The Catcher Who Refuses to Be Broken
Choi Seungtaek stepped into the dugout to the roar of his senior teammates.
“Nice! Good job, Seungtaek!”
“You did it!”
Hwang Ganggyeong, who had scored the sacrifice hit and reached first base first, gave him a high-five as they talked.
“Seungtaek.”
Just as Seungtaek and Ganggyeong were about to step deeper into the dugout, Han Geunseong’s voice cut through the air.
“Choi Seungtaek.”
Seungtaek and Ganggyeong froze. Han Geunseong’s tone was clipped, like a whip crack. Hwang Ganggyeong glanced at his manager and quickly slipped away, leaving Seungtaek alone in the manager’s glare.
“Han Geunseong.”
Seungtaek straightened his stance. “Yes, Manager.”
Yet even now, pride burned in his chest. He had stolen third base legally, no manager’s sign required. Success made accountability slippery at best.
So he opened his mouth just enough to stay out of hot water.
Han Geunseong stared at him, eyes narrowed. “I handed every responsibility on the field to you. Then you went and did something I never told you to do.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Why steal third base without a sign? The only players in Milwaukee who can do that are Cease and Skubal.”
“It looked reckless, but I was certain it was possible at that exact moment.”
“Possible?”
“Yes. I have reasons.”
Han Geunseong flipped through his notes, then looked up. The manager’s handwriting was almost illegible on the page, but one clear advantage stood out: Do-ryeon’s pitch was slow. Kang Pung-gi’s shoulder was solid enough for second base, yet third was a gamble no sane player would take.
“So… you had a reason.”
“It’s good news for the whole team going forward. The Seagulls’ catcher, Kang Pung-gi, has been too relaxed lately.”
“Relaxed?”
“Exactly. I was on second and the signs were way too visible. He didn’t even bother hiding them.”
Seungtaek’s voice was steady, almost smug. So that’s what you saw. The smugness vanished the instant he realized what it meant. But I still did it.
“You knew their signs?”
“I picked it up during analysis.”
Han Geunseong’s eyebrows rose. “Analyzing another team’s signs. That’s usually the work of scouts, not a rookie catcher.”
“Still… it’s more precise this time.”
“Then you should have told the hitter right then and there. Sharing that information is how we win. Why go rogue and steal third? That was still a reckless move.”
“But it caught them off guard. I’ve never run like that before. They were expecting the usual cautious play, not this. That’s why it worked.”
Logic was on Seungtaek’s side, yet the move had still been insane. Han Geunseong rubbed his forehead. He was annoyed, but the steal had succeeded. He couldn’t punish a result he had just allowed.
“Fine. Go back in.”
“Yes, Manager.”
Seungtaek returned to the dugout, heart still racing from the adrenaline.
So that’s the confidence I was feeling. I ran because I believed it would work. Too aggressive for a rookie? Or maybe the bat to the shoulder just got me pumped?
He had explained everything to Han Geunseong, and the manager had let him stay. That was progress.
Now… what do I do next?
Seungtaek had been hit.
Han Geunseong, who rarely missed these things, felt a cold certainty settle in his gut. This was intentional. The Seagulls had sent a deliberate message, and Seungtaek had ignored it.
Breaking him. No apology gesture, either. That’s blatant. I’ll have to retaliate… but first, I get the lead. There’s still time to answer.
The fifth inning ended. Milwaukee was up to bat.
Han Geunseong signaled the coach to throw a retaliation pitch. Seungtaek, however, didn’t even flinch. He simply called the next pitch and the game continued.
A retaliation pitch? Rejected?
Rejecting one could mean demotion to the minors. Seungtaek had just cut the retaliation sign off his own list. Han Geunseong’s jaw tightened as he stared at the rookie.
What the hell is going through your head?
His entire plan had been derailed from the first swing.
When the ball had hit Seungtaek, Han Geunseong had expected a bench-clearing brawl. Instead, the kid had calmly jogged to first base and never once looked rattled. Seemingly unbreakable.
Seungtaek kept playing it cool, but the Seagulls kept throwing everything they had at him, trying to rattle the rookies. Yet every time, Seungtaek’s head stayed clear and he answered with a big hit.
Not predictable at all. Much better than the average rookie who panics. He’s not just surviving—he’s enjoying it. Is he the type who only fights when teammates are involved? Hmph… that’s dangerous.
Han Geunseong jotted it down in his notebook: Strong mentality. Note for later.
But his assumption had been wrong again. He scribbled a correction across the page.
“That… that crazy bastard.”
* * *
In the top of the fifth, Busan Seagulls starter Lee Do-ryeon had already surrendered three runs. He was still on the mound when Seungtaek stepped into the box.
“You took a lot of hits earlier. Let me go easy on you this time.”
“No thanks. I can handle it.”
Kang Pung-gi grinned as he returned to the mound. Seungtaek felt the familiar rivalry spark again.
“You’re still running like a rookie, huh? Must be because your knees are fine. Envy me—I’d trade knees if I could run like that.”
“My knees are just fine, too. But the batters on this team are easy. I’d feel bad running if I could. What about you, senior?”
Seungtaek kept the trash talk going. Come on. Scratch again? After the last one? Fine. They wanted me broken. Perfect.
“This time I’ll really go after you. Show me what you’ve got.”
“Yeah? Then I better let one fly over the left-field fence.”
But the pitch Kang Pung-gi sent was never a question. He signaled Do-ryeon to hit Seungtaek in the shoulder again. Do-ryeon nodded.
Wind-up… delivery.
The fastball rose higher than before, aimed straight for the shoulder.
* * *
Breaking him.
Pitching a ball into a batter on purpose to crush his spirit. Usually the ball is gentle—hitting the back or the hip—but when the goal is pure intimidation, the head is the target. The rules now punish any pitcher who throws at a batter’s head. Still, the tactic works because one solid hit teaches the batter to fear the next pitch coming from the same direction.
That fear is the deadliest part. It plants the idea that every pitch might be aimed at his body.
Seungtaek did not flinch.
But I’m not like them.
Injury-free. The System had granted him the ultimate safeguard—pain without consequence. A hundred percent certainty that a normal pitch would not break him made fear impossible.
But I can’t stop here.
Most batters, when hit, pay two prices: a retaliation pitch or a bench-clearing brawl. Seungtaek had refused the first.
That’s why I did it. What if the next pitch comes? I’d have no excuse to fight back. Reverse psychology.
The pitcher hitting the batter looks bad on paper, but gives the batter the chance to hit back. Seungtaek would take that chance. Even if he was out, at worst two or three days sidelined. Worth it for a senior player who could still run.
One of the worst ways he had considered was to provoke a bench-clearing brawl and weaken the opponent’s bench. If that happens, I stay healthy and they don’t. Perfect.
And he was deliberately provoking the pitcher.
Not breaking his arm—just snapping a rib, shattering a nose, or cracking a jaw. Seungtaek wanted the opponent to remember him. Every time he was hit, the next pitchers would hesitate to come within his strike zone. It was a dirty trick, but it worked.
Smarter than letting the other team get blood on their hands.
Instead of handing the retaliation pitch over to the umpires, he would absorb the hit himself. The Major League version of retaliation was flashy, but Seungtaek chose the one that put the spotlight on him. They’ll call me “the guy who doesn’t break,” won’t they?
Wrong information.
Sport analysis is never perfect. Deliberately feeding the other team false intel to turn it against them is a legitimate skill.
Creating that image would take time, but right now, in Busan, the Seagulls were trying to break him. And that made it a gift.
Good. Let’s break them first.
The pitch slammed into Seungtaek’s shoulder, then glanced off his helmet as it passed.
“Ouch!”
Kang Pung-gi looked surprised. The pitch had been higher than expected. Seungtaek had actually been hit in the head.
Seungtaek snatched up his bat and threw it.
“Hey, easy.”
Kang Pung-gi, still stunned, stepped in front of him. Before the senior could even finish the thought, Seungtaek dropped his mask with his left hand and punched Kang Pung-gi’s temple with his right.
Thud.
A sickening crack echoed across the field. Kang Pung-gi dropped like a sack of bricks.
One Seagulls catcher down! Time for the next.
Seungtaek sprinted toward the mound, eyes locked on the pitching staff.