President's Cup Final 2
Choi Seungtaek had drawn up his own rules for facing this opponent.
Doing the same thing every time would get him caught, but these were rules he'd established for this single fight against Buma High.
One: the first time through the order, attack each hitter's obvious weakness.
Two: mix in unexpected pitches the batter can't see coming, and scramble his head.
Three: if things still aren't breaking his way, have the pitcher throw balls the hitter can put in play—but balls that produce grounders—and induce weak contact.
Choi Seungtaek looked at Lee San. Pinpoint command was a weapon in its own right. This would be a different kind of fight from the one against Kang Taepoong, who won with raw stuff.
Of course, all of it was only possible because Choi Seungtaek knew even the tiniest habits of every batter who stepped in.
The ball hissed in. Thwack!
Once again the pitch painted the corner of the zone.
Strikeout! Side retired!
Buma High's three-hole hitter, Lim Seonghan, shook his head from side to side and let out a whistle of admiration.
"Whoa. That's no joke."
"Get in there. I'm busy too."
The pitches kept knifing into the hitters' weak spots, and they punched out all three batters in the top of the first.
In Buma High's dugout, the manager asked his hitters what the ball looked like.
"It keeps coming in places you can't hit."
"The stuff isn't even that overpowering. It's just... nasty."
Those so-called blind-side pitches were making Buma High's lineup miserable against Lee San.
Because even Go Myeongjin—their best contact hitter and leadoff man—looked thoroughly uncomfortable, the rest of Buma High's batters started to tense up.
Meanwhile Choi Seungtaek came back to the dugout, peeled off his catcher's gear, and got ready to hit.
Manager Kim Ik-hyun wasn't sure whether the plan of leaning on Seungtaek would actually work.
"You can do this, right?"
"Of course. Trust me."
He had to believe in himself if there was going to be even a sliver of hope, so Choi Seungtaek answered with total confidence and headed out.
Buma High's players took their positions. Once Choi Seungtaek confirmed that Go Tae-san had finished warming up, he stepped into the box.
There's something I have to do first.
"Hey, Ha Seung-yoon. You know our positions have flipped a lot, right?"
Choi Seungtaek picked the fight on purpose.
"What?"
"Everyone said you'd be the best catcher this year. Not anymore."
Ha Seung-yoon deliberately ignored him.
"You don't even have the basics down. A catcher has to play defense first. The way I see it, even if you go pro you'll spend seven years stuck in the minors."
Ha Seung-yoon glared at him for a moment.
"Hoo..."
He was angry, but this was the championship. He had to stay composed, so he let out a long breath.
Ohh. He's holding up well.
Because Ha Seung-yoon had chosen to ignore him, Choi Seungtaek counted the exchange as a half-success.
Then he looked at Go Tae-san. The pressure of a true powerhouse rolled off him.
For some reason, the name alone made Seungtaek feel strangely small.
But Choi Seungtaek knew the techniques of the future.
Barreled Ball.
It was a hitter's counter against high-velocity pitching, and Seungtaek already possessed a swing—built on Mitchell Nelson's form—that could produce that kind of contact.
What's missing is my strength and my bat speed. I still can't generate the same exit velocity as the elite guys. But I believe in the power this form gives me.
He looked at Go Tae-san.
And I believe in you, Go Tae-san.
A fast pitch generates more trampoline off the bat than a slow one. There's a real chance of getting overpowered by the stuff—but the odds of a home run are still higher than against a slow pitcher you have to muscle over the wall on pure strength.
The System is providing assistance.
◈ Pitches: Four-seam fastball, curveball, slider
◈ Trait: Average fastball in the high 150s km/h. When his condition is good, he can throw a fastball in the low 160s km/h.
Thanks to the System, the trajectory Seungtaek had already analyzed for Go Tae-san laid itself out in front of him.
And Go Tae-san's tell.
Go Tae-san would make the majors, but midway through his rookie season he would suffer a string of blowouts. After that he would grind through three miserable years, all because he never fixed a single habit.
The way Kang Taepoong put extra force into his index finger, Go Tae-san tensed the knuckle on the back of his glove hand before throwing a fastball.
Until he finally switched to a glove that hid the back of his hand, major-league hitters kept sitting on that fastball and punishing it.
Choi Seungtaek had analyzed it, and he knew it now. He could use it the same way he had against Kang Taepoong.
The difference between them was simple. Kang Taepoong topped out in the mid-150s. Go Tae-san could throw 160.
"Hoo..."
Choi Seungtaek let out a breath of his own, trying to bleed off the tension.
Buma High's battery exchanged signs.
Watching the back of Go Tae-san's glove hand closely, Choi Seungtaek read the pitch.
Fastball.
Choi Seungtaek tightened his grip on the bat.
The ball hissed in.
Crack!
A violent sound filled the stadium. Go Tae-san had thrown it right down the middle, as if to say hit it if you can, and Choi Seungtaek—caught off the path he'd expected—swung through it anyway, clean and hard.
"The ball is carrying! It's going back!"
"Wait—wait!"
"Ah... it hooks foul, deep down the right-field line."
He'd swung with full intent, but his timing was late. The foul dropped in the right-field foul territory.
"Ah, I got beat."
The miss stung, so Choi Seungtaek said it out loud.
In that instant, Ha Seung-yoon's body locked up.
Go Tae-san and Ha Seung-yoon both felt it in their bones: this kid was a real power hitter.
Holy hell. This guy's actually insane. Tae-san, we've got to be sharp here.
Ha Seung-yoon flashed a sign in a hurry.
Go Tae-san nodded. He'd felt the same thing. No one had ever squared up his fastball that threateningly before.
Ha Seung-yoon immediately backed off the challenge and put down a slider. They'd already gotten a strike on the foul; they had room to waste a pitch.
The ball hissed wide.
Pop.
Choi Seungtaek never offered.
Slider. The break on that thing is filthy. I'd be smart to just give up on the off-speed. That's not a pitch I can hit.
Go Tae-san's slider didn't drop vertically. It moved horizontally—coming in like a fastball, then peeling away to the outside. For a right-handed hitter like Choi Seungtaek, it was hell.
In the timeline before Seungtaek came back, the pitch would become more famous under another name: the sweeper. It was more than enough for Go Tae-san to use as his put-away pitch.
They'd thrown it to take Seungtaek's measure. He'd watched it go by like he had all the time in the world.
Throw me a fastball. I am not swinging at that.
"Wow—Choi Seungtaek's eye is excellent too."
"That's right. Front offices are going to love this. Fouling off a 159 km/h fastball that hard was already impressive—and now he doesn't even offer at a breaking ball like that."
Go Tae-san went into his windup again.
Breaking ball again.
Choi Seungtaek waited once more.
The pitch hissed in long and sharp.
Pop.
It looked like it had clipped the zone, but the home plate umpire didn't call a strike.
Pretty good pitch, but the catcher's pitch framing isn't good enough. If he'd just held it still, that's a strike.
Choi Seungtaek decided to pick at that weakness. If he could rattle the catcher, the odds of getting a fastball went way up.
"That was close. Looked like a strike to me. You just framed it so badly it didn't get called, didn't it?"
"What did you just say?"
Choi Seungtaek scraped at him without even pretending to be subtle, and Ha Seung-yoon started to come unglued.
God... that pisses me off.
Even a careful chess match against Choi Seungtaek was already a hard board. Slightly needled now, Ha Seung-yoon immediately put down a fastball.
Go Tae-san was frustrated too—the breaking balls weren't landing—so he nodded.
Here it comes.
The ball hissed in.
Crack!
Foul!
He still couldn't catch the timing. This one wasn't down the middle; it ran in on his hands a little.
He failed to get the barrel on it. The ball found the weak part of the bat, and the wood snapped.
Ugh... my hands are killing me.
Go Tae-san's stuff left Choi Seungtaek's hands buzzing and numb.
"Tell him to throw it again. Next one's going out."
With a new bat in his hands, Choi Seungtaek needled Ha Seung-yoon all over again.
Grit.
Ha Seung-yoon clenched his teeth so hard the sound carried.
And the aftershock ran all the way to Go Tae-san.
Choi Seungtaek's eyes lit up.
Then come on. This time for sure!
The ball hissed in.
He hung it!!
Crack!
This time Go Tae-san's pitch leaked more toward the middle than he'd meant it to, and Choi Seungtaek did not miss the mistake. He pulled it properly.
Because he pulled it, the ball went to left. Because he caught it flush, it kept carrying, carrying, toward the left-field wall.
"Wait—wait—wait?"
"Oh! It's going! It's going! It's gone!!!"
The crowd's roar rolled over him.
Choi Seungtaek watched the flight, took one step, then another—and the moment he was sure it had cleared, he flung the bat to the dirt.
Thump. Thump.
His heart was hammering out of his chest. Blood roared through his whole body.
Rounding the bases, Choi Seungtaek felt like he was flying. First, second, third—every bag under his foot felt like a cloud.
When he came home, the two-hole hitter, Seo Gi-hyun, met him with a high five. And when he stepped into the dugout, the first person waiting at the rail was his manager.
Choi Seungtaek traded a hard high five with the man who had believed in him, then disappeared inside.
In the dugout, every single teammate started pounding on him.
Thump! Thump!
"Choi Seungtaek! Choi Seungtaek! Choi Seungtaek!"
"Wooooooo!"
They hammered him like they'd lost their minds, and Choi Seungtaek didn't feel a bit of it.