Superiority
Ironically, the Suwon Wizard fans had never truly felt the destructive force of the batter named Gong Ji-hoo.
After all, until last year Gong Ji-hoo had been one of their own.
Batting average? He reliably delivered at least one hit every game. Plate discipline? Outstanding—exactly the strength Gong Ji-hoo himself boasted about with pride. Power? The way he waved off being called a home-run hitter was pure humility when you looked at the numbers.
Wizard fans knew better than anyone that Gong Ji-hoo was an extraordinary hitter. The problem was that even his hitting eventually became familiar if you watched it long enough, and they had never once stood on the receiving end. So they never understood why Irons fans grimaced the moment Gong Ji-hoo’s name came up, or why Wolves fans literally shuddered at the sound of it.
Until today.
The so-called Gong Ji-hoo Derby. The man who had once been the Wizards’ hero had become their nightmare.
And then—
Naturally the Wizard fans turned their fire on the general manager—the root cause of Gong Ji-hoo becoming the enemy. It was pure self-inflicted damage. In his first year on the job, the very achievement the GM himself had bragged about most was the trade of Lee Min-ho for Gong Ji-hoo.
But then—
Lee Min-ho’s late-night SNS post, combined with the suspiciously coordinated fans rushing to shield the general manager, pushed the Wizard fan community toward a new consensus: “Let’s at least wait and see tomorrow’s game.”
Of course, that “at least” was doing a lot of work.
I am a petty man. So of course I was curious about the former Rhinos, current Wizards starter I would face today—Lee Min-ho.
I wanted to know whether he was truly good enough to be traded for me. That is the polite way of putting it. The real thought was more like, Let’s see just how special he thinks he is if they were willing to dump me for him.
Again: I am a petty man.
The Wizard players didn’t say much about Lee Min-ho. We were enemies now, after all. Still, Lee Dae-beom’s expression had not looked great when the name came up. Lee Dae-beom is transparent; he cannot hide what he thinks. So something had clearly gone wrong between them. The answer came from Kang Ho-san.
“Lee Min-ho… he’s a hard worker. Talent’s not bad either.”
“Is that so?”
Lee Min-ho was a ten-win pitcher. Even if the old “pitchers are kings, hitters are peasants” mindset was outdated, ten wins for a starter still meant something. It proved he had lasted at least five innings in ten different games.
Isn’t lasting five innings the bare minimum for a starter? The KBO had improved in quality, but not in quantity. Plenty of fifth starters still couldn’t finish five innings. That was the downside of a ten-team league with a shallow talent pool. There was a reason the Wizards’ expansion had caused so much controversy.
From Ho-san hyung’s words alone he sounds decent…
But Korean conversations always need to be heard to the end.
“But the kid’s a little… you know.”
“Pardon?”
“He’s got a bit of an attention-seeker streak. Personality’s weird too.”
“I saw he posts a lot on SNS.”
“There’s a reason they call him the budget Do Jeong-hoo.”
Budget Do Jeong-hoo?
“How many budget Do Jeong-hoos are there in this league…?”
“Because in the KBO, Do Jeong-hoo is the symbol of a starting pitcher.”
It wasn’t just him, of course.
“Any hard-throwing reliever is a budget Oh Jin-muk, and any aggressive catcher is the second Kim Jae-sang.”
Still—
“Min-ho isn’t good enough to toy with hitters the way Do Jeong-hoo does.”
He was only the budget version. Kang Ho-san—once a regular national-team catcher, now reduced to backup status after Kim Jae-sang’s rise—delivered the verdict with finality.
“The nickname just comes from posting a lot on SNS and pitching to contact.”
“Is that so…? But did you know?”
Do Jeong-hoo was an attention seeker, sure, but—
“Jeong-hoo hyung barely uses SNS.”
“What… for real?!”
Do Jeong-hoo belonged to the “SNS is a waste of life” camp. Literally. I had heard it from him myself.
“Tch… I just assumed because of all the quote controversies.”
“I don’t do SNS either, you know.”
“So you at least know how many messes you’ve caused with your mouth.”
I hadn’t caused any major ones this season, though. Anyway.
Lee Dae-beom hates the Do Jeong-hoo type with a passion, so of course those two wouldn’t get along.
That explained the face Lee Dae-beom had made when I asked about Lee Min-ho. I would only learn that the real problem had been far worse after today’s game ended.
There is a saying: “Pitchers are nobility.” It means pitchers are superior to hitters.
Lee Min-ho believed it with every fiber of his being.
Catchers? Just ball-receivers. Fielders? Tools that existed solely for the pitcher. That was why the very fact that he had been traded one-for-one with a mere hitter like Gong Ji-hoo offended him. And the evaluation that the Wizards had lost the deal? Everyone’s eyes must have been broken.
For a pitcher, it was pure humiliation. Hitters were just the guys who failed to become pitchers. Look at high-school baseball. Every kid dual-wielded, but only those with true pitching talent made it as pitchers in the pros. And only the best of those became starters.
Come to think of it, Gong Ji-hoo pitched in high school too, didn’t he?
Not that Lee Min-ho had looked it up on purpose. He had just… happened to hear it.
He should be grateful his name even got mentioned on the same line as a pitcher like me.
So today’s game would be the stage for his rage—rage at the Rhinos for trading a starting pitcher for a mere position player.
Top of the first. Leadoff hitter Jang Tae-wook.
“Tch.”
He clicked his tongue loud enough for Jang Tae-wook in the box to hear it.
Guy I can’t stand.
His peer, shortstop Jang Tae-wook, had always been more popular than Lee Min-ho on the Rhinos. How dare he. It was the inevitable limit of a regional team: Jang Tae-wook was from Daegu; Lee Min-ho was not.
—“Why’s a five-point average guy acting so big?”
Jang Tae-wook had actually said that to him once. A guy with no self-awareness and a rotten personality had been more popular for one reason only: he was a local boy. Of course, the minor detail that Lee Min-ho himself had once said things like “These tool guys can’t field so I take the heat” had long since vanished from his memory.
First, a greeting.
First pitch: a fastball right in the zone. Catcher Park Sang-hee checked the sign Lee Min-ho had called himself and nodded.
Park Sang-hee was water. For pitchers who loved calling their own game, he was the catcher who maximized autonomy. In short, the ideal ball-receiver. Back on the Rhinos, catcher Kang Ho-san had oppressed him, refusing to play to his strengths and stubbornly insisting on his own way. That was why Lee Min-ho’s ERA had been so wretched. And yet he had still climbed to ten wins—his talent was almost frightening. That was how Lee Min-ho saw it.
Thwack!!
“Strike!”
Perfect!
The guy treated running up the pitch count like a sacred duty of the leadoff man. Of course he wouldn’t swing at the first pitch. The prediction was correct.
Lee Min-ho twisted his lips into a smirk, trying to rattle Jang Tae-wook in the box.
There he goes again.
Jang Tae-wook, for his part, was thinking absolutely nothing. And so the duel Lee Min-ho had called himself ended after eight pitches with a grounder to short.
Heh… easy.
Throwing eight pitches wasn’t a problem. He had gotten the out. Still—
“Tch. That was close.”
Park Ji-han’s throw had been a little soft. The speedy Jang Tae-wook could easily have beaten it to first. A deep grounder that almost became a hit? What did that have to do with Lee Min-ho?
“Hahaha… sorry.”
At least Park Ji-han’s submissive attitude was pleasing. The first baseman, on the other hand—
Look at that face. Like he doesn’t like it. So what?
Lee Min-ho watched Lee Dae-beom’s thoroughly crumpled expression and thought the words only inside his head. Only inside. Not because he was scared of that giant. For the smooth progress of the game. Let’s be real—that thug of a first baseman might hold a grudge and start tanking.
Hoo… next is finally Gong Ji-hoo…
The guy who had received the honor of a one-for-one trade with him. Anyone with eyes could see the trade favored the Wizards, yet the Wizard fans still missed that bastard.
I’ll give credit where it’s due.
Last year’s Wizard championship had been built by Gong Ji-hoo. Lee Min-ho had no intention of denying that. But if the pitching staff had been solid to begin with, would Gong Ji-hoo’s numbers have even mattered?
Absolutely not.
The only reason people said Gong Ji-hoo had created the championship was because the Wizard pitching had been weak.
Why can’t they see that just by arriving I normalized the Wizards?
Wizard fans were all baseball illiterates.
Whoosh!
Still, as he had said, Lee Min-ho never underestimated Gong Ji-hoo. A lion gives its all even when hunting a rabbit. A breaking ball that barely clipped the zone—one of the best pitches he had thrown all year. Perfect command, almost enough to remind someone of Do Jeong-hoo.
Except—
Crack!
Gong Ji-hoo was the hitter who had traded blows with the real Do Jeong-hoo and never backed down. Stopping him with a mere budget version was never going to be easy. The ball dropped in front of the right fielder. The first pitch Lee Min-ho had thrown with such confidence became a single.
Heh… only managed to get one pitch off me and it was just a single? Stupid bastard.
Even so, Lee Min-ho did not lose heart. Because pitchers were superior to hitters.
“Why is that guy making a face like he just won after giving up a hit?”
“Dunno, fuck.”