There's No Bottom of the Ninth in Suwon
CRAAAACK!!!
A crisp, ringing crack of the bat.
—WAAAAAAAH!!!
Fans from both teams erupted the moment Gong Ji-hoo's home run left the yard. If anything, the Wizard faithful were even louder than the Rhinos' own.
"Anyone watching would think that kid still plays for the Wizards."
"Right? Is the atmosphere always like this at Wizard games?"
"I don't know… I doubt it."
The Rhinos players found the whole scene strangely fascinating. Plenty of guys had come over to the Rhinos through free agency or trades over the years. Not one of them had ever drawn this kind of roar from their former home crowd—especially when they were now wearing the other team's uniform.
"Hey! Su-hyun!"
"Yes, sir!"
"When you got traded, did the Foxes fans ever cheer you like that in your first at-bat against them?"
"Uh… they gave me a decent round of applause before I stepped in, sure…"
"And?"
"I've never hit a home run in my first at-bat against them, so I wouldn't know."
"Ah."
Fair enough. Homering in your first plate appearance against your old club wasn't exactly an everyday occurrence.
"Still, I think I get why the Wizard fans are so happy."
"Yeah? Why's that?"
"He won them a championship."
"Oh."
And more than that—
"He carried them to the first title in franchise history. Maybe this much love is only natural."
On top of which—
"Ji-hoo didn't leave because he wanted to. He got traded."
That was Jeong Su-hyun, the Rhinos outfielder—KBO's reigning expert on changing teams. He'd started his career with the Seoul Foxes, bounced through trades and free agency, and now wore Rhinos colors. Unlike Lee Mun-woo, who'd finally settled with the Seoul Wolves after four different uniforms, Su-hyun still had a second free agency waiting at the end of this season. His perspective as a still-active migratory bird was sharp as ever.
But the reason Gong Ji-hoo was this beloved by Wizard fans went deeper than simply delivering the franchise's first championship.
The Suwon Wizards were an unpopular team, and the front office knew it. They'd hired Kim Tae-sik—ace of the old Suwon Dolphins—as manager specifically to reel in the old-timers. The result, as everyone knew, was Kim Tae-sik himself declaring, I don't give a damn about any of that.
Among the so-called Box-Office Flop Alliance of unloved clubs, they were the least popular of all: a baby franchise with no roots and no titles. That was the Suwon Wizards before Gong Ji-hoo regressed.
Which meant every player who left the Wizards shared one common trait—their mouths became dangerously free.
—"I've never heard a roar like this with the Wizards."
That was a founding Wizard player, freelancing to another club, in his very first interview.
—"It's different from my old team. You can really feel what a franchise with history has going for it."
That one came from a guy who'd been traded into a new uniform. And so it went. Former Wizards slagging off their old club became one of the few traditions the short-history franchise actually possessed.
It wasn't as if these guys held some deranged philosophy like Who cares if there are no fans—the game still gets played, or More fans in the stands doesn't mean bigger paychecks. Most of them were known for excellent fan service, which only made the sting worse for Wizard supporters.
The only players who truly cherished that tiny handful of Wizard fans were the ones still wearing the uniform. And whenever a departed player dropped one of those interviews, the vast majority of other teams' fans piled on to shut the Wizard faithful down.
So what are you gonna do about it?
Wizard fans had spent years swallowing that line and enduring the rough times.
And then, almost alone among them, Gong Ji-hoo kept showing respect for his old club. Even after the trade, Wizard fans couldn't help but love him.
Of course—
"Hmm… think those folks would still be cheering if Ji-hoo went deep again next at-bat?"
"No way. Their team would be losing."
Charlie was Charlie. It might sound like nonsense, but there was nothing else to say.
After giving up the home run to me, Charlie went right back to work.
THWACK!!
"Strike three!"
THWACK!!
"Swing and a miss—strike three!"
He punched out the next two hitters in a row and refused to let another baserunner on.
Our starter, though, was no slouch either. Howard—a six-year veteran import. Age had shaved a little off his velocity, but he'd always been a pitch-to-contact guy. The extra years had only made him craftier. A dip in speed meant nothing to him.
CRACK!
Lead-off man Park Ji-han smoked a double off him, and for a second it looked like the first inning might collapse.
TICK.
"Out!"
An Sung-woo lifted a harmless infield fly.
CRACK!
"Out!"
The Wizards' foreign hitter bounced one to second. Just like that, Howard had two outs.
In the meantime Park Ji-han had taken third, but—
THWACK!!
"Strike!"
Howard attacked Lee Dae-beom's least favorite spot—inside—with a four-seam fastball.
THWACK!!
"Strike!"
Then a diving slider to pull the bat through the zone.
CRACK!
And when a rattled Dae-beom got anxious, Howard came right back with a two-seamer in the exact same spot as the first pitch. The weak, mishit grounder rolled lazily toward me at third.
The result was inevitable.
THWACK!!
"Out!"
I tossed it over to first at a leisurely pace and still had him by a mile.
An easy out? Just how full is this guy?
Sprinting full-out was supposed to be a hitter's basic job. I stared at Dae-beom in pure disbelief.
"Huff… huff…"
He was gasping for air.
"Ah."
He hadn't been out by a mile because he was psychologically full of himself. He'd been out by a mile because he was physically full.
Both pitchers on the mound lived up to their reputations through the second inning.
Top of the second: three up, three down.
Bottom of the second: three up, three down.
The entire second inning took ten minutes. Factoring in the changeover between halves, the whole thing was over in a blink.
Then the top of the third. After Jang Tae-wook scratched out a lucky hit that somehow found grass, we had a runner on first with nobody out—my second at-bat of the night.
Charlie's first pitch—
CRACK.
—became a foul that just barely stayed fair of the line.
Still not easy…
Everyone agreed Gong Ji-hoo was an outstanding hitter. But nobody—not even me—expected me to recreate last fall's postseason magic for an entire season. Looking back, the version of me from those games had been a complete maniac.
Even so, if you asked who the most terrifying hitter in the KBO was with runners on base, my name would come up first every time. So I had to live up to that reputation.
THWACK!!
"Ball."
I laid off the diving off-speed pitch.
THWACK!!
"Ball."
I took the fastball that just missed the zone.
Two balls, one strike—the exact reverse of my first at-bat. A hitter's count.
WHOOOOSH!!
Charlie drove a fastball down into the bottom of the zone.
CRAAAACK!!
I swung with full confidence. A hard line drive rocketed back through the middle, low and screaming.
Got it.
But celebrating early is a sin. The instant Charlie finished his delivery he leapt, glove stabbing downward—
THUNK.
—and the ball nestled into the leather as if it had been drawn there by magnets.
"Whoa…"
A picture-perfect snare. Add Charlie's deadpan expression as he casually showed the ball in his glove, and you had a highlight-reel defensive gem.
"Tch."
I smacked my lips, then—
THUMP.
—raised a thumb toward Charlie. That play deserved it.
Charlie cracked a smile at the opposing hitter's thumbs-up—something he almost never did—and—
THUMP.
—flashed one right back. That was how my second at-bat ended.
Huh… I guess we were friendlier than I thought.
I never expected the cool, collected Charlie on the mound to answer like that.
"Ji-hoo, keep that up and our own fans are gonna start booing you."
Kang Ho-san called out from the on-deck circle as I headed back to the dugout.
"Only doing it because we're winning."
Do something when you're ahead and it's peak entertainment. Do the same thing when you're behind and you're just an idiot who can't read the room. So all we had to do was keep winning.
"You're not planning on losing, right?"
Bottom of the eighth.
Lee Dae-beom's two-run shot flipped the scoreboard.
Suwon Wizards 2 : 1 Daegu Rhinos
Just like that, we were behind.
—WAAAAAAAH!!!
Listening to the home crowd roar, I thought—
Ah, if this goes wrong I'm cooked…
I could already feel a brand-new nickname forming: "Hometown-Loving Gong Ji-hoo."
Fortunately, there was still a chance to answer.
As long as the three hitters in front of me didn't go down in order.
On the mound stood the Wizards' closer, Kim Mu-shin—a fireballer who touched the upper 150s.
The eighth hitter—
CRACK!
—got overpowered and lofted a weak infield pop.
The ninth hitter—
THWACK!!
"Strike three!"
—went down swinging.
With the shadow of defeat creeping closer, I kept a calm face on the outside while my insides ran wild.
Please, Tae-wook hyung. Just get on base. You can do it!
THWACK!!
"Strike!"
He started the at-bat in a hole, 0-1. But Jang Tae-wook was nothing if not stubborn. He fouled off pitch after pitch, worked the count deep—
THWACK!!
"Ball."
—and after an eight-pitch battle, walked.
"Hssss."
I drew a long breath and stepped into what would be my final plate appearance of the night.
"Good work out there!"
"Why are you grinding your teeth like that? You've had a great day."
Wizards catcher Park Sang-hee was right. My line today was excellent—on base every trip except for that line-drive out in the second at-bat. Even if we lost, the loss wouldn't be on me.
Except for that thumbs-up.
The broadcast cameras definitely caught it…
I was already under a microscope for the so-called "Gong Ji-hoo Derby." No chance it went unnoticed. Lose this game and I'd be the perfect target for every boo in the building. And I wouldn't even have grounds to complain.
"Hoo…"
A deep breath.
The silver lining: my results today proved my swing was fine. And fireballers like Kim Mu-shin were exactly the type I loved facing most.
Of course—
As long as they don't walk me intentionally…
I checked the Wizards dugout. No movement. No intentional walk coming.
Faith in the pitcher? Or…
Even from a distance I could see Kim Mu-shin's eyes burning. Maybe he was the one insisting on the matchup. Last year, in a nearly identical spot, I'd taken Oh Jin-muk deep. Every closer alive would want to beat me in a situation like that—to reclaim the pride that had crumbled every time they ran into the wall named Oh Jin-muk.
Pitchers were just built that way.
But—
WHOOOOOOSH!!
The me from back then was worse than the me standing here now.
CRAAAAACK!!
And the Kim Mu-shin of today was worse than the Oh Jin-muk of that day.
Everybody has a plan until they get punched in the mouth. That line existed for a reason.
WHOOSH…
I watched the ball clear the wall, flipped the bat, and started a slow trot around the bases. Then I pointed toward one corner of the Wizard Park outfield fence.
There's no bottom of the ninth in Suwon
I hated that slogan. Roughly speaking, starting this year—
Seriously. No bottom of the ninth? How unfair was that to the fans who'd come out to the park? Those people wanted to watch more baseball.
With that thought in mind, I drew a big X across my chest.
Ah.
Looks like today's game won't have a bottom of the ninth either. Our closer is Oh Jin-muk, after all.