Seoul Series (1)

With the Inter League — the North-South district exchange series — kicking off, the attention of Seoul Twins fans converged on a single topic.

Of course, things like Kim Yi-seon's All-Star selection were big news, but to Twins fans there was something that mattered even more.

That topic was the showdown with the Seoul Dragons.

The official series name was the Seoul Series; its unofficial nickname was the Real vs. Fake Jeil War. With the only two teams in all of South Korea based in the same city squaring off head-to-head, every eye among Seoul Twins fans was locked on the matchup.

Conversely, it was a game the Dragons cared about deeply as well. Naturally, as a franchise that had monopolized the nation's capital of Seoul for decades, their rivalries hardly began and ended with the Twins.

There was the Classic Series against the Pyongyang Fighters — a traditional rival whose regional grudge had naturally carried over into baseball, backed by a fierce soccer rivalry as well. There was the Capital Series against the Kaesong Royals, who were technically lumped into the same metropolitan region but whose two cities couldn't stand each other. Even setting the Twins aside, the Dragons had no shortage of rivals. And yet the reason the Dragons always fixated on the Twins above all else was this:

That reason, in the end, was the sheer unpleasantness of having to share — to carve up — a single city's fanbase.

In the old days, someone from the provinces might root for their hometown team, but if you lived in Seoul, you basically had no option besides the Dragons. Then the twenty-first century arrived and the Twins emerged as an alternative. On top of that, the Dragons themselves had acquired a stale, dated image, so young fans and female fans mostly flowed toward the Twins — which, to the Dragons, was a deeply bitter pill to swallow.

The "Jjin" nickname the internet pinned on them wasn't short for real at all. It was short for Jjintta — loser. The joke being that all the trendy kids and female spectators went to the Twins, leaving behind only a club of nerdy baseball otakus arguing about history. Real Jeil, Fake Jeil — the names were never a compliment.

If the story ended there, it might have concluded as nothing more than one-sided resentment from the Dragons. But the Twins, for their part, had their own reasons for finding the Dragons impossible to like.

That reason was the utterly lopsided head-to-head record. Whether the Seoul Twins were riding high or the Seoul Dragons were in free fall, something strange always happened when these two met — the Twins simply couldn't find their strength. Their failure to sweep a single series was the proof. Sure, their shared history spanned less than twenty years, but within even that brief timeline, it was the Dragons who had tripped up the Seoul Twins at every crucial moment.

And so the two fanbases stood closer to each other than anyone, yet psychologically farther apart than anyone. And the first opponent of the Inter League for the Seoul Twins was the Seoul Dragons.

"As you all know, our next series is the Seoul Series."

Manager Jeong Jin-haeng wore a slightly stiffer expression than usual. Kim Yi-seon and Kang Min-hyuk's return had turned the team's mood around, and the club had safely held onto third place in the division — but the moment they got swept in the next series, they could tumble straight down to fourth.

Facing the Seoul Series right in the middle of such a precarious stretch, it was only natural he'd be tense.

"There will be no changes to the starting rotation. First day of the series, Paulo. Second day, Yi-seon. Last day, Min-hyuk. Those three will take the starts."

He could easily have shuffled the rotation to send out Kang Hyun-seok, the number one starter, or Matt, the foreign ace — but Manager Jeong had no intention of changing a thing. That spoke to how much he trusted Kim Yi-seon and Kang Min-hyuk. Flip it around, though, and it also meant the club was desperate enough to throw rookie starters into a rivalry series this heavy with pressure.

"This series is on the road. But as you all know, 'road' means the stadium's right in front of our noses, so manage your condition well at home. Ah — players living at the second-team dorms, just this once, skip the dorm and come in through the designated hotel to get your bodies right."

The manager was walking them through every last trivial detail he normally wouldn't bother mentioning himself. He went on delivering announcements for quite a while, and then, apparently out of things to say, he fidgeted for a moment before declaring the meeting adjourned. According to Seo-hee, his rehiring depended on this season's results — the pressure was probably getting to him because of that.

Not that I couldn't understand. Even for someone like me, who doesn't root for either team, the head-to-head history between Seoul's two clubs was common knowledge in this world's KBO. And I'd heard that beyond the players, the fans themselves were locked in a strange emotional tug-of-war.

Even if the season record ended up middling, if the head-to-head against the Dragons went well, wouldn't that be a green light for the manager's rehiring? And conversely, if they got crushed 0-and-6...

Well, that's his problem. I need to head up to Seoul for this one, so first things first — a call to Ye-eun.

"Young friend. Calling your wife first, I see. A fine husband you are."

The moment I lifted my phone, an English voice with an odd, distinctive lilt came through. I turned my head to look behind me, and there stood the interpreter and Paulo.

"Paulo. What about you? Keeping in touch well with your wife and kids?"

"Of course. The club installed some kind of satellite communication — one of those state-of-the-art phones, apparently. Thanks to that, I get to hear their voices in perfect clarity every day."

These days Paulo had shaken off most of his old gloom. Little Maya's condition had improved considerably, or so I'd heard.

"That's good to hear."

"It is, isn't it. And with that satellite whatsit, they can watch my games easily too — you should have seen how happy they were."

Come to think of it, this was the COVID season, wasn't it? The other leagues were only just preparing to open. That meant American broadcasts had picked up the KBO's international rights, so Paulo's family had apparently been following his outings from home. That had probably helped him beat back the depression, too.

"Is that so? Then tell me — which player did your family say they liked best? Ah, obviously excluding yourself."

Partly to keep Paulo's mood buoyant, I asked a question of my own. I'd heard the Korean league broadcasts were pulling in decent popularity stateside, and I was genuinely curious what the local verdict actually was.

Paulo, after the question was interpreted, froze for a moment and then answered a touch stiffly — unusual for him.

"Friend."

"Yes? What is it?"

"You are a man devoted to his family, are you not?"

"Of course."

"Good. That is all I need to know."

And with that, without another word of answer, he walked off toward the practice field.

No, seriously — I asked who was popular.

The MLB scouts had been burned by Kim Yi-seon once, but they hadn't given up on him.

That was Kim Yi-seon's grade, evaluated not on future potential but on his current ability alone. In fact, on the fastball, several scouts argued it deserved an 80, forcing the group into a compromise at 75 rather than a 70.

These were the men who, even now, chased prospects who'd been passed over in the draft all the way into college leagues. People who had once graded a prospect as high as fourth on Baseball America's board weren't about to abandon the trail just because he'd turned down a big-league call-up once.

"Damn it. That news is confirmed, right?"

"Yes, Minatogawa. The exact option details haven't been disclosed, but word's already all over the baseball world that his contract includes terms letting him enter ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the MLB market in as little as three years."

Those terms, of course, being three championships as a core starter, or three league MVP awards — but the scouts, unaware of the truth, had heard the rumor and gone into overdrive, running a relentless surveillance operation on Kim Yi-seon.

"Every one of the thirty clubs is the same, but if Kim Yi-seon really does hit the market, we need to set aside bonus money in advance. The maximum we're allowed to spend on a single player. Understood?"

"That much is common sense, sir. I've got it — now let's just watch the game."

Rising COVID numbers had pushed ballparks back to empty stands these days, but for officials of scouting caliber, watching from the press boxes reserved for such personnel was more than possible.

Right here, beyond the Dodgers' Asia scouting team, sat scouts from the cream of the big-market clubs — the San Francisco Giants, the New York Yankees, the New York Mets, the Chicago Cubs — all gathered and locked in on the game. It was hard to believe this was a COVID season, with international travel so heavily restricted. That's how many of them there were.

"And you mentioned there are interesting players besides Kim?"

"There are."

That was why the scouts were all here even on a day like today, when Kim Yi-seon wasn't pitching. The KBO League — and the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Seoul Twins organization in particular — was, unexpectedly, full of players worth a serious look.

"Kang is a good pitcher. Excellent stamina, and his command of that breaking ball is astonishing. At minimum he could serve as a setup man in the big leagues, and if he develops further, starting or closing isn't out of the question."

First, Kang Min-hyuk. His submarine delivery was an extremely attractive option for major-league clubs. Even if he failed as a starter, he was a high-floor asset who could be put to use as a trusted member of the late-inning bullpen. And if he grew even a little by big-league standards, starting didn't seem out of reach either — a drool-worthy profile, frankly. Word was he even shared an agent with Kim Yi-seon, which meant there was a good chance a similar clause had been written into his contract.

"I think Matt Doland is a solid asset as well. He never cracked the big leagues back in the States, but watching him here in Korea, he looks more than capable of holding down a back-end rotation spot as a gap stopper."

"Well, he's not a pitcher the Dodgers need. The small-market clubs will be circling him, I'd imagine."

Even Matt Doland — released from the minors before washing up in Korea — looked like a fairly serviceable pitcher in the eyes of big-league clubs.

His career AAA ERA had sat in the high fours — hardly impressive. But in Korea, a league regarded as roughly AAA caliber, he had put up a 3.4 ERA over 62 innings across 10 starts, performing admirably. This wasn't a fluke; it was the product of genuine improvement. He hadn't added a new pitch or gained velocity, but he was managing games with far more composure and coolness than before — growth of the internal kind.

And finally—

"Paulo Rodriguez, eh. Didn't he already have big-league experience? He's getting up there in age, too."

"He'd be thirty-six if we assume a contract next season. Definitely past a pitcher's prime. In fact, his velocity drop was visible in his final minor-league season — that's why he was released."

Paulo was pitching in today's game — a pitcher whose big-league career, while not long, was long enough to have earned an MLB pension.

He'd been scoured inside and out already, and at his age, expecting further development was unrealistic. If anything, worrying about his aging curve was the more appropriate response. The reason he'd come all the way to an Asian league was probably just to secure a modest paycheck for the final stretch of his playing days.

"Then why on earth are we observing him?"

Minatogawa found it odd that management had ordered him to keep watch on such a player. But one of the staff newly assigned to the Asia scouting team merely shrugged and offered a single remark.

"Beats me. According to the higher-ups, as a gap stopper, Paulo is better than Matt."

"Why? Isn't Matt Doland's record better?"

Matt: 3.4 ERA over 62 innings. Paulo: 3.7 ERA over 59 innings. Factor in the age gap and Matt was clearly the better asset, no? The new teammate nodded as if in agreement — but the observation order had come from the scouting director, and there was nothing to be done about that.

It didn't sit well, but for now, they'd simply have to watch today's game. Even setting Paulo aside, the Dragons had their own players worth monitoring. With that half-sour feeling, Minatogawa turned his eyes back to the field.

Jongno-gu, Seoul. Seodaemun Baseball Stadium.

On a plot of land that was never spacious to begin with, they had stretched the seating all the way to forty thousand, giving the ballpark its infamous, almost deformed shape. Compared to major-league parks, it lacked a strange wall like the Green Monster, but you might say it resembled PNC Park? Unlike Jamsil, with the sweeping semicircular outfield befitting a brand-new dome, this place had a cramped outfield — and that cramped outfield was, of all things, a perfect rectangle. Not a hint of curvature in the fences.

Hence the stadium's derisive nickname: a ping-pong table, where anything you squared up was leaving the yard. But Seoul Dragons fans couldn't care less. Their attitude was simple and proud: if you don't like it, hit your own damn homers.

Pitchers with common sense — like me, naturally — objected to that argument. Batter-friendly games stretch out game times and grind pitchers into dust, which is hardly conducive to running a healthy league.

Matt, sitting beside me to take in the game, surely felt the same. He'd started just yesterday, yet he'd followed the team on the road to cheer them on — with that kind of teammate spirit, there was no way he couldn't sympathize with the absurdity a fellow pitcher was about to endure.

"This ballpark is something else."

"You're telling me, Matt. If the land's too small, you move. What kind of idiot forces a stadium to fit onto a cramped plot?"

Right? Jongno ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠real estate is expensive — sell this place, move out to the outskirts, and build something far bigger and grander. And it wasn't just the field; the stadium itself was the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠problem. Sure, they'd kept renovating over the years, but when the original construction was from the eighties, the condition leaves a lot to be desired. This dugout was oddly shabby, and the bullpen looked for all the world like a livestock pen.

"I like it."

"Yeah, this garbage heap of a ballpark is... Paulo?"

Just as I was about to explain to Matt what a proper ballpark looked like, an unexpected voice cut in. Paulo — the man who had to take the mound in this very stadium today.

With his usual benevolent face, Paulo said something utterly impossible to believe. Gracious, respectable father figure or not, that remark crossed a line.

"Paulo. That is not a defensible position. A park where a light contact play sails over the wall is a horrifying monument to baseball's unscientific design."

"Young friend, don't take it the wrong way. A park like this has its own advantages, you know."

"That's right, kid. I just think it's unusual — I never said it was a bad park."

Now even Matt had joined the other side. Traitors, the both of them.

"If your faith is so weak, then allow me to demonstrate. Maya said today she wants to watch her papa win."

"Well. That's certainly a reason you can't afford to lose."

So that was why Paulo seemed so unusually fired up today. Still, enthusiasm didn't rewrite the truth. Where, exactly, was the advantage for a pitcher in a park like this? Oh — the opposing pitcher would give up plenty of runs too, so maybe that was the advantage?

But Paulo offered no further explanation. He simply headed down to loosen up, tossing back a single gesture over his shoulder: just watch. A gesture aimed not only at me, but at every fan with their heart in their throat over the clash of rivals — and at the scouts, even now locked onto the field — as if to command every last one of them to pay attention.