Gong-fficial

The morning after what might have been the greatest day of my life — the walk-off home run game.

I woke up and realized I'd made a single, critical mistake.

"Ah… I forgot to upload."

It had been that kind of day. Chaotic enough that I'd forgotten to post my novel — something I'd never once skipped before.

"Tch…"

I scrambled to open my laptop.

And then.

The moment I opened the portal site, an article with my name plastered across the headline was waiting to greet me.

But… what exactly had I said?

I was pretty sure the broadcast team's real interview had started with that question.

And I had said—

"Well… he was encouraging me. He said he hadn't seen me in so long he thought I'd gone off to the military, and that it was good to see me again."

I'd been out of my mind with the joy of the walk-off, but even then I'd known better than to answer ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠that one honestly.

If I'd told the truth—

Senior Kang Ho-san asked if I hadn't gone to the military, so I told him I was exempt because I don't have parents.

—that would have been bad for both of us, no question.

We probably would have been branded a pad-ripper and a pad-rip immune, respectively.

So I'd given a suitably nice answer. That much I remembered.

"I don't think I said anything that controversial…"

On the screen, the me receiving commentator Kim Jung-up's question hesitated for a moment before answering.

I'd been weighing what to say, then decided to just be honest.

"To be honest, until not long ago, I was afraid of stepping onto the field."

"You mean the ballpark scared you?"

I nodded and kept going.

"Yes. You could say I was afraid of the fans' criticism and the booing… I think it was my debut at-bat. I went down on three pitches for a pathetic strikeout."

"Did you take a lot of heat for that?"

My eyes went round on the screen as I denied it.

"No? Our fans are all good people. It's just… I heard the sighs. From that point on, every little thing I did on the field started getting under my skin."

"Over a few sighs?"

Commentator Kim Jung-up was a former player himself — one who'd played in the romantic era when a bad game meant fans throwing soju bottles and setting buses on fire.

On screen, he wore an expression of pure disbelief at the idea that a few sighs had completely shattered my mental game.

"I couldn't see his face at the time, so I had no idea he was making that face…"

It might have been hard for him to understand, but that was who I was back then. My first real experience with fans in the stands. Whether positive or negative, their instant reactions to everything I did made it hard to breathe.

"I'm a lot more soft-hearted than people might think. Anyway, after that, every time I got called up to the first team I'd get so tense I couldn't even see the ball properly."

"So it was a kind of trauma. It really brings home that saying — baseball is a mental sport. Would you say you've completely overcome that trauma now?"

"Absolutely. After the back injury, with a lot of people's help, I finished both the physical recovery and the mental recovery clean."

"Hmm… the interview itself seems fine…"

Wasn't that a pretty moving story? Watching the interview wind down, that was what I thought.

Ironically, I still couldn't remember what I'd actually said at the end — even though it had only been yesterday.

"That's how good it felt."

Nine whole years. From retirement, through the regression, to finally hearing the fans cheer for me.

Experiencing it for the first time had been so electric it nearly short-circuited my brain — addictive. Enough to make the old me, who'd only ever fretted over their criticism, look like a complete fool.

The last question.

"First, I'd like to thank Futures League batting coach Kim Phil-jung, who treated my problems like his own. He's the person who helped me the most in getting to where I am today. Ah! And also…"

On-screen me lit up like something had just occurred to him and kept talking.

"Ah."

I finally remembered.

"SwallowsCantPlayBaseball."

"Gong Ji-hoo…? What did you just say?"

"SwallowsCantPlayBaseball-nim. Thank you. Those sharp comments were a huge help for my mental training. Looking forward to more of them!"

"Uh, Gong Ji-hoo? What are you talking about right now?"

"And finally — please give lots of love to The Genius Batter Regresses!"

The video ended on me bowing my head.

"…"

Well. Was that really something to kick up this much of a fuss over?

I decided to go with that interpretation.

The Wizard–Rhinos game had ended in a result no one could believe.

Not just the baseball communities.

"…Did you hear Oh Jin-muk got walked off?"

"Who hit that pitch? Gong Ji-hoo? That Minor League Yeopo?"

Real-life baseball fans, too.

So of course every eye in the country locked onto Gong Ji-hoo's interview.

And his closing remarks became an absolute firestorm.

While Gong Ji-hoo had rushed back to his one-room apartment and fallen into a deep sleep, Korea's pride — the netizen investigation squad — had gone to work decoding his interview.

And so the novel Gong Ji-hoo had been serializing — The Genius Batter Regresses — was dragged up into the light.

The reporters were never going to miss a story like this.

Articles zeroing in on the fact that Gong Ji-hoo had healed his trauma by writing fiction.

Articles about Gong Ji-hoo the player himself.

And pure clickbait, just for the engagement.

The name Gong Ji-hoo was plastered across every sports page.

And the Gong Ji-hoo reading those articles?

"Isn't good publicity just… good?"

He didn't particularly feel like anything had gone wrong.

"Better than no articles at all."

Gong Ji-hoo's mental game was already as tough as it was going to get.

If anything, he decided to enjoy the moment — reading every piece carefully.

"Whoa… this reporter really did their homework. They even listed every home run I've ever hit."

He made a note of the thoughtful reporter's name.

"Even a Baseball Player Fell Victim! Internet Hate Comments Cross the Line!? Why is my name bouncing around the society section?"

The absurd headlines he skimmed and skipped.

Some amount of time passed like that.

"Ah! I need to upload the novel."

Gong Ji-hoo finally remembered why he'd opened the laptop in the first place. He navigated to the serialization site out of habit — and then just stared at the screen, blank.

"This… is blowing up?"

In the single day he'd gone on unauthorized hiatus, the view count on The Genius Batter Regresses had jumped more than tenfold.

I went to sleep and woke up a star.

Maybe that was the obvious outcome.

An active baseball player had gone on TV, said he was writing a baseball novel, and asked people to give it lots of love.

Even people who never read fiction would look it up, right?

Still.

"Tch. Feels a little scummy… makes me uncomfortable."

The fact that the views hadn't gone up because people genuinely found my writing fun niggled at me a bit.

"But if I keep this pace going consistently, that'll prove the novel is actually good."

If the writing is boring, readers leave. That's how it works. I decided to just put in the work to hold onto this popularity.

This was a kind of star marketing too, wasn't it?

So first things first.

"Serialize… post."

The chapter I hadn't uploaded yesterday. And one more as an apology. A double feature.

With the chapters up, I started getting ready for work at the ballpark.

After a quick shower I checked the site again, and a familiar username had left a comment.

A familiar nickname with a very unfamiliar polite tone.

"Hahaha!"

I burst out laughing and left a reply.

I showed up at the ballpark with an iced Americano in one hand.

"Oh~ Gong. You really write novels?"

"Yes, that's right."

"Should I call you Author Gong, then?"

"I'm a player right now, so please stick with Player Gong."

A club staffer I'd never once spoken to came over and struck up a friendly conversation — the same staffer who, once upon a time, had basically said there was no point paying attention to second-team guys.

A moment where I could actually feel how much one good game had changed my standing.

"Hey! Gong Ji-hoo! You've been sitting on a secret like this the whole time? Why didn't you say anything!"

"Dae-beom… what are you talking about. We only got close yesterday."

I shoved past Lee Dae-beom, who was yelling about betrayal, and opened the door to the training facility.

Thud.

"Tch."

I bumped shoulders with someone.

"Sorry about that."

I bowed my head in apology without even seeing the face.

"You think baseball is a joke! Zoning out in the training facility — what the hell are you doing!"

I looked up at the sudden dressing-down.

It was Jeong Geun-wook.

"I'm sorry. I'll be more careful."

"One lucky home run and you're already full of yourself… writing novels, this and that — a baseball player should just play baseball."

He muttered a curse under his breath and stomped off, seething.

"Dude, he definitely hit you on purpose. I saw it."

I knew that too.

"Want me to take him out?"

"He's still a senior. And from my position, if I go after a senior, the manager would just love that, right?"

"Then should I take him out?"

"Where did you even learn to talk like you're in a gang?"

I'm not the nice type.

It's just—

"They say a gentleman's revenge is never too late, even after ten years…"

"This bastard isn't even trying to flex being a writer and he keeps spouting literary lines."

"My friend… isn't this just common knowledge?"

In my current position, I couldn't openly make an enemy of a specific player.

A guy who'd only stepped into the batter's box once. I still hadn't peeled off the second-team label.

"But when the other guy is Oh Jin-muk, doesn't that kind of settle the argument?"

"I think so too."

"So if you start today, we take out Jeong Geun-wook right away?"

Lee Dae-beom was fuming that the guy was needlessly irritating even to us.

"If I keep making the starting lineup consistently, then yeah, maybe."

"Oh, so starting today then. Not putting the guy who homered off Oh Jin-muk in the starting lineup — that doesn't even make sense, right?"

Well.

"The starter will probably still be Senior Jeong Geun-wook."

The closer you get to the end of the season, the more conservative a manager sitting in the upper ranks becomes. Make a change, have it go wrong, and you're the one who eats the criticism.

"But I'll keep getting chances… and if I deliver there?"

"Then you're the starter?"

Something Lee Dae-beom, who'd been a starter from day one, didn't really need to know.

"Though I'm not sure how well that senior's going to play while I'm waiting for my shot."

Maybe Jeong Geun-wook slipping first would be faster than me seizing the opportunity. As he'd brushed past, I'd caught the smell of alcohol and cigarettes on him.

That day, the left fielder named to the starting lineup was Jeong Geun-wook.

And once again, I started the game on the bench.