The Crooked Fifty-Seven
Tae-oh could only stare. From the name alone—Yoon Se-ha—he had taken it for granted that he would be meeting a woman. The person in front of him was a man, dark circles sunk all the way down to his cheekbones.
They said he used to be a doctor, so I figured he'd at least look put together… That face hasn't slept in days.
He was Korean-American, so Korean passed between them without trouble. Jae-min drifted back toward the door, leaving the two of them to talk in peace.
"How many players come through here in a year?"
"Two last year. One the year before that. All three came once and never came back."
Yoon Se-ha poured water into a paper cup, slid it across, and said it as if it hardly mattered.
"So don't get your hopes up."
Not a scrap of interest in selling himself.
Strange as it was, the indifference only made Tae-oh trust him more.
"Why are you here?"
"When my stamina drops, the catcher's mitt doubles. Then I can't locate."
For the first time, Yoon Se-ha looked him straight in the face.
"Did you work that out yourself, or did someone hand it to you?"
"Jae-min gave me the hint. I ran it down myself and confirmed it."
"...First player in five years who can explain his own problem out of his own mouth."
Jae-min edged in then and spread a notebook open on the desk. Beside the dates, short pen strokes stood in rows.
"This is how many times you closed your left eye before you threw, hyung. The more you close it, the worse your command gets."
Yoon Se-ha stared down at the notebook for a long moment, then shut it. He turned to Tae-oh.
"So why does your face do that the second anyone mentions eyes?"
The fingers around Tae-oh's paper cup went still.
"...My mother can't see."
Yoon Se-ha said nothing.
"So if I admit there's something wrong with my eyes, it feels like I'm..."
He couldn't finish.
Yoon Se-ha gave a short nod.
"We'll leave your mother's eyes there. That isn't something I can fix. Yours, I can talk about. I quit being a doctor, but the license is still good."
He stood and drew the curtains back from the window. The dim office brightened by a shade.
"When your stamina drops, the two eyes lose their focus. Nothing special about that. Every pitcher gets it. Yours just arrives much earlier than everyone else's."
"Then why only me, so early..."
"Let me take a guess at your past."
Yoon Se-ha held up one finger.
"Before you took the mound, you kept trying to shake the symptom off by warming up. Run, throw, run again. And by the time you actually got up there, you had nothing left to pitch with."
Tae-oh's eyes went wide. He had never told that story to anyone.
"Your face says I hit it. Then you already know the fix."
"...I just stop warming up when there's no point?"
"You'll be a great deal better off than you are now. At least that."
More than ten coaches had taken his delivery apart and rebuilt it. When nothing improved, they called it mental and told him to get his heart rate up before he ever took the mound. Run in the bullpen, throw, run, throw—keep that cycle going and the stray thoughts faded on their own. Then he climbed the mound, and the stamina was already gone. If he had simply gone for a run, at least his conditioning would have improved. All of it had been nothing but wasted motion.
"And if the mitt still doubles on you, don't look at it."
"What?"
"You've thrown hundreds of thousands of baseballs, haven't you? Trust that feel, and throw."
Jae-min, beside them, couldn't hold it in.
"Does that even make sense? Telling a pitcher not to look at the catcher's mitt?"
"This one could do it. More than three years he held on, looking for the answer by himself. You think that's an easy thing?"
Now I get why they call him a lunatic.
The absurdity of the solution shut both their mouths.
Yoon Se-ha spread three fingers.
"Doesn't seem to be landing. Suit yourself. I'll give you three fixes either way."
Tae-oh's eyes and Jae-min's locked on his mouth.
"First. You throw under a light that won't sit still."
He hit the switch on a standing lamp, and the bulb began to flicker at random. The target on the wall seemed to sway.
"You practice throwing in that."
"Ah...!"
At the gasp, the corner of Yoon Se-ha's mouth twitched, and he went on.
"Second. You put two targets up and throw at them. The third one you're going to hate the most."
"Tell me."
"You throw with your eyes closed."
Tae-oh only blinked.
"So when you said not to look at the mitt, that wasn't a joke?"
"Did it sound like one? It's training, so you can still throw your pitch no matter what variable shows up."
Honestly, all three of them sounded like nonsense. He couldn't find his command even practicing under perfect conditions, and now he was being told to practice by making it harder on purpose.
Then why is this so convincing?
Everything he had done had failed for three solid years. It was no exaggeration to say that ordinary training did not suit him. If that was true, there was nothing wrong with trying a method that wasn't ordinary.
Tae-oh stood.
"Can I start right now?"
For the first time, Yoon Se-ha's eyebrows moved.
"...Right now?"
"Opening day is five weeks out. I can't spare a single day."
The corner of Yoon Se-ha's mouth lifted, just barely.
Not the type who comes once and never comes back.
From that evening on, Tae-oh threw beneath the stuttering light of the standing lamp—two targets side by side on the wall, and with his eyes closed. The first twenty never even came near either one.
...No way this works in a day.
That night, at the host family's house, Tae-oh stood a long while with his gray practice clothes in his hands, heavy and sour with sweat. The house had one washing machine, and a rule that it did not run after ten. The clock read 10:20.
I'm living under their roof. I can't break the rule. But what am I supposed to wear out tomorrow?
He opened the suitcase in the corner of the room. When he had lifted every piece of clothing out, a white jersey lay pressed flat at the very bottom.
A crooked 57.
Three years ago, his mother had sewn it by feel, tracing every stitch with her fingertips. He had never once put it on. He hadn't believed he deserved to.
Tonight, he thought differently. He had found the cause. He had found a method. He had a mound to throw from.
Mom. I'm going to wear this and succeed so plainly that nobody can miss it.
The next morning, Tae-oh walked into the clubhouse in the number 57 jersey.
"Hyung, what's that?"
"I couldn't run the washer last night."
"Oh! It looks like a limited-edition uniform! That's so cool!"
He really must have grown up loved. Every word out of his mouth is a pretty one.
The clubhouse door opened, and Manager Derek Hall stepped in. His eyes found Tae-oh standing at the last locker in the row—more precisely, the crooked pair of digits stitched across his back.
The manager put a short question to Jae-min. Jae-min answered, and Hall tossed a single sentence in Tae-oh's direction. Jae-min's voice jumped a notch.
"Hyung! He says you're pitching in tomorrow's practice game!"
"...For real?"
"Yeah! And you're starting!"
Tae-oh pushed the sleeve of the 57 up once.
The chance came... sooner than I thought. I haven't fixed the problem yet, so I'll just throw it easy.
The next day, forty minutes before first pitch, players drifted out onto the field in ones and twos and started their running and catch. Tae-oh stayed where he was, sitting still on the clubhouse bench.
"Hyung, you're really not going out?"
Jae-min asked it while he buckled on his protector.
"No. Catch, long toss, bullpen. Ten of each. That's it."
"...Ten? You're the starter."
For the last three years, Tae-oh had not been able to sit still for a second before he pitched. He ran to shake the thoughts loose, threw, and ran again. He hadn't been warming up. He had been eating his own stamina alive.
Honestly, I'm uneasy. But one thing's certain—the way I've been doing it doesn't work.
Pitchers are high-strung animals. There was even a saying that Clayton Kershaw, famous for being an angel, turned into a devil the day before he pitched. A creature that sensitive had changed his whole routine overnight. Of course he was uneasy.
The clubhouse door opened. Kyle came in soaked through with sweat, saw Tae-oh sitting on the bench, and stopped. He said something. Laughter leaked out from between the lockers.
"...He says he's never seen a starting pitcher just sit there without warming up. Asks if you even plan on throwing."
Instead of answering, Tae-oh stood and picked up his glove. Catch, long toss, bullpen—ten of each—and he was done.
Jae-min's voice, behind the mitt, trembled just slightly.
"Hyung... this is actually okay, right?"
"I don't know."
"What?!"
"That's what I'm about to find out."
The practice-game lineup was posted. Every hitter Tae-oh would face, one through nine, had been a pillar of last year's championship. In everything but name, it was the regulars against the reserves.
"Play ball!"
Top of the first, Tae-oh climbed the mound. He stamped the dirt in front of the rubber twice with his spikes and drew a long breath.
Something was off. Every other time he had taken a mound, his legs had felt as if they were hung with lead. Today that feeling wasn't there.
Condition feels good, at least.
Sixty feet, six inches away, Jae-min opened his mitt. It was clear. Clear as it had been in the bullpen.
...I can see it.
The windup.
His right arm snapped forward like a whip.
Pop—!
"Strike!"
Jae-min's open mitt had not moved a centimeter. The leadoff hitter froze where he stood, the bat still in his hands.
...What? That's not the Korean kid who did nothing but walk people at the tryout and got cut, is it?
The palm inside Jae-min's mitt throbbed.
Six days ago in that live session, this pitch couldn't even find the neighborhood of my mitt... and it just buried itself dead center.
Tae-oh took the ball Jae-min threw back.
Yeah. This is my pitch.