The Returned Catcher Wants to Win the Championship
The bus screeched to a halt in a cloud of diesel and dust, the engine still idling as if it were personally offended by the lateness. Everyone had been waiting—teammates, coaches, the entire Suseok High squad—eyes glued to their phones, the air thick with that peculiar silence of a team that knows something is rotten at its core.
"Shit, Seungtaek," the coach growled, voice cracking like a whip that had been coiled too long. "You've been sleeping on the job? Since when does a pro's player pull this crap?"
Choi Seungtaek stood frozen, backpack straps digging into his shoulders like the universe was punishing him for daring to exist. The words landed like a fastball in the ribs, but the ache was nothing compared to the hollow realization blooming behind his eyes.
"I'm sorry, Coach."
Even now, years removed from the diamond, the words tasted like ash. He had missed the bus. Missed the team bus. Missed the entire momentum of a season that had already begun without him, and the coach—Kim Ik-hyun, the man who had once taught him that baseball was instinct, not just statistics—had spent the whole ride here waiting, jaw tight, eyes burning with that quiet fury of a mentor who had watched his star pitcher crumble.
Choi Seungtaek still couldn't quite believe it. The last thing he remembered was the familiar hum of his apartment in Los Angeles, the weight of a 12-year contract pressing down like an anvil, and then—BULAC—a jolt of light and sound that had yanked him backward through time itself. The System interface had flickered open like a glitch in reality, promising power, stats, levels, and second chances. But the universe had other plans. One moment he had been a White Sox catcher chasing redemption under Tony La Russa; the next, he was back in high school, 21 years younger, the pressure of being the team's ace catcher staring him down again.
'What the hell… This isn't a dream. This is real.'
He hadn't woken up from any slumber. This was the System's brutal truth: regression, second chances, the kind of cosmic joke that tested whether a man could still swing a bat with the fire of youth or if the years had burned the spark out of him. And today—today was the Cheongryonggi quarterfinals. The biggest stage yet.
"Get on the bus," the coach snapped, voice low but edged with exhaustion. "Everyone's already in the back. You can explain there."
Choi Seungtaek moved on autopilot, legs carrying him up the steps like a man sleepwalking through his own funeral. The bus was a rolling tomb, windows fogged with the heat of anger and disbelief. No one spoke. No one even looked at him. The silence pressed in like a catcher’s mitt closing around a fastball—slow, deliberate, suffocating. Teammates he had mentored turned their eyes away, juniors who once looked up to him now staring at the floor as if he carried the plague.
'They know. They all know I was late. And I can't even blame the System for this one.'
Inside, the atmosphere was colder than the locker room after a no-hitter. Choi Seungtaek slid into the seat the coach had indicated, right beside Manager Kim Ik-hyun. The older man didn't speak at first, just watched him with those grandfatherly eyes that had seen too many comebacks and too few failures. When the coach finally settled behind him, the bus lurched forward, tires eating up the distance toward the Mokdong Stadium like a man rushing to meet his fate.
"So… who’s driving?" the coach asked, voice flat.
"The driver’s already got the route. We’re burning daylight."
Choi Seungtaek’s mouth opened, closed, then opened again. The words felt ridiculous even as he said them. "Coach… about today. The lineup. I’m really sorry for the missed bus. I’ll make it up on the field. I swear."
The coach let out a long breath, rubbing the bridge of his nose. For a moment the old fire flickered back— the same fire that had once drilled him on wrist flicks and pitch framing until the pain was muscle memory. "You’re a third-year. The model student. If even you can’t show up, what does that say about the rest of the team?"
Choi Seungtaek nodded, throat tight. The apology sat like lead in his gut. He had been the one who always stayed late, who fixed the junior’s glove, who carried the extra balls to practice. Now the weight of that reputation was crushing him. "I know. I know. I’ll do better. Promise."
"You didn’t even warm up," the coach muttered, more to himself than anyone. "Just… get on the field and play. Don’t embarrass yourself. Or the team."
Choi Seungtaek stared at the passing Seoul streets, the familiar buildings blurring past. His mind raced. The System had given him levels, skills, stat boosts—everything a man could want in a second chance. But this? This was raw, unfiltered regret. The kind that made a catcher question every pitch he would ever throw again. 'I was late because… because I was in America, signing a contract that made my family rich. But that contract never existed in this timeline. Not yet.'
The bus pulled up to the stadium, the roar of the crowd already filtering through the doors like distant thunder. Players poured out, bags slamming, cleats scuffing the pavement. Choi Seungtaek stood rooted, watching his teammates move with practiced efficiency. His position was catcher— the hardest, most unglamorous job on the field. And today he had blown it before the first pitch.
"Hey, Seungtaek! What the hell are you doing standing there?"
The coach’s voice cut through the noise. His face was flushed, not with anger this time, but with that helpless frustration of a mentor who had seen the boy he raised crumble under the weight of his own mistakes. "Where’s your gear? You left it behind?"
Choi Seungtaek blinked. The realization hit like a curveball. "I… I didn’t pack. I was rushing to the bus, and—"
"You didn’t pack?" The coach’s voice rose, drawing stares from nearby players. "You’re the catcher, for Christ’s sake! We have to catch the ball, not just hit it. Your gear is the most expensive junk on the field!"
Choi Seungtaek rubbed the back of his neck, the shame burning hotter than any fastball. "I know. I know. I’ll grab what I need at the field. Just… let me move." But his legs felt glued. The junior behind him—Go Jae-myung, the 2nd-year backup—had already sprinted ahead, carrying the entire equipment bag like it was nothing. By the time Choi Seungtaek finally shook off the fog, the bus stood empty except for him, its doors wide open like a mouth that had spat him out.
'This is insane. I’m the starter. The cleanup. The leader. And I forgot my own gear.'
He sprinted across the lot, bags slapping against his legs, until he reached the field. The dugout was chaos—bats being taped, cleats laced, the air electric with the promise of a big day. Manager Kim Ik-hyun stood at the front, clipboard in hand, eyes scanning the lineup.
"Let’s move! Everyone in!"
Choi Seungtaek dropped into the dugout, mask in one hand, glove in the other. The familiar smell of leather and sweat wrapped around him like a hug from his past. For a moment he forgot the shame, the missing bus, the year he had lost. This was home. This was baseball.
"Seungtaek, you good?" Han Bang-man—his teammate, the third-year cleanup hitter—slid over, voice low and steady. "You look like you just saw a ghost."
Choi Seungtaek forced a grin, the kind he used on the mound when the crowd got loud. "Just tired. Long drive. Nothing big."
"Don’t lie to me. You were late. I know that look."
Before Choi Seungtaek could answer, Manager Kim Ik-hyun approached, voice calm but carrying the weight of every lost game. "Lineup’s set. Let’s go."
He read the names like a death sentence wrapped in numbers. "One—Second Baseman Seo Gi-hyun. Two—Center Field Kim Jin-hu."
Names he hadn’t heard in years, names that felt like ghosts from the diamond. Each one a reminder that time had marched on without him. His chest tightened as the manager continued.
"Five—First Baseman Han Bang-man. Six—Third Baseman Kim Min-jae."
Choi Seungtaek’s heart dropped like a catcher dropping a wild pitch. The six was his spot. His spot. The one he had earned with years of grit, with late nights in the cage, with the weight of the mask on his face. Now another name occupied it, and the manager’s eyes lingered on him a moment longer than necessary.
"Seven—Right Field Kim Minsik."
A pause. The manager let the silence stretch, letting every player feel the gravity.
"Eight—Catch er Choi Seungtaek. Nine—Shortstop Na Min-ho. And today’s starter pitcher is Kang Taepoong."
Choi Seungtaek exhaled, the air whooshing out like a sigh of relief. He had made the lineup. Barely. The System had forced this regression, but it had also given him one last gift: the opportunity to prove he was still the man who could handle the mask, the strategy, the pressure. He would do better today. He would make every swing count. Every pitch. Every throw to second.
"This is a tough, important game," the manager said, voice steady. "Play with your head up. No excuses."
"Yes, Manager!" the team chorused.
Choi Seungtaek stood, mask in hand, and stepped out onto the field. The grass felt cool beneath his cleats. The crowd—more than he had expected—watched from the stands, their eyes heavy with expectation. Buma High School’s name was plastered across the scoreboard, a powerhouse in the Gyeongnam region, the team that had swept every flag in 2014. And opposite them, Suseok High, his home. The Cheongryonggi. Quarterfinals. The biggest game of his high-school career.
'Buma High? That’s… that’s the team with Go Tae-san. The kid who throws 160 km/h and has a tell I once caught.'
He adjusted his stance at the plate, bat resting on his shoulder, and stared down the mound at Kang Taepoong. The rookie’s arm was electric, fastball humming, but Choi Seungtaek saw the tell—the unconscious curl of the glove before the curve. He had leaked it once before. He would do it again if he had to.
'I’m here. The System gave me this second shot. Now I have to use it. For the team. For the fans. For the catcher who never wanted to quit.'
The game was about to begin. And Choi Seungtaek was ready to swing for the fences—whether the ball came from his bat or from the System’s hidden stats.