The Seoul Series (2)

The Seoul Dragons' number three hitter, Ko Byeong-yeon, dreams of playing in the Major Leagues.

Sure, his numbers weren't at the level where American teams would come flooding with offers the moment he declared for the states, he wasn't a free agent, and going over through the posting system would make it even less likely — but dreams aren't something you decide with pure logic alone.

And yet, for all that his dream had seemed improbable until now, word had it that scouts from every single MLB team had shown up at today's game. Nobody could say what might happen if he made a good impression here.

"Feeling good today, Byeong-yeon?"

"Afternoon, sir."

The man greeting him warmly as he stepped into the batter's box was none other than the Twins' senior catcher, Baek Joo-seon. Baek Joo-seon was older, so they'd never played on the same team, but they were alumni of the same high school and knew each other fairly well. Both the Dragons and the Twins being Seoul clubs, players from Seoul-area high schools were plentiful on both rosters.

"Ah, I am. Go easy on me today, yeah?"

"Since when do I ever go easy on anyone?"

Some catchers radiate hostility at the plate, or needle the batter with petty trash talk, but Baek Joo-seon was an absolute gentleman. By contrast, a catcher like Sung Yeon-joon of the Rangers came at you with the presence of a man about to eat you alive — the pressure was no joke.

So with his mind settled after the friendly senior-junior exchange, Byeong-yeon turned his gaze toward the mound. Standing there was a slightly swarthy, Latin-featured pitcher. Maybe it was all the hardship he'd endured, or maybe it was just that foreign players tend to look older than their Korean counterparts, but with a bit of exaggeration the man could pass for fifty. Rocking his legs and shoulders in what seemed to be his personal routine, he loosened himself up.

Paulo Rodriguez. His registered Korean name: Paulo. His performance this season had been thoroughly average for an import pitcher — the type whose stuff rose and fell from day to day. But when it came to eating up innings, he was reliably consistent.

His velocity topped out at 149 km/h — slow even for a right-hander. Slow even by KBO standards. It wasn't hard to guess why he hadn't stuck around in the States and had chosen Korea instead.

Still, with a deep arsenal of breaking pitches and razor-sharp command as his strengths, he was a considerable veteran when he was dialed in — capable of painting every corner of the zone. Byeong-yeon steadied his breathing. If he couldn't get past a pitcher of this caliber, he might have to give up on the big leagues altogether.

Besides, Paulo didn't seem to be in great condition today either — he'd already given up a hit to the leadoff hitter, and nothing about the game was going smoothly for him. One out, runner on first.

Byeong-yeon gripped his bat tight and focused on Paulo. After a brief pause to gather his breath, the ball finally left the outstretched arm and hand.

[130 km/h]

"Paulo's first pitch — ball."

"The slider drifted a little further outside. My sense is he was trying to steal the count off the outer edge."

"The count: one ball, no strikes."

He hadn't gotten his fingers fully into it — the trajectory and the break angle were both a little off on that slider. Even if contact had been made, it wouldn't have produced a good ball to hit, so Byeong-yeon let it go. Paulo clearly wasn't at his best today. Confidence surged. At this level, he could cut loose and take a real run at a home run.

Paulo readied another pitch. Keep the mind set — if a good one came, turn on it hard. Byeong-yeon watched the ball carefully.

[117 km/h]

"Second pitch, breaking off outside. Two balls."

"Paulo seems to be lodging a bit of a protest with the umpire, doesn't he? That one could have gone either way depending on the ump."

"The count stands at two balls. Paulo is dragging out this tough at-bat."

The bat had nearly escaped him. Unlike the earlier slider, this curve had come in with an excellent angle — right up until the end it looked like it would break in for a strike. But it wasn't a pitch you could do damage on, so he'd wrenched the bat back ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠at the last moment. Thankfully, a ball.

From the protest, it was clear Paulo had been trying to steal the count. But with the count now at two balls, there was no way he could afford that kind of razor-thin luxury anymore.

Now he had to come in and claim the count for certain. If he nibbled at the border again and it came out a ball, it'd be three. He'd have no choice but to attack the strike zone far more aggressively.

When his protest went unheeded, Paulo simply put on a stoic expression and reset into his delivery. He nodded at the catcher's sign and prepared the third pitch.

This was the real one. A genuinely good pitch was coming into the strike zone.

The ball came flying. Sure enough — the trajectory was high, close to the middle of the zone. Anyone could see he'd been forced into a mistake count. A breaking pitch in name only; the velocity alone was closer to a fastball.

Get ready. The perfect spot to hit. An uppercut swing, cut on it with everything — committed to driving it out of the park no matter what —

Crack!

[137 km/h]

"Third pitch — ah, off the inside part of the plate and the bat shatters! Straight at the shortstop — to second, from second to first — and that's the inning!"

"Paulo is a crafty veteran, isn't he? With the count at two balls, he put the ball exactly where the batter had no choice but to swing. And that was a two-seamer, by the way."

"And with that, the bottom of the first for the Seoul Dragons comes to a close."

"Young friend. What do you think? This is the advantage of a cute little ballpark like this one."

"Doesn't really have anything to do with the stadium size, does it?"

Paulo, strolling back after wrapping up the inning, tossed the remark my way. But I wasn't buying it.

Look, I understood what Paulo was going for. The original Paulo had slow velocity, but contrary to expectations he pitched primarily off fastballs — a stuff-oriented pitcher hunting pop-ups. For his velocity, his spin rate was good, his corner command was solid, and his modified fastballs broke sideways far more than they sank, so even poorly hit balls tended to stay in the air. That's why he'd signed as an import for the Seoul Twins, whose home ballpark in Jamsil has a vast outfield.

But today, somehow, his pitches were sinking just a little, coaxing ground ball after ground ball instead.

"Paulo. I'll grant your ability to alter a pitch's trajectory based on the stadium environment. But I have a hard time accepting that a small ballpark works to a pitcher's advantage."

I got that in a small park, even an ordinary fly ball could easily morph into a home run, so he was aiming for grounders. But that obviously didn't make the park a pitching advantage.

Unless a pitcher was capable of inducing fly balls in the first place, it didn't matter — statistically speaking, fly balls are far less likely to become extra-base hits than grounders. Better than barrels, sure, but hammer enough grounders and the hits pile up too.

So a spacious park where you can blow fastballs up in the zone hunting pop-ups versus a tiny park where anything hit remotely hard leaves the yard and forces you to throw scared, keep everything down like a coward — when it comes to pitchers, the former outranks the latter, plain and simple.

But Paulo was shaking his head as if to say that wasn't the point at all.

"No, friend. Inducing ground balls matters, of course, but that's not what makes it an advantage."

"Then what is?"

"Alright. Watch me show you once more. This time, I'll make it unmistakably clear."

Bottom of the second. Both teams had scraped together a few hits but failed to score. Standing in the box, the Dragons' cleanup hitter, Shin Jeong-seop, was thinking.

Some kind of magic trick had been worked, because Paulo's pitch trajectories had shifted from everything he'd analyzed before. Instead of breaking sideways at the last moment, they were dropping straight down.

Calling Seodaemun Baseball Stadium — the park with the highest home run factor in the league — home and batting fourth to match, Shin Jeong-seop was the classic uppercut slugger living and dying by the long ball. That much he shared, to a degree, with Byeong-yeon, who'd grounded into a double play just an inning earlier.

Byeong-yeon hadn't been conscious of it in advance, so he'd surrendered an ordinary out to a sinking modified fastball — but knowing changes everything. The uppercut swing is the optimal weapon for obliterating exactly that kind of dropping modified fastball.

Paulo fiddled with the ball on the mound with a relaxation that betrayed zero tension. He exchanged a few signs with the catcher, then began his windup.

Shin Jeong-seop likewise let the tension go, keeping in mind that the ball might drop even further as he readied his swing. He'd forced his bat around on splitters before and managed to hit home runs anyway — to a man like him, the idea that it was impossible simply didn't register.

The pitch came.

It sailed in slightly off the outside, but the trajectory was fundamentally middle-of-the-plate. Well within pull range.

There it is. No need to think twice — swing with everything he had. Even if it dropped a little at the end, wrist control would cover it. That was his judgment —

Tok!

[136 km/h]

"First pitch — hit it! Straight at the first baseman! Out!"

"Ah, so close. It caught the very tip of the barrel, right on the edge, and the ball just bled off like that. Miss the barrel entirely and hit the bat tip, it's a foul; make contact just a hair more toward the inside, and that's extra bases all day."

"Paulo is showing extremely efficient pitching today."

— except he couldn't catch up at all.

This time it was a cutter that barely dropped at all, breaking away purely on the horizontal plane. His head filled with nothing but the thought of chasing it, and before he knew it his bat was moving after the ball — only to clip the very end of the barrel and send a liner screaming straight at the first baseman. An out.

"Whoa, sunbae. Is that thing supposed to do that?"

So aggrieved he couldn't help himself, Shin Jeong-seop found himself talking to the opposing catcher, Baek Joo-seon. And the ever-benevolent senior answered with the face of a man completely at peace with the universe.

"Not a single normal pitcher on our staff."

"...Paulo. So this is what you wanted to show me? Layers upon layers of psychological warfare?"

"That's right. Batters who call a home-run park home? Those are my favorite kind. Give them even a small variation and they fall into confusion so easily."

Having shut down two perfect innings, Paulo looked at me, broke into a bright grin, and explained as if I'd finally caught on.

"Batters who play in big parks are crafty as hell. Even a small change barely rattles them. Besides, plenty of them already hunt gap hits rather than home runs, and as you said, grounders are more dangerous than fly balls — so there's no need to induce grounders at all."

Right. And saying an outfield is spacious also means that if a grounder squirts into the grass on an error, it's far harder to deal with than in a cramped park.

Moreover, batters accustomed to a tiny park where home runs are the only real option are always hunting one of three things: a homer, a strikeout, or a walk.

So if you fine-tune the ball's spin axis pitch by pitch — make it drop a touch more here, break sideways a touch more there — they simply never get their bearings back.

I was struck dumb, and said my piece.

"Paulo. Normal people cannot change the trajectory of the same pitch type that drastically on every single throw."

"But if you can, it's a hell of a weapon. It's how I've survived throwing 90-mile fastballs in America all these years. What do you say, friend? Want to learn it?"

Learn it? How is that something you learn? How do you even do that?

At my dumbfounded expression, Paulo threw his head back and roared with laughter, then added lightly:

"Now, if our hitters give me just a little help, today will be a perfect day. Don't you think?"

Craaaack—!!

"He hit it! The ball keeps carrying and carrying — the left-field wall — it's GONE! A two-run homer for Park Myeong-gil!"

"Oh, he sat on that beautifully. The slider drifted slightly toward the middle, and he didn't miss it — perfect timing on it."

"The score is 2-0! The Twins take the lead in the Seoul Series!"

"Oh. So that's exactly how it plays out."

Seriously, did this guy make a deal with the devil today? Whether he means it or not, the game keeps unfolding exactly as he says it will.

"...I think I finally see why he's even better as a gap-stopper than as a starter. No, wait — why not hire him as a pitching coach instead?"

"That, I'd say, is the realm of raw talent — not a skill that can be taught."

"They don't need the ability to change spin axes every single pitch. Just the ability to properly coach one ideal spin axis and lock it in would be more than enough."

Two scouts from the Dodgers' Asia division sat pouring over the wealth of data streaming from Seoul Dragons' pitch-tracking equipment on a laptop, deep in conversation.

Paulo Rodriguez. Back in the big leagues, the record showed only that he'd topped out at 94 mph, averaged around 91, and competed on command alone.

His minor league numbers had been mediocre too, so with age working against him he'd been released. That was why the big leagues had written him off as not worth the interest.

AI camera-based pitch-tracking systems were installed at all thirty MLB ballparks — but not densely deployed throughout the minors. Expensive, cutting-edge equipment. That, they figured, was why Paulo's true value had gone unnoticed all this time.

Korean and Japanese clubs, blessed with deep pockets, had apparently installed the systems meticulously at every single ballpark — so now they were looking at exact figures.

"In a way, it was a good move for him, too. Investment in the minors is going to shrink for a while because of this pandemic, and there'll be plenty of players losing their feel from not getting real game time. Factor in the financial troubles of the small-market clubs, and Paulo Rodriguez is a very attractive asset."

"I'd say he's not a bad target for the Dodgers either now. If there's a luxury-tax reset plan in play, he's worth a look at least once, no? Of course, giving opportunities to young pitching prospects would be the better path."

Right now, Paulo was adjusting the spin efficiency of his modified fastball in roughly 20-percent increments while tilting and standing up the spin axis by about 10 degrees, modulating the ball's movement as he pleased. A craft far more difficult than simply handling two separate pitches.

"Honestly, the more I watch, the more absurd it gets. Weren't we told this lineup was ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠scraped together entirely from minor-league castoffs?"

"We were. The Seoul Twins have operated on a ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠rebuilding philosophy through this season, so they didn't spend big money on foreign players."

Even if their imports performed well this year, the results carried little weight — and the players might well bolt back to the majors anyway.

So this year's Seoul Twins had signed cheap players almost exclusively — the kind unlikely to return to MLB even if they adapted well and put up good numbers in the KBO.

But isn't this basically the story of buying a curio at a garage sale and finding out it was a rare artifact?

Paulo had dominated today's game in the truest sense of the word. When he came off the mound, it was purely a pitch-count, stamina-management decision — he'd had plenty left in the tank. He himself seemed satisfied, because he immediately pulled out his phone and called his family. In the team bus buzzing with the afterglow of victory came his rapid-fire, flawless Spanish. I had no idea Paulo could talk that fast.

Sitting beside him and half-listening, I couldn't understand a word, but the warmth between family members came through all the same, and it put me in a genuinely good mood. Here and there, the adorable little voices of his kids piped in too.

Then, mid-call, Paulo's expression suddenly stiffened, and he turned to look at me. And kept looking, all the way until the call ended.

"...Interpreter-nim? Do you happen to know what's going on?"

"...Hard to say. I don't speak much Spanish either."

Even if a player speaks English, an interpreter is supposed to speak the player's native language. Four imports, one interpreter between them — you could read this penny-pinching franchise from that fact alone.

Anyway, with the interpreter-nim and me both flustered, whispering furtively to each other, Paulo hung up and asked in a voice cold in the most complete opposite way from his usual self:

"Hey, friend. Your youngest girlfriend — how old did you say she was?"

"Hmm, eighteen?"

Min-ah's birthday hadn't passed yet, but it felt like I should round her age up at least a little, so that's how I answered.

Still not entirely satisfied, Paulo let out a low hmmmm through his nose, then — clearly reluctant to say it but having no choice — ground the words out one by one, chewing each syllable with painful deliberation.

"My eldest daughter, Celia. She says she likes you. She asked whether a video call might be possible, even once... You understand, right? Act like a professional."

Ah, that's the problem. Having a handsome face creates this kind of trouble too.

I already have three girlfriends and I'm technically a married man on paper, so I have zero intention of adding more — but this isn't the only world where married men fool around; it happened plenty in my past life too. People who actually know me would know I'm not that kind of man, but Paulo hasn't spent even half a year around me. My face isn't worth anything. No — it can't be worth anything. Ye-eun scares me.

"Of course, Paulo. How professional do you think I am? I know exactly how to keep a proper distance from fans."

Look, I may not know much else, but this one thing I'm genuinely good at? And yet even at my forthright display, Paulo's expression didn't soften.

"For reference, Celia is thirteen."

"I'm sorry, what?"

No, old man, come on — you think I'd go after someone that young? Who exactly are you treating like a criminal here, seriously.

But he kept going on and on — puta, puta this, and something about Koreano idols — and the sight of a father whose eyes had fully rolled back into fan-dad mode was genuinely terrifying, so I decided to let it slide.

On this team, besides me, there is not one sane pitcher. Truly none.