your current team is doing. That was exactly how Gong Ji-hoo of the Daegu Rhinos used to feel whenever he looked at the Suwon Wizards.
Kang Ho-san studied my expression and broke into a pleased grin.
"Man… You hit so well I honestly started wondering if you'd actually regressed or something."
"Wh-what?!"
That single line from Kang Ho-san nearly gave regressor Gong Ji-hoo a heart attack.
"This is the first year you're playing the whole season as a regular, after all."
Right. A little human warmth was good. Kang Ho-san added that while looking at me.
"You're not seriously thinking we're going to win all 144 games, are you?"
"Well, no…"
The all-time highest winning percentage was probably around .700. And of course the team that held that record was the prestigious KBO franchise known as the Rhinos.
Heh. Did I catch that from Tae-wook hyung?
"Ten and three isn't bad—it's actually fantastic."
"But it's still a three-game skid…"
"Yeah, that part's a shame."
Even so.
"We're still in first place in the regular season. So there's no need to get all gloomy just because we dropped a few games."
"I learned that from the seniors," Kang Ho-san said, pointing toward Song Han-su.
"From Han-su hyung?"
"Han-su hyung and a few others. Real legends."
"…I see."
Of course.
"But a four-game skid is not happening! The Wolves' momentum is scary right now!"
Kang Ho-san raised his voice.
"And last year the Irons humiliated us! Giving them a losing series isn't enough—we're about to get swept? That is absolutely not happening!"
The players listening to him caught fire.
"So today we win! We have to!"
Amazingly, this scatterbrained hyung was the captain of the Rhinos. And…
More than I expected…
He seemed born for the job.
Irons, Game 5.
Just as Kang Ho-san had said, even with a four-game skid and a sweep hanging over our heads, Manager Dong Sang-guk made no changes to the lineup.
I can already see the fans cursing the manager out.
From a player's perspective, though, it wasn't bad. No sudden adjustments to adapt to, and…
Who doesn't like being trusted?
There was a reason people talked about "faith baseball." Of course, the players who could actually repay that faith were rare. Someone like Song Han-su standing in the box right now, for example.
Top of the first.
After Jang Tae-wook flied out to the infield, I drew a walk and took first base. Garcia followed with a single, putting runners on first and second. Cleanup hitter Kang Ho-san launched a deep fly ball that would have been gone in Rhinos Park; as the runner on second I coasted easily into third.
That left us with two outs and runners on the corners. Song Han-su stepped in.
Crack!
He stroked the incoming pitch cleanly with the grain of the bat.
Thock.
I scored from third without any trouble. The first run of the game settled the restless public mood that had been simmering after three straight losses.
Bottom of the first.
The Rhinos' starter was second-year rookie Sim Ji-hwan, who had already posted quality starts or better in consecutive outings.
Thwack!!
"Strike!"
Sim Ji-hwan pressed the hitters with his trademark mid-150s fastball. But then—
Crack!!
The shortstop who had been a key piece of last year's miracle third-place Powderz run, then signed a massive free-agent deal to fill Ryu Hyun-seo's shoes with the Irons, showed exactly why he had that reputation. Clean, precise swing.
I thought it was a clean leadoff single… until—
Thok!
"Huh?"
"Out!"
My glove had shot out on pure instinct, and the white ball was already nestled inside, proudly announcing its presence.
"Tch."
The Irons' leadoff man clicked his tongue hard, spat, and trudged back to the dugout.
Line-drive out to third.
"Nice! Thanks, hyung!"
I nodded at Sim Ji-hwan's applause, settled back into my defensive stance, and then—
Crack!!
"Out!"
Again?
Once more I simply stuck out my glove without moving my feet and casually recorded the out.
"…Whoa."
"…Amazing, hyung!"
I understood that a second-year kid like Sim Ji-hwan was trying to show respect to his senior by clapping every time I made a play, but…
Calling something like this amazing is a bit much…
I literally just stuck my hand out and the ball flew right into it. Barely even counted as defense. Still…
It does feel good…
Luck or skill, I couldn't tell, but the result was two consecutive line-drive outs to third. Two outs recorded with almost no effort. And then—
The Irons' three-hole hitter stepped in.
Thwack!!
"Strike!"
Sim Ji-hwan seized the first strike with a fastball on the hands, but—
Thwack!!
"Ball."
Thwack!
"Ball."
The second pitch sailed for a ball as his command wavered. Even the changeup he threw to fool the hitter was fouled off with discipline.
One strike, two balls. Hitter's count.
Knowing hyung's personality… he'll just go right after him.
Kang Ho-san liked to call himself nothing more than a glorified ball-catcher, but in reality he was the classic old-school catcher: calling his own game, leading the pitcher with signs, and tormenting hitters with nonstop chatter.
"You have to let the pitcher throw the pitch he's most confident in, the one he likes best. That way I get yelled at less."
He had said that once over a meal. Ignoring the little add-on at the end, his pitching leadership always matched those words. So of course he would call for the four-seam fastball Sim Ji-hwan trusted most.
Crack!
Just as expected, a four-seamer thrown with everything he had. The hitter saw it coming into the zone and swung hard, but the extra life on the heater overpowered the bat and produced a high infield pop-up.
Huh?
Thok.
One step.
Thok.
Two steps.
Thok.
"Out!"
I caught the infield fly after moving only two steps.
Bottom of the first. All three outs had come to my glove. I had taken exactly two steps total.
"Man… what even is Gong Ji-hoo?"
Kang Ho-san marveled as we headed back to the dugout. I looked at him and said the line every regressor is required to deliver at least once—one of the top three mandatory phrases.
"Lucky, I guess."
Honestly, I had always wanted to say it.