Catching the Comeback: Choi Seungtaek's First Taste of Pro Pressure
The crowd erupted like a thunderclap that split the air. The ball that just crossed the plate was the purest fastball Choi Seungtaek had ever seen—straight as a ruler, untouched by a single movement from the batter’s grip.
He felt it the instant it left Kang Taepoong’s hand. The sweet, heavy crack of leather on horsehide. Home run. Pure, undeniable home run. And he knew the pitcher knew it too.
Kang Taepoong’s face went white. He couldn’t believe it. Slowly, like a man in a trance, he turned his head toward the flight of the ball and let out the most mechanical, perfectly timed “Home run! Choi Seungtaek wins!” the entire stadium had ever heard.
2–0.
Two quick outs. Two quick losses. Could it really be that simple?
Bang-man watched from the dugout, arms crossed, and felt a chill run down his spine. That pitch had been so clean it had to be the sign Go Jae-myeong had given. No other way to explain it. No other way at all.
‘I can’t accept this,’ Kang Taepoong muttered under his breath, refusing to admit defeat even as his feet carried him toward the mound. “Who’s bringing the rosin bag!”
One of the younger players sprinted out and dropped the bag at his feet.
‘One way to fix this,’ Kang Taepoong thought, stepping back onto the rubber. Go Jae-myeong gave the same fastball sign. Kang Taepoong nodded once, then switched to his slider grip and fired.
“Changeup,” Choi Seungtaek called calmly.
Whoosh.
The ball dropped like a stone. Go Jae-myeong’s brain short-circuited for half a second. The perfect slider trajectory he had been told to expect simply vanished into the air.
“Tough luck, Jae-myeong,” Choi Seungtaek said, voice flat. “Tell Kang Taepoong, ‘You’re a complete idiot, this is all on you’ when you get to the mound.”
“Uh… okay.”
“And tell him the same thing for you. That pitch you just threw—concentration was perfect. You weren’t supposed to lose it that badly. Did you even look at the sign?”
“I’m sorry, senior.”
“Go. Now.”
Go Jae-myeong stood up and walked toward the mound, shoulders slumped. After he left, Kang Taepoong’s eyes lost their fire. The power in his arm visibly drained away.
‘This… he’s breaking already.’
The rest of the game was one-sided. Choi Seungtaek only chased the fastball, and Kang Taepoong allowed two more balls to clear the fences. The rigged “bet” ended 5–0. Choi Seungtaek had shattered his rival like a porcelain vase.
Halfway between second base and the mound, Han Bang-man approached. “What the hell happened? You had him crushed.”
Choi Seungtaek just grinned. “He hadn’t tasted professional ball yet. There was a lot of ego to knock out of him.”
He swallowed the rest of the sentence. In reality, Kang Taepoong had needed two full seasons to correct the same kuse he had revealed in high school.
‘The problem is…’
Kang Taepoong’s condition today was worse than expected. The whip had been too hard. Without a proper carrot, he might crack before the quarterfinals.
Catchers were like mothers—tough, but they had to protect the players who were still raw. Right now, Kang Taepoong needed protecting.
‘Damn it, this is annoying.’
“Kang Taepoong! Get over here!”
Kang Taepoong trudged over, face carved from stone. “I knew you couldn’t hit my stuff, right?”
Choi Seungtaek waited. Kang Taepoong stayed silent.
“Fine. Since you lost, I’ll do what I said.”
“What?”
At that exact moment Choi Seungtaek’s expression turned serious. “I really want to win the President’s Cup this year.”
Kang Taepoong blinked, thrown off. “So?”
“You’re starting in the quarterfinals, not just filling in. You have to throw a complete game. Remember the quarterfinals two days ago?”
Kang Taepoong closed his eyes and saw it again—pitchers all over the place, defenses slipping, five runs allowed by his own side, three more by the umpire’s call. Even when they had pulled him for a pinch hitter, the manager had shut it down. Then Choi Seungtaek’s batters had blasted ten runs and won anyway.
“So in the quarterfinals and final, you face weak teams. You have to throw complete games.”
“Got it.”
Still, something wasn’t sitting right with Kang Taepoong. “Not over yet.”
“What now?”
“If Seun-sang starts fading in the final, you close. I don’t trust the bullpen. I saw it in the quarterfinals.”
Choi Seungtaek pointed at the bullpen. “So flip it. Let Seun-sang start the quarterfinals and you close the final.”
“What happens then?”
Kang Taepoong was suddenly interested. “Then it’s over. Seun-sang throws weaker stuff than you. You’ll see 140s all game, then suddenly face 150s. How’s that going to feel?”
“…”
“You have to flip it. Seeing 140s and then 150s is way harder. Now you understand why you’re the starter in the quarterfinals?”
Kang Taepoong nodded, fully understanding.
“And…”
“Got anything else?”
“If I win the Cup, I’ll tell you why. I already know there’s something wrong with you.”
Kang Taepoong’s face turned to granite. “You know about my kuse?”
“Yes. I’m telling you. Even close seniors don’t share kuses, right? The odds you two end up on the same team after graduation are lower than the odds you’re not. But I’m telling you anyway.”
“Fine. I’ll do my best.”
There was no choice. The carrot had landed perfectly.
Choi Seungtaek smiled, satisfied. “Good. Now let’s train. Bang-man, fire it up.”
“Huh?”
“Find the coach and start the session. You’re in charge. I have to go tell the manager everything’s sorted.”
“Yeah, yeah. Go.”
Han Bang-man headed to the center of the field. “Alright, game’s over! Time to train! Everybody gather!”
The younger players poured in for infield and outfield work. “Let’s go, let’s go! Everyone back to the regular schedule!”
The coach returned too. The training that had been interrupted by the Choi-versus-Kang showdown resumed.
* * *
August 20, 2014. Wednesday.
The quarterfinal against Gwangju Hana High began.
“Everyone, you’ve been grinding through practice. Good work.”
“Yes, Coach!”
“The opponent is strong. Stay focused and take this.”
“Yes!”
The Suseok High players had gathered at Shinwol Stadium for the President’s Cup quarterfinals. Something in their eyes had shifted—pure will.
‘They’re all sharp. No one’s off today.’
Choi Seungtaek scanned his teammates with a hawk’s eyes. The System was already compiling their real-time conditions.
The lineup was announced. Choi Seungtaek was batting fourth again.
“Alright, everybody loosen up and get into the game!”
He did his usual quiet stretches. Because the opposing pitcher was coming up first, he didn’t have to put on the mask yet. That was a relief.
Whoosh. Whoosh.
Choi Seungtaek swung the bat in wide, smooth arcs and stared at the mound. There stood Lee Tae-yang, Gwangju Hana High’s ace, stretching.
‘Good. I’m going to catch an S-grade prospect on the field today.’
He tightened his grip and swung again.
* * *
“Commentators, who do you think will win the President’s Cup this year?”
“Honestly, I think Buma High with Go Tae-san will take it. From the teams that’ve shown up, it looks like a clear 1-A, 2-B, 1-C bracket.”
“Where do you place Suseok High and Gwangju Hana High?”
“Both are middle of the pack. So when Buma faces the 1-C, they’ll roll easily.”
“Some people say the clash of the two middles might be more exciting.”
“Definitely. The matchup is perfect.”
In the Mokdong Stadium, Suseok and Gwangju players were loosening up.
“What should we watch for in this game?”
“A classic ace battle between Kang Taepoong of Suseok and Lee Tae-yang of Gwangju. I wonder how both teams decided to send their aces.”
The screen switched to Choi Seungtaek.
“He’s the hot name right now. Scouts have been swarming in, and most of them are here to see him.”
“Ah, you mean the Suseok catcher, Choi Seungtaek?”
“Yes. Once pitchers are on the same level, it becomes a catcher battle. Suseok has a slight edge there.”
“Do you think we can predict the winner?”
“Yes. Everyone is talented, but there’s a difference in one area. If I had to pick one, it would be Suseok High.”
At that exact moment, the broadcast cut to Suseok’s leadoff hitter stepping into the box. The President’s Cup quarterfinal had begun.