The Pop Time Revolution
Choi Seungtaek had a clear, razor-sharp goal. To win the championship, a runner stealing from first to second base needed roughly 3.3 seconds. The pitcher’s pitch reaching the catcher’s mitt took about 1.3 seconds. Subtract those two times and only two seconds remained—the precious window the catcher received to block the steal.
In baseball that exact transfer time from glove to glove is called POP TIME. The best catchers never let it climb above two seconds. A figure in the 1.95-to-2.00-second range was considered usable inside the league. Seungtaek’s usual blocking form had always sat right there.
1.9 to 1.95 seconds was still respectable; top Korean catchers and many Major League catchers operated in that bracket. Once the time slipped into the 1.8-second range, it belonged to elite Major League starters. A 1.88-second pop time was, by any measure, preposterous.
Jo Oosoo stared at the stopwatch, stunned. “You haven’t even finished real training yet and you’re already at 1.88?”
Seungtaek noticed the veteran had frozen. “Eh? Why are you standing there?”
“Seungtaek-ah, let’s do this properly.”
“Yes, sir!”
Jo Oosoo’s sudden seriousness pulled Seungtaek into focus as well. The veteran immediately moved from second base straight to home plate.
“Give me a second. I’ll show you the proper stance.”
“Understood.”
“Hmph. Watch this.”
“Huh?! Senior, are you all right?”
Jo Oosoo dropped into the classic crouch on home plate, ignoring his knee injury because he wanted to teach the younger man perfectly. “A little is fine. Focus tightly. I’ll show you for just a moment.”
He demonstrated the exact blocking motion he used on the base paths. “You stay centered but lean forward just a fraction. Then twist your knee like this while you throw.”
“Like this?”
Jo Oosoo showed the pose that had always channeled power most fluidly and walked Seungtaek through every detail. The younger man copied the movement right beside him.
“Yes. While you move the knee, you do exactly what I told you?”
“Not just a soft push—whip the arm like a bullwhip?”
“Exactly! Even from a sitting position, the knee, waist, and shoulder all work together. The final arm snap must be smooth, natural, and lightning-fast!”
Seungtaek ran a quick internal simulation. …Hmm. Sounds harder than it looks.
He repeated the motion several times, letting Jo Oosoo correct him mid-drill. When the veteran finally felt the form click, he nodded sharply.
“Good. Now explode it on the very first step. That single instant of delay disappears. Try it again until it feels natural.”
“Yes, sir!”
“Hmph.”
Jo Oosoo rose again, grunting from the knee, and headed back toward second base.
“Ready! Go!”
Seungtaek faced him. “Start!”
The drill began once more. The wind whipped. A sharp pop echoed.
“It actually got a little longer,” Seungtaek thought. “But it’s just unstable posture. Once I get the feel, it’ll drop again.”
“Again! Still stiff—snap it smoothly!”
“Yes, Senior!”
Another explosive pop.
The numbers kept falling. Seungtaek’s body felt like he was firing a cannon. Every muscle had become a single, perfectly coordinated weapon.
[New form acquired! Jo Oosoo’s steal-blocking style! — A-grade acquisition rate 2%]
“That’s it, Seungtaek! Exactly like that!”
Jo Oosoo shouted with pure joy. “Do it again—better than before!”
“Yes, Senior!”
Seungtaek ignored the congratulations and drilled. He had sensed the exact moment when Park Wangyu’s words would become truth. He refused to let the sensation fade.
Another whip of the arm. Another perfect pop.
Training was simply repetition. Once the feeling was inside him, he owned it.
All day Seungtaek drilled. When it ended, Jo Oosoo gave him the news.
“Really? My pop time is already in the 1.8-second range?”
“Yes! That exact form! Keep drilling and you’ll be able to use it in real games. I was stunned too.”
Seungtaek finally understood why the veteran had trained him so fiercely. “After you explained every detail, your personal best was 1.84 seconds and your average pop time sat at 1.88.”
Whoa… I just blocked steals at nearly Major League level. I threw away half my baseball career.
* * *
Seungtaek returned home and collapsed onto the couch, satisfied. “Today I really earned something. Two years in the second team and I’ve learned so much.”
Two legendary catchers had given him different but equally priceless advice—mental and technical—and both had accelerated his growth. Park Wangyu’s generous guidance as second-team manager and Jo Oosoo’s painful-but-honest teaching had moved him forward. Seungtaek felt genuine gratitude.
“They believed in me enough to teach me everything. I can’t let that belief down!”
He lay on the couch a moment longer, then stood and sat at the desk in his room.
“Know yourself and know your enemy and you win a hundred times. Let’s prepare again—like I did the day I first came back.”
He had used MacPhis’ power-analysis data during the game, but now he would analyze it himself.
“First question: can this team actually win?”
His ultimate purpose was to prove to his mother and Park Ga-young that he was worth the long-term investment. He opened the analysis again.
“Let’s look at the hitters. First, the outfield. There are three core players.”
He listed them:
Kang Geontaek (FA from Pyeongtaek in 2014), Cha Haengjin (homegrown), and Kim Haeja (FA with a club-friendly contract).
All three hit well above .300 and their defensive metrics were solid. The outfield was excellent. Even the backup corner-infield was strong.
“No real holes there. If we need to give a designated hitter an extra spot, the outfield is still deeper than most teams.”
He checked Lee Sung-sip’s numbers—the player stepping in for the ill Kang Geontaek. Solid gap power, even if the batting average wasn’t quite the same.
“Outfield is flawless. The last remaining risk is covered.”
He moved to the infield. Second and shortstop were already national-team caliber. He began examining the unproven resources.
Wolf the foreign slugger had excellent bat speed but had been sidelined by a long-term injury. If he moved to third base, the hole would disappear and the designated-hitter slot would open. One of the two weakest defensive positions—short or third—would be solved by training.
“Second baseman Gwan Yonggwon and shortstop Hwang Ganggyeong already back each other up. The entire infield looks adequate for now.”
“Pitcher is the real problem.”
Seungtaek pulled up the pitching roster. “This is where the issue lies.”
“The rotation is too thin. We brought in veterans through FA, but they’re not ace-caliber.”
Every team had its own cycle. MacPhis had reached its brightest era in 2018 under manager Kim Deokyong. Seungtaek considered the strongest window under his current manager, Han Geunseong—the 2015 season. They had climbed five spots from cellar dweller to fifth place.
That success had come from heavy training volume. Many pitchers had not adapted and suffered injuries. The hitters gained defense; the pitchers lost effectiveness. The good arms would all be gone next year, and the remaining ones would not sustain the same dominance.
“But if I preserve the 2015 pitching staff and add the two key FA pitchers—Incheon’s Jeong Mookjik and Busan’s Song Chang-soo—next year…”
He looked at the 2016 FA list. Only two names mattered for MacPhis: Jeong Mookjik and Song Chang-soo. If both joined, the staff would be competitive.
“Then the real question is how to keep the current rotation healthy and reduce the number of arms that break down. That’s the part I’m stuck on.”
Seungtaek stared at the screen, lost in thought.