It Wasn't in His Head

The part-time catcher had called it a simple problem—the command that fell apart the moment he stood on a mound.

Tae-oh tilted his head.

"A simple problem...?"

"Yeah! First thing, Hyung—starting today, ignore every last person who tells you to fix your mechanics."

Jae-min held the tablet out.

"Your release point is almost exactly the same as yesterday. There was nothing there to fix, and they spent three years tearing it apart anyway. That's why it never worked. The second it started to feel natural, somebody made you change it again."

He had changed his arm slot, shortened his stride, delayed the moment his shoulder opened. Each time it seemed to get better for a little while, and then he was right back where he had started.

…Laid out like that, it was true.

"Then what do you think the problem is?"

The mouth that had been running so happily fell half open, and then it shut.

"...I don't know either."

"What?"

"I'm sorry! I'm just a part-timer who knows how to look at a tracking app!"

Jae-min scratched hard at the back of his head.

Simple, he said.

"But there is one thing I'm sure about."

"That there's nothing wrong with my mechanics?"

"Count that, and it's two."

"So what's the other one?"

"This isn't mental. Stick around a place like this and you see a ton of guys with the yips. But you're different, Hyung."

For three years, everyone had told him it was in his head. No one had ever actually used the word—for an athlete it was no different from a death sentence—but that was what they meant. And a part-time catcher named Jae-min was the first person to say, without a flicker of doubt, that it was not psychological.

"Can you tell me how I'm different?"

"It's hard to put into words. I just think it's a habit. One that's yours."

"A habit?"

Jae-min nodded and swiped the screen.

What came up was footage of Tae-oh in the middle of his delivery.

"Look. When you throw, you close your left eye and then open it. I counted."

"...You counted that?"

"A catcher is supposed to notice even a pitcher's smallest habits! Even a part-timer!"

"I see. How often do I close it?"

"In the bullpen yesterday, exactly twice. Once before the first pitch, and once on the way down. In live pitching today, it started after that first walk. Every single pitch."

Did I really?

Tae-oh closed his mouth and tipped his head, turning it over.

Now that he thought about it, in yesterday's bullpen the mitt had never once looked out of place.

On the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠mound today, it had slipped every time a hitter stepped in, and with each walk that piled up, the gap had grown. For three years he had called that nerves, because calling it nerves made it make sense.

…Had it really been nerves? What if his own routine had been the thing working against him?

Tae-oh stood.

"Jae-min. Could you catch me right now?"

"Now? Here?"

"Yes. Right this second."

Past six in the evening, the ballpark was empty. The staff had all cleared out two hours ago, and the cleanup truck was already back in the shed.

Jae-min, who had been about to turn the mitt in, pulled it back on and dropped into his crouch behind home plate.

"You're going to have to tell me what you're trying to do..."

"There's one thing I need to check."

Tae-oh climbed the deserted mound. Sixty feet and six inches away, the mitt opened, and he could see it cleanly. It wasn't shifted. It wasn't doubled.

Thump. Dead center. The second pitch, and the third. He threw ten, and eight of them buried themselves in the pocket.

"Hyung... what is this? Almost all of them came in. Even the two that missed were strikes!"

"Just give me a minute."

Tae-oh set his glove down on the mound and broke into a dead sprint along the first-base foul line.

"Hey—Hyung! Where are you going!"

Out to the foul pole in right and back. He didn't stop to breathe. Out and back again. After something like ten trips, his wind was jammed up in his throat. He climbed the mound exactly like that, picked up the glove, and looked at the mitt.

…Just as he thought.

It had split. Not in two—into layers.

Thump. It missed by so much that Jae-min never got a glove on it. The next one skipped in front of home plate. The one after that, and the one after that.

Tae-oh braced his hands on his knees and folded at the waist. His breath felt as if it might give out entirely, and yet his head was clear in a way that made no sense. The corner of his mouth lifted.

So this was it.

No crowd. No hitter. No scout. There wasn't a reason to be nervous anywhere on this field. If it had been a problem of the mind, the ball should have gone in now.

It didn't. Same as every time he had stood on a mound for the last three years.

Jae-min ripped his mask off and ran up onto the mound.

"Hyung, you're smiling? What did you just do?"

"I brought my heart rate up on purpose."

"You what?"

"If I'm not winded, it goes in. If I am, it doesn't. The mitt looks stacked on itself."

The humor drained out of Jae-min's face.

"So what you're saying is..."

"Yeah. It was never in my head. It was stamina."

Looking back, it had been that way for all three years. The more they told him it was mental, the less he could keep still before he took the mound. He ran to shake the thoughts loose, loosened up, and ran again. His heart rate climbed whether he meant it to or not, and the higher it went, the more the mitt doubled. The misses started with the first pitch, and the coaches decided he was tight. That it was in his head.

"I only figured it out because of you."

"...The answer to three years ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠is stamina?"

"I can't be completely sure yet. But I think that's it."

The conclusion was so hollow that the two of them burst out laughing at the same time. While the sound of it traveled around the empty park, two shadows in the upper stands quietly turned away.

"You see that?"

"Yes. He threw ten, ran to the foul pole and back, and then threw again while he could barely breathe."

"And then he smiled."

The older of the two said it short, already starting down the steps.

"Number 187 was eighteen pitches and four walks today, though."

"I know. That's why I'm calling."

They played the intrasquad the next day, one side in blue and the other in white. Tae-oh only watched. Nobody was giving a scrimmage inning to a pitcher who couldn't throw strikes.

If only he'd known ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠a day sooner.

The regret sat heavy, but his face wasn't dark. He knew the problem now. All he had to do was go back to Korea and enter a tryout.

Morning broke on the last day. At the stadium entrance, the list of players who had made it was posted on the board. Twenty-three roster spots out of 214 names, and nine of those were pitchers.

Tae-oh expected nothing. He looked over other people's shoulders and ran down the numbers from the top. He went through the board three times. 187 was not on it.

Just as he'd thought. A team willing to take eighteen pitches and four walks would have been the stranger thing.

They handed a report to the players who hadn't made it. There was a single line on it.

The report he had received in Korea three years ago had said something close to the same thing. He had changed countries, and the sentence had followed him anyway.

"Hey. You. The Korean."

Someone stopped him on the way to the parking lot. The pitcher who had thrown second in Group One the day before yesterday—the one who had struck a batter out on three pitches at 92 miles an hour.

"Kyle Beck. I made it. Looks like you didn't."

Tae-oh didn't catch a word. His English had never been good, and this was a pronunciation he was sure he had never heard in his life.

Jae-min came up beside him at just the right moment.

"Hyung, I'll translate. Even a translation app can't understand that accent."

Kyle flicked a glance at Jae-min and kept going. The translation got slower and slower.

"He says he's never gotten off 92 his whole life. Says he's jealous... Hyung, I'm not doing the rest of it."

"Just say it."

"...He says so what if it's 97.5. If it doesn't go for a strike, it doesn't mean anything. He wants to know why you can't just give that arm to him. Says you don't have anywhere to use it anyway..."

Jae-min stopped translating and took a step in on Kyle.

"Hey! You done talking?"

Tae-oh caught his arm.

Kyle shrugged once and turned his back. About three steps later he stopped and spoke, very slowly.

"I made it throwing ninety-two. You got cut throwing ninety-seven?"

Tae-oh let out a short breath of a laugh. It was too childish to even count as mockery.

"What is that guy's problem? Hyung, don't listen to him!"

"He's not that far off."

"Why do you keep saying they're right! Three years of nothing but how you couldn't throw!"

Jae-min was shouting, angrier than if the slight had been his own. Tae-oh drew the report from his pocket and looked down at it once.

Then, slowly, he crushed it in his fist.

"That's how it's been. I'm not going to let it stay that way."

Jae-min stared at him, mouth open.

He knew the cause now. Fix it, and that was the end of it.

That night, in the motel room, a text from his mother was waiting.

It wasn't a complete lie. He hadn't gotten into the scrimmage, but he had still found time, here and there, to throw with Jae-min. He sent the reply and opened a search.

He typed in whatever came to mind. All the screen gave him back were ads for counseling and meditation apps.

…Even the internet said it was in his head.

Tae-oh turned the phone face-down and lay back on the bed. His legs ached, and the ache, strangely, felt welcome.

Stamina was something he could build. And not running before a game was an answer, too.

The next morning, at eight.

Jae-min's general manager… wanted him?

The passenger seat of an old sedan. For two straight hours, Jae-min ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠did not stop talking once.

"Our team is the Tucson Saguaros, you know? Last year's league champions. Forty-three and nine in the regular season!"

"...That's really good."

"Right? I was the third-string catcher there. Hit .180."

"And you hung on with that...?"

"Got lucky. Two of the three catchers got hurt."

Jae-min laughed, one hand hauling the wheel around.

"The manager's Derek Hall. He made it to Triple-A when he played. Never threw a single game in the big leagues, though. Maybe that's why he doesn't like cutting guys."

"And the GM?"

"No idea. But I've never seen him send for somebody himself, either. This is a first."

He glanced over.

"So don't get your hopes too high. This isn't a team that takes just anybody."

"I'm not hoping."

That, of course, was a lie.

He'd found the cause. All he needed now was a place to throw.

Endless desert slid past the window.

Kino Veterans Memorial Stadium. Major-league clubs had built it for spring training, a park that held more than ten thousand. These days, he was told, a few hundred sat down for a game.

The general manager's office was a container beside the clubhouse. One desk. Two folding chairs. Last season's record was tacked to the wall.

The GM, a man who looked about fifty, looked Tae-oh over from head to foot. Then he slid a single sheet across the desk, the page packed tight with English.

"...Jae-min. What is this?"

Jae-min looked down at the page, and his eyes went wide.