Atonement Blast
I don't believe in God.
I think He exists, though.
I am, after all, a regressor. A miracle like regression can't happen without some transcendent being behind it.
You see it all the time in web novels. Some Sports God takes a washed-up athlete and sends him back. The most tired, overused cliché in the book.
"Still doesn't explain why it was me, though…"
If a Sports God really exists, why on earth did he pick me?
Let's be honest. I was just an ordinary failure of a player.
Back-to-back .400 seasons? That was in the minors. Sure, no one else had ever put up numbers like mine in the second team—but historically speaking, the nickname Minor League Yeopo was never mine alone.
Minor League Yeopo. First-team gatekeeper. First-team radar gun. In the majors they call them AAAA players.
Every team has at least one. And those guys want it more than anyone—because they're convinced that one half-step more will get them over the wall into a starting job.
Except most Minor League Yeopos never clear that wall. Just like I never did. And once they fail, they slide from Minor League Yeopo to aging prospect, and from aging prospect to just another guy.
Somewhere along the way, a lot of them lose their love for the game. But there are also the ones who keep clawing at that wall even after it refuses to move.
I can say this with absolute certainty: I was not one of those guys.
I once told myself, Someone at my level isn't really a loser, right? But when it came to baseball, I was a perfect loser.
Because I ran.
My career was short. I had to fix what was wrong in my head. All excuses. Running is running. So even while I was putting up ridiculous numbers after regressing, a quiet doubt kept sitting in the back of my mind.
Why me? Out of every Minor League Yeopo out there, why the one who lost and ran?
At first I thought it was talent. It sounds like painting gold on my own face, but I have monstrous talent. In the KBO, players at my level are rare enough to count on one hand. In the majors… I'm confident, but I've never actually faced them, so who knows.
So maybe the Sports God got pissed that a generational talent quit to become a writer. That theory lasted about five minutes—I'd read enough web novels to dismantle it myself.
Talent? Just slap a status window on someone and click. With a cheat like that, you can manufacture talent that never existed. An entity that can reverse time can sure as hell build a status window. And even if I was generational, I wasn't the only one. Plenty of Minor League Yeopos had been top high-school prospects from day one.
Then was it desperation? When did I finally understand that I missed baseball more desperately than I'd ever admitted? Probably not long after I made the first team.
The reason I'd dabbled in every genre except baseball novels. The reason I never opened the sports section online. The reason I seriously considered canceling every sports channel on TV.
Before regressing, I told myself I was just sick of baseball. It was all leftover attachment. All longing.
Maybe someone felt sorry for that and sent me back? Even thinking it felt arrogant.
Was I the only one who was desperate? The only one with unfinished business? How many players never retired mid-career and kept grinding to the end?
If it wasn't talent and it wasn't desperation—then pure luck?
Did the Sports God, up there scratching his belly, get bored one day and pick a name at random? Was I just the lucky bastard?
That felt too—
"Cheap."
I found something like an answer to that thoroughly regressor-flavored question I could never tell anyone—on the final game of the Korean Series, the night we took the championship.
When I caught the last out that ended the series. When they called me Korean Series MVP and I climbed the podium.
The fans roared, and they screamed that they had believed in me.
Not just the Wizard fans. Even the Wolves fans.
It wasn't some ghostly ninja-village flip of allegiance. They had genuinely believed in me.
The prospect who'd left a legendary back-to-back .400 in the minors. The final piece of the so-called historic 2020 draft class. A player who, even if he wasn't on their team, might someday lift the whole of Korean baseball. Baseball fans had honestly believed I was that guy.
I'd been mocked. I'd been dismissed. But criticism only exists where expectation does. So I decided: it was me who got to regress. Not because I was special. Not because of some god's whim. Because the fans had wanted me back.
Which meant the fans were precious. Not just the Rhinos fans of my current team or the Wizard fans of my old one—every Korean baseball fan.
And yet I'd twisted their cheers into something ugly and felt betrayed all by myself. A little success and I'd already gotten arrogant?
"Ji-hoo. Ji-hoo. You've still got a long way to go."
Today's game was atonement. Atonement for the sin of doubting the fans like an idiot.
Sajik. Game three. Top of the first.
I stepped into the box for my first at-bat and gripped the bat with something close to reverence.
"Why the serious face? Doesn't suit you."
"Shut it, you devil."
I didn't hear a word of the devil trying to lead me astray.
"@#$%@#$"
Whatever Kim Jae-sang was saying behind the plate never reached me. I locked onto the at-bat alone.
A silence so complete it was almost eerie. Had I concentrated this hard on a single game since regressing?
Bases empty.
The pitcher on the mound was a lefty with a brutal platoon split—the kind they call a lefty-killer, a lefty-slayer. A pure lefty specialist.
In the bullpen he would have been a monster option. Unfortunately he was a starter, and being stuck on a Swallows roster with paper-thin depth was pure misfortune for him. A starter who only works against lefties is half a pitcher.
Except—
I'm a lefty…
He was probably brimming with confidence. Against righties he was generous to a fault; against lefties he was a brick wall. He must have believed he could beat me.
Of course—
Whoosh—!!
None of that had anything to do with me.
CRACK!!
A hitter who can clear the fence no matter who's on the mound. That's me.
Ah… hold back.
Today I was a sinner.
Tap.
I watched the ball sail over the wall and set the bat down gently, almost politely, on the dirt.
First home run of the day—one for the Rhinos fans who always cheer for me.
The KBO is full of left-handed hitters. For a while, forcing prospects to bat left was the fashion of the whole baseball world. I was one of those manufactured lefties myself—though being ambidextrous, left or right never really mattered to me.
Korean coaches forced lefties into existence because lefties were scarce and held a natural edge against right-handed pitching.
That left-right nonsense again? Easy to sneer—until you remember the edge is real.
So wave after wave of prospects started as lefties, and the scarce left-handed hitter stopped being scarce. The ratio climbed close to even with righties. On some teams the starting lineup actually leaned left. Naturally, the value of so-called lefty specialists skyrocketed.
Even on a Swallows team with no depth to speak of, there was a reason they were starting a one-tool lefty-killer. Of course—
CRACK!!
CRACK!!
Against the Rhinos, that reason meant nothing.
Aside from me, Garcia, and Jeong Su-hyun, every Rhinos regular bats right. Following the rotation was just bad luck for him; our lineup was a minefield.
"…"
Second at-bat. I settled into my stance with the same reverent focus—and couldn't hide my surprise.
Runners on first and second. Two outs. Pitch count still low, but the starter had already given up four. One more run and the game might slip away for good.
And yet, even with me—currently the hottest bat in the KBO, the guy who'd already gone deep in his first at-bat—stepping in, they left him out there.
It's Sunday, too…
Tomorrow's an off day. No reason to save arms. That was what I was thinking when my eyes met the pitcher's—and I understood.
Ah. He thinks he can get me. He thinks that first-inning homer was pure luck.
Me?
I crushed the arrogance that tried to rise—the arrogance I'd sworn to keep in check for today. The world really is full of demons. For a second I almost understood the sacred king Gung Ye of the Korean peninsula.
Behind the plate, a devil working his mouth. On the mound, a demon staring me down with contempt. Between them, I—
"Hoo…"
—took a breath and locked onto the duel.
The silence returned. Only my own breathing.
Whoosh—!!
A whip-crack breaking ball that looked like it would sail behind me before diving into the zone—
CRACK!!
—I read the path clean and matched my swing to it.
Tap.
Same as the first at-bat. I set the bat down politely and circled the bases.
One for the Swallows fans who, even though I wear another uniform, still root for Gong Ji-hoo.
The scoreboard read:
Busan Swallows 2 : 10 Daegu Rhinos.
Our starter, Howard, was steering the game with his usual contact-management pitching. Kim Jae-sang had tagged him for one cheap shot, but otherwise it was another blowout, just like yesterday. Naturally, the Rhinos started pulling regulars.
Our everyday guys aren't exactly young. I'm still on the youngest end of the roster—and people are already starting to call me a mid-career veteran when I go places.
This would probably be my last at-bat, too.
Top of the fifth. Fourth trip to the plate.
The Swallows rookie who'd taken over after the starter got yanked in the second was pitching with rookie guts—giving up runs but holding his own. I'd gone out on a line drive in my third at-bat. Of course—
Whoosh—!!
Last at-bat of the day. Time to finish clean.
CRACK!!
There are days like this. Days when any ball you get in the air feels like it's going to leave the yard. The Gamers game where I hit ten was one. Today was another.
Tap.
One last shot for the Swallows rookie's growth. You grow by getting hit, after all.
That ought to count as a decent atonement. There's a reason they call them atonement blasts.
…
"You hit a home run and the Rhinos' score goes up. How the hell is that an atonement blast for Swallows fans? You lunatic."
That was what Kim Jae-sang said later. Irreverent bastard, as always.
Game three between the Busan Swallows and the Daegu Rhinos—the matchup fans still call a classic—ended as a Rhinos winning series. For the Swallows, escaping a sweep was about the only mercy the weekend offered.
In the final game, Gong Ji-hoo had launched home runs with a face so solemn it almost made the crowd feel reverent. In the player-of-the-game interview he said:
—and flipped both fanbases upside down.
After that, the Rhinos never ran off a crushing win streak, but they kept taking series after series and held first place all the way into the start of May.
And then—
The March–April monthly MVP. A few other names sat on the ballot, but the fans—and even the players—already knew who owned the award.
In roughly thirty games: a .400 average and twenty-three home runs, detonating the KBO. No longer Minor League Yeopo. Just Yeopo.
Gong Ji-hoo was the man.