Chapter 11
Chapter 11
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Translator: Silver Dragon
Chapter: 11
Chapter Title: President's Cup Round of 32
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Choi Seung-taek sat at home plate, eyeing today's starting pitcher.
For the President's Cup round of 32, Suseok High School's starter was second-year I San.
'You're the key from here on out, San. Please pitch just like I expect.'
The starting pitcher, I San, was a second-year ace—a right-handed three-quarter arm slinger who fired accurate heat in the high 130s km/h range.
Thanks to his talent, scouts from multiple pro clubs had already reached out.
The ones most keen on I San had even showered him with gifts: gloves, spikes, bats, you name it.
This was par for the course with the nation's top high school studs. The team gifting I San gear? Gangnam Parrots—and they'd snag him in the first round soon enough.
'Lucky bastard. Yeah, this is the kind of guy we need to win it all. Let's crush it together.'
Whiiish
Thwack!
The ball nestled perfectly into the catcher's mitt.
'As expected—great stuff.'
A straight fastball in the low 120s km/h, but I San's pinpoint control shone through.
Whiiish
Thwack!
Now creeping into the 130s.
Whiiish
Thwack!
He deliberately shifted the mitt across different zones of the strike zone, but I San's pitches kept drilling right in.
Nod, nod.
Choi Seung-taek nodded to signal to I San that his stuff looked sharp.
'So this is San's true level. Definitely first-round caliber. In the pros, he'll lock down the rotation before Tae-pung. Smooth delivery, too. Control's elite.'
To Choi Seung-taek's eyes—sharpened by years of power analysis—I San's arsenal looked downright pro-level. There was a chasm between practice tosses and game-speed heat.
After a few more warm-up exchanges to loosen up, the opposing team's batter finally stepped in.
The foes? Suwon Information High School—not exactly a baseball dynasty. They'd scraped into the President's Cup on solid regional play, but facing aces like San or Tae-pung? No shot.
The batter settled in on the right side of the plate.
The outer edge of the strike zone glowed blue. Batter's skill was subpar, so no zones flashed deep red.
Central or inside would be safe, too.
'But no need to push it.'
Choi Seung-taek set up outside.
Nod.
Whiiish
Thwack!
Strike one!
I San's heater clipped the line of the outer strike zone.
Choi Seung-taek gave the mound a subtle nod, like he loved it.
'Controlled high-130s gas? Easy street. But let's test him with something nasty.'
Choi Seung-taek planted the mitt in the corner of the strike zone.
I San hesitated.
Nod.
'Oh? Got it in him?'
Whiiish
Thwack!
The ball vacuumed into the mitt where Choi had it set—but the ump held the strike.
'What? Corner spot-on?'
The system's read wasn't flawless.
'Huh?'
Ump squeezed the zone—no call. The system's strike zone display tightened up a touch. Outer edge held steady, but the top shrank.
'Unreal.'
Choi Seung-taek shook his head and reset his stance.
Same call to I San. But now, mitt locked into the adjusted zone.
Nod.
I San let out a soft sigh and fired.
Whiiish
Thwack!
Strike two!
'There it is. Caught the zone. Batter bit again.'
Choi Seung-taek eyed the batter. Suwon Information's leadoff man clutched the bat white-knuckled, choking up shorter than on his first hack.
Skill gap glaring—he was wired tight.
'Waste pitch next. He's ahead; he'll chase.'
Nod.
Shiiiish
Whoosh!
'Crap!'
I San's face twisted in shock. The slider nosedived toward the dirt.
'Slipped right out.'
"Hup!"
Choi Seung-taek fired a quick block, scooped the ball, and tagged the runner.
Out!
'Dodged a bullet. Slipping one? Not like San.'
I San yanked off his cap, nodding thanks in wide-eyed relief.
'Just a flub.'
Choi Seung-taek slipped his mask back on and settled in.
"You see that?"
"Yeah. Defense is on point."
The Incheon Cranes scouts were buzzing over Choi Seung-taek's play.
"If he came to my squad, I'd mold him right."
Park Wan-gyu, Cranes' second-team manager, was in the stands for the President's Cup round of 32. No game today, so he'd come specifically for Choi.
Park smacked his lips, clearly smitten with the play.
"What stood out?"
"You kids miss it? That block—he took it dead-on straight. Most guys trail the spin on a darter like that, twisting diagonal."
"Ah, yeah, that's standard."
"Sure, blocking to keep it close is solid. But that breaking ball? Spun hard—went straight-line, not arc. Kid knew exactly."
"Got it. Takes pro years to feel that."
"Exactly. He's got the concept down. Runs his own game, too."
Park furrowed his brow, locked in.
"Draft value?"
"First round's tough?"
"Yeah, got our pitcher locked."
"Damn. Snag him second round then. Talented as hell."
"Noted."
Park paused, musing, then added:
"If he swings the bat well, too..."
"Straight to first round."
The Cranes scout nodded sharply.
Choi Seung-taek dropped back into his crouch. August heat crushed July's—sweat poured again.
'Alright, reset. Gotta recalibrate the slider.'
Next up: #2 batter, choking up from the jump.
'Heard about the gas from leadoff. Perfect setup for off-speed.'
I San's eyes bugged at the sign.
'Senior? Slider down the pipe?'
Shake, shake.
Slider dead-center was meatball city—I San vetoed.
'What? Why shake off a 1.000?'
Shake, shake.
'Ugh, seriously.'
Choi Seung-taek shot daggers, exaggerating the sign.
'What now? Too stubborn...'
...
Nod.
'Fine, you punk.'
I San looked unsure but wound up anyway.
Shiiiish
Thwack!
Strike!
A flat slider threaded the heart of the zone.
"Ahh. Damn."
The batter grumbled, gutted.
'Close, huh? That's baseball. Steal the timing, and even a meatball sings.'
Batter's rhythm shattered by the unhittable.
Whiiish
Ting!
Foul tip.
"Shortstop!"
The weak roller scooted; shortstop charged, snagged it, fired to first. Hurried throw floated—first baseman leaped to glove it.
Safe!
'Tch. Should've had it.'
Round of 32 mercy pick—the freshman shortstop's glove was a hair off. Next batter up.
Nod.
Whiiish
Whoosh
Thwack!
Strike!
The low heater dove into the mitt. Batter froze.
As Choi Seung-taek tossed it back, his eyes lit up.
The runner on first was taking a massive lead, peeking.
'Lead's huge. Steal incoming?'
'Word's out I'm a defensive catcher, and he still tries?'
Nod.
Whiiish!
Thwack!
The second I San went into his windup, the runner bolted for second.
"Eat this!"
Choi Seung-taek's laser pegged second baseman Seo Gi-hyeon's chest—tag, out.
'Don't know? Stay home.'
Choi Seung-taek smirked at padding the out count.
Out!
"Nice!"
"Nice!!"
Dugout and fielders erupted.
Strikeout! Switch.
Choi Seung-taek jogged to the dugout.
'Clean first frame.'
Now his turn to hit.
Suseok's bats came out swinging.
#3 hitter Kang Tae-pung ripped a gapper between center and left, scoring the runner from third—he pulled up at second.
Crack!
#4 Han Bang-man punched an infield single. Choi Seung-taek stepped in from on-deck.
As Choi Seung-taek dug in, text flashed before him.
New swing tweak paying off—the strike zone adapted sans pitcher data.
Blue shrunk short-term bummer, but long-game gold.
Whiiish
Thwack!
Strike!
Choi Seung-taek sized it up.
'Slow, flat. Late 120s km/h?'
Minus corners, most of the zone glowed blue. Soft tosser.
'Time for my President's Cup first knock.'
Whiiish
Thwack!
Choi Seung-taek squared up the fastball clean. Liner split center and left perfectly.
Runners plated easy; he slid into second.
"Yes!"
"Nice!"
Dugout roared.
The opposing hurler, torched for a crooked first, gnashed his teeth.