Buff or Nerf? (3)

It was far too early to feel any stirring, and the safe stretch of the pregnancy hadn't even arrived yet — but these days, Kim Yi-seon found himself leaning in close to Ye-eun's belly every single day anyway.

And every time he did, a feeling like his breath catching in his throat would wash over him, along with a single thought: I have to become more of an adult than I was.

Add up this life and the last one and he was pushing fifty now. But watching his own behavior, his own headspace, even he could tell it hadn't improved much from his school days — how could he not feel that creeping impatience?

That was the reason he'd lately been forcing himself to act with care, running his thoughts through one more pass before every action.

Though lately, watching the scene unfolding in front of him, a small doubt had started to creep in that maybe none of that had been necessary.

"Dad! Seriously, get OFF me!"

"Come on, sweetheart, just let your old dad live a little~ Hm?"

Senior Kang Hyun-seok was clinging to his daughter with a childishness that made Yi-seon think, I wouldn't even do that.

The senior hadn't married particularly late, but his eldest, Soo-hyun, was already a third-year middle schooler, well into that tempestuous age.

And now he was roughhousing with her, smearing rosin — still stuck to his hands from training — all over the place. Yi-seon had no words. Especially since, before her father walked in, she'd been the picture of a quiet, well-mannered child.

After grumbling through quite a while of her father's clueless antics, Soo-hyun finally couldn't take it anymore, shook off his hands, and came scurrying over toward where Yi-seon stood.

"C-can I... call you Yi-seon oppa?"

"Sure."

Her face was flushed with faint embarrassment. Sensibilities ran delicate at that age, and with her father acting like that in front of everyone, Yi-seon completely understood the mortification.

So he nodded to signal that she could call him whatever she liked — and her expression brightened instantly. Then she motioned that she had something to whisper, so he bent down and offered his ear.

"...Um, is it actually true that you and my dad are close?"

Total disbelief in Soo-hyun's question, and her face was full of suspicion to match.

"Every time he comes home, he goes on and on about how he's close with Yi-seon oppa and that I should just say the word if I want to meet you. It's just sad old-man behavior, right? I mean, who would believe a legendary senior veteran ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠going up to some rookie like that?"

It was, admittedly, a perfectly logical deduction. Yi-seon was the weird one; no ordinary rookie got close to a franchise icon nearly twenty years his senior.

But because of the favor Hyun-seok had asked of him, Yi-seon answered with a good measure of truth in it.

"Well? We're close enough that if he asks, meeting up with Soo-hyun like this is no problem at all."

Her stunned expression said his answer was not what she'd expected. Then she let out a long, heavy sigh.

"Tell me ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the truth. What did our dad buy you?"

Nothing of the sort. How far into the gutter must a father's image have fallen for that to come out not as a question but as a confident interrogation?

That said, everything Yi-seon had ever received from the senior amounted to a few bowls of kalguksu noodles, so he could stand tall.

Watching his reaction, Soo-hyun grew even more confused by the fact that it was apparently true. Kang Hyun-seok's shoulders climbed as high as Namsan as he declared grandly to his eldest daughter:

"See? Your old man's still got it! So how about it — want to come along to a team picnic sometime?"

"Dad! I told you not to do stuff like that?! You're not some out-of-touch department head, so what is wrong with you!"

Whatever points he'd earned seemed to be getting deducted on the spot.

Soo-hyun wasn't the only visitor. Senior Hae-ryong's son and daughter had come, so had Senior Joo-seon's boys and Senior Byung-min's daughter, and even Senior Sang-gu — sidelined with an injury right now — showed up at the stadium with his kids in tow.

Since it was an official invitation and everyone had come as families, the club hadn't crammed them in but seated them in the box seats. That made it natural to stop by and chat, and the kids could wander around freely without feeling cooped up, meeting the players as they went.

It had been a surprisingly meaningful stretch of time. Say what you would about baseball families — even the kids who didn't particularly love the sport were comfortable at the ballpark, and while more than one of them bickered with their dad, every one of them sent wholehearted, from-the-bottom-of-the-heart cheers to the father out on the field.

"Friend, you did something out of the ordinary before the game. Is your routine all right?"

"Paulo? What brings you here?"

Yi-seon had been lost in thought for a moment, and somewhere in that time Paulo had slipped into the dugout. Paulo wasn't even scheduled to pitch today.

"What is there to do alone in an empty house? It seemed no bad thing to come cheer the team on instead."

August in Korea was not weather to be taken lightly.

It was mid-August, with plenty of summer still left to burn. Sure, the dome kept the inside cool — but for Paulo to willingly leave a far more comfortable training facility behind and come to the ballpark of all places. Was this the power of a man who'd endured the blazing southern sun of America?

"Pay no mind to such small things. You are today's starting pitcher, no? More importantly — watching the children was not too much for you?"

A few questions lingered, but Paulo's benevolent smile made it impossible to press them, and Yi-seon simply answered what he was asked.

"Not at all. It was great, actually. The kids really like me."

Whether it was the looks or the baseball skill he couldn't say, but the children had adored him. The moment they spotted him, their eyes went round and they came charging over like they'd met a celebrity.

Their energy could get a little exhausting, but feeling how much they liked him somehow gave him strength in return — at the very least, it hadn't interfered with his game prep at all.

Hearing this, Paulo let out a great rolling laugh and added one more thing.

"Already so fond of children. I think you will be a good father."

"...Thank you, Paulo."

Some part of him wanted to argue back, but Paulo was offering it as a well-wish, wasn't he? If he wanted to act even a little more grown-up, he'd need the skill to take comments like this gracefully.

But Paulo wasn't finished.

"I am not just saying it. Hmm... let me ask you one question. Why do you think those children like you?"

"Well. The looks? The baseball skill? The unique style?"

Paulo shook his head.

"No. It is because you are a player on the same team their fathers play for."

"I don't think that's it, Paulo."

"You think so? Well, fair enough — you are a star regardless of team. But once you have lived it yourself, you will change your mind. And today, it seems everyone has come out ready to show you."

Paulo's gaze swept across the rest of the players in the dugout.

"Friend — being a baseball player is not the best job for a family. But there are things only a baseball player can do for his."

The Daegu Eagles were not in a good place these days.

Last year they'd scraped out a 4th-place finish in the Southern Division and salvaged some pride. This year, while they hadn't made any notable roster upgrades, they hadn't leaked talent either, and their young players were visibly growing — so a decent season had seemed a reasonable expectation.

But the moment the lid came off — what was this? The season had long since rounded its midpoint and kept running.

Even if the gap to the teams above them wasn't crushing, they were nailed to the bottom of the table.

First, the Gwangju Phoenix and Incheon Mariners — first and second last year — were still showing strong form despite losing personnel, holding the same positions as before. Meanwhile the Busan Giants and Seoul Twins, the ones who had lain flat at fifth and sixth, had made "this year will be different" into a genuine reality.

And so, with performance equal to or perhaps better than last year's, the Eagles had been shoved down the standings anyway. The club and its fans were going out of their minds.

All that remained to believe in now was the Summer Eagles.

The Eagles' home territory was Daegu — famous as the hottest region in all of Korea. Perhaps because of that, the team carried a jinx-that-wasn't-really-a-jinx: when the hot days arrived, their play would rise, and their results would climb along with it.

Betting everything on that last hope, the Eagles sent Gu Hyuk — national team pitcher and ace of the Eagles — to the mound as today's starter.

"Hyuk. You feeling confident?"

"Why even ask? Of course I am."

Gu Hyuk stood there like solid rock, and the team's tension eased naturally in his presence. He wasn't the type for speeches, but the slumping Eagles needed motivation if they were going to turn things around.

"Listen up. You all know this already — today's opposing starter is Kim Yi-seon."

A voice pitched low, but it drove itself into every ear. And at the sound of that name, a slight tension settled over the whole room.

Kim Yi-seon. On paper, just a rookie fresh out of high school. A nobody for veterans who'd been through everything the pro first team could throw at them to be nervous about.

But the performance he'd shown so far made it impossible to simply wave him off as some rookie. The pressure the Eagles players felt from him was, if anything, greater than what Lee Si-hwan — freshly departed for the majors — had ever inspired.

Gu Hyuk nodded as if he understood it all, and continued.

"Yeah. Not an easy opponent. But I played with Yi-seon on the national team. He's tough, but he's not invincible."

Then he slammed his fist against the dugout wall.

"Just get me one run today. It's not like Kim Yi-seon never gives up a hit, never gives up a homer. Get me that one run and I'll shut them down. If we lose, it's on me — so play with your minds at ease."

"Yes, sir!"

The rookies snapped to attention, ramrod straight. Even the veterans, who'd been drifting somewhere vague, seemed to catch fire — the light coming back into their eyes.

"All right — who are we? The summer eagles, aren't we?"

"Yes, sir!"

"Let's go!"

"""EUI-YAAA!!!"""

With that roaring shout, the Daegu Eagles threw themselves into game prep.

"..."

"...Did something happen to those guys?"

"Jeez. They look murderous."

And then they came face to face with them.

The Seoul Twins squad, radiating fighting spirit from every pore for reasons no one could begin to guess.

Top of the first. As he climbed the mound, Kim Yi-seon was mildly bewildered by whatever this atmosphere was supposed to be.

Today it wasn't Senior Min-soo — his personal catcher of late — wearing the mask, but the starting catcher, Senior Joo-seon. The lineup had rotated all week, but today Senior Byung-min, whose daughter had come to visit, was at first base, and over in left field Senior Hae-ryong had pulled on a fielding glove for the first time in ages.

And the intensity coming off those men —

"..."

"..."

"..."

They weren't saying a word, just staring hard at the batter's box, and yet Yi-seon could feel his seniors' eyes on his back. Along with a blazing resolve to utterly demolish the opponent.

The Eagles were fired up too, hungry to escape last place — you could see it on their faces — but even that was nothing next to our players today. Our kids' dads.

Was it really because the children had come? No — considering their careers, and how often they'd come to the ballpark before the pandemic, this level of hypersensitivity didn't add up.

It was, unmistakably, his own team's fire — but the feeling of being swallowed up by it made him shiver slightly, and in that instant —

Fastball, in on the hands.

The sign came from Senior Joo-seon with blazing eyes, bold and completely unhidden.

Inside? Senior Joo-seon almost never called inside pitches for him.

Yet today, for some reason, he was demanding them hard — even though the batter at the plate wasn't crowding the plate at all.

He felt a flicker of reluctance, but looking at those eyes, refusing seemed pointless. He even caught himself thinking that if he nodded along like usual and then threw something else, he might genuinely get decked.

Could this be part of what Senior Hyun-seok meant by look good in front of the kids? A "come along with me, we're going hard today" kind of thing?

Then there was nothing for it. With a small sigh, he nodded his agreement. This was basically the unhinged pitching of the pre-fatherhood Kim Yi-seon, but if that's what he wanted, what could he do.

He came set. And he thought: if he wasted focus on command throwing inside and lost velocity, it would be nothing but a bet-ball. Even if control got shaky, he had to throw with his chest out.

The first pitch, thrown with a reckless hit batsman? don't care abandon.

"Ball."

[157 km/h]

"First pitch of the ballgame — it's a ball."

"That one ran in tight on the hitter. Looks like it slipped just a touch out of his hand."

"Count goes to one and one— rather, one ball, no strikes."

Just as expected, it flew in dangerously close, the kind of pitch that could've plunked the batter. The hitter, for his part, must have steeled himself, because he stood his ground without flinching — but thankfully the ball missed him cleanly and smacked into the catcher's mitt.

An inch closer and it would've caught him.

But the gentlemanly Baek Joo-seon who would normally have offered the batter an apology first had vanished somewhere; without a word, cold-faced, he settled back into his crouch.

And the second pitch — demanded just as hard.

Another inside fastball?

Wait, is this right?

But the senior insisted with absolute finality, as if swapping the call was never on the table. Somehow, it felt like their roles had been reversed.

He had no choice but to comply. This time too, forget the command — just hold onto the good stuff, all the way through.

CRACK!!!

"Second pitch — hit! Pulled hard! It's carrying! Left field! Left field! Deep left! Ohh — he hauls it in with his back to the wall!"

"Wow, that's great pitching, great hitting, and a great catch. Is this the major leagues? There is not a flaw to find in any of these plays."

"The Twins' left fielder, Lee Hae-ryong! Still showing us that brilliant defense!"

The ball had caught a little too much of the plate. He'd thought it was a pretty decent pitch, but the batter had handled it well.

Still, Senior Hae-ryong — who'd spent all season whining about his aching knees — blazed after the ball and made the play, every one of those complaints proven a lie.

Yi-seon turned to watch the scene and found himself staring blankly.

Uh... I mean, Senior obviously works hard and gives his best normally. But how do I put this... that wasn't just effort. That looked downright desperate?

While he stood there dazed, Senior Baek Joo-seon was already pulling off his mask and striding up to the mound.

"What's the matter, Yi-seon? Something wrong? Well, that ball did catch a bit of the plate. My heart's still pounding, too."

The man speaking was unmistakably his usual soft, courteous self — so then who exactly was that catcher who'd been calling pitches like a drill sergeant at home plate just now?

"Senior. Everyone's different today. Not like themselves at all."

"Of course they are. The kids came."

"Kids coming to watch games is pretty common, isn't it? The team hands out tickets, and if they want to come, they can come anytime. If they did this every single time, wouldn't it wear them out?"

His dazed reaction must have been funny, because the senior burst out laughing.

Then he stopped laughing and explained, calmly.

"They can't come as often as you'd think. The kids have school, and they have their own lives — you can't drag them to the ballpark every weekend. Even before things got the way they are now, maybe five or six times a year? Not as often as you'd imagine."

"That still sounds pretty frequent to me."

Sprinting like that every single time — wouldn't they fall apart?

"Right. Even those few times leave you dead on your feet afterward. And the kids see their dad on the broadcasts anyway, so there's something a little funny about puffing yourself up just because they came to the stadium."

Yet the face Senior Baek Joo-seon wore as he said it wasn't the face of a man who found any of it a burden.

"But you know what? This makes the kids happy."

"The kids like it?"

"They do. The roar of a live crowd you can't get through a TV screen. We can't ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠have them shouting right now with things the way they are, but listen — the applause coming out of those stands right now is thunderous."

Yi-seon could see it: Senior Hae-ryong answering the wave of applause by tossing the caught ball up into the seats, then turning to wave toward the box seats where Hae-ryong's family sat watching.

"They want to hear it — 'the crowd's cheering for my dad,' 'my dad's so cool.' That's why they push themselves like this without even realizing it."

Having said his piece, Joo-seon gave Yi-seon a couple of friendly pats on the rear and readied himself to head back down.

"So? Does that make sense now? Oh — and there's one more thing. The kids came all this way, and none of the dads want them watching us get torn apart. At the very least, if you hustle, people don't rake you over the coals. But if you really want zero criticism, there's only one answer, right? Win."

Before Yi-seon could answer, the senior was already back behind home plate, settling into position.

The next batter stepped in, and the game resumed.

Is this what Paulo meant — the thing only a baseball player can do for his family?

Honestly, he still wasn't sure. But he thought he might be beginning to understand, just a little.

Once again following Senior Baek Joo-seon's lead — unusually aggressive today — he readied his first pitch.

"STRI-IIIKE!!"

Bottom of the first. Having climbed the mound and barely escaped the inning unscored upon, Gu Hyuk felt a sigh tear itself out of him.

"Hey, what is with the Twins today? Did something happen to all of them at once? ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Guys who were cruising through a perfectly normal season and now their eyes have rolled back in their heads?"

Their defense in the top of the inning had been plenty vicious, but what truly frightened him was the Twins' offense. When Hae-ryong — the same man who'd been whining about his knees all month — took off in a full sprint to leg out an infield hit, Gu Hyuk genuinely wondered if his eyes were deceiving him.

Did our front office provoke them somehow, without me knowing?

While he was turning it over, Jang Ji-yeol — a bullpen pitcher and a friendly junior of his — sidled up and filled him in.

"I heard it from one of the Twins' operations staff. They ran a full squad family invitation day today."

"...Seriously? Wow. Those bastards are ruthless."

Unreserved praise came spilling out of him before he could stop it.

Seriously — why would anyone go full do-or-die against a last-place team? No, wait — because the opponent was in last place. They'd set the whole stage so they could win comfortably and show off in front of their families. That had to be it.

Gu Hyuk failed, entirely, to deduce that the event had been arranged not for the players with visiting families, but to stoke Kim Yi-seon's motivation.

"Thank goodness Yi-seon looks a little less ferocious today. If those eyes of his go back to Canada-game national-team levels, there's no winning this."

"Tell me about it. Though honestly — is he struggling? You can see Kim Yi-seon's got less on his pitches than usual, but the ball's still nasty."

"Yeah."

And so he also failed to imagine that Kim Yi-seon was about to crank his motivation up to truly insane heights.