I'll Make Them Do Nothing but Eat and Play Baseball

After the shock of the opening game, I went full insane mode.

"One! One! Two! Two! Two!"

"Hey! Why aren't your numbers going up!"

"It only counts if you do it in proper form with a full range of motion. Move it!"

We started with weights. Apparently all they'd done back in middle school was baseball and running, because every single one of them was flailing around like wet noodles. Even the guys who'd come up from Jeil Middle and trained alongside me were ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠a wobbly mess.

These bastards definitely weren't doing extra training at home. And even if they were, it was probably just skill work. You're supposed to do that after you've built a physical foundation, not before.

"If you can't even pull off a 60kg barbell row properly, how do you plan on swinging a wooden bat? Tighten your core! Your spine's going to collapse!"

And yes, I'm working out while I'm saying all this. Am I supervising their training? No — I'm just doing my own workout at the same time.

Now, if I were actually lifting something heavy, multitasking like this could get someone seriously hurt, but since I train with lighter weights and high repetitions, splitting my attention a little doesn't cause any problems.

Which is why I'm standing in the middle of the baseball club's weight room with a dumbbell in hand, sweeping my gaze around the room and doling out criticism.

"Do you guys know what doping athletes take? Male hormones and growth hormone. And you know what? If you're a teenager in your growth spurt, your body produces that stuff automatically. How much of a waste is it to not train during that window?"

Left alone, they'd grow regardless — they're athletes, after all. But if you push them harder, more systematically, won't they grow that ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠much faster? One day they'll all be thanking me.

"Nnnghhhhh... ugh!"

"Eight — breathe out — relax."

Needless to say, what we paired with strength training was yoga. These bastards were so ridiculously stiff that at first they couldn't get into the poses at all. So for the particularly hopeless few, I personally stretched them out by hand.

"What, are you going to snap your leg if you pull on it like that?"

"Quit whining and hold the position I'm setting up for you."

Nam Kang-min was the stiffest of them all. No wonder the guy racks up so many errors as a catcher. He kept groaning through the whole thing, and on top of that he was muttering nonsense nobody could make sense of. Strange kid.

"Heiygo... better I suffer than die," he finally surrendered, before dragging himself through every last pose. The rest of the club finished the yoga curriculum I'd laid out for the day as well.

"Good. Ten-minute break, then we move on to the next course."

"Next...? There's only thirty minutes of baseball practice left?"

"Thirty minutes is plenty."

"No, we're supposed to start getting ready to go home for the last period—"

"Hup!"

These little escape artists. You're thinking about going home now? Cho Sang-bin, you bastard — you've been half-assing training ever since Jeil Middle.

"Next up is a 5km run. Everyone get ready and gather up."

"The only lunatics who run that every single day are you and Kang Min-hyuk..."

I had zero intention of listening to the excuses of the weak-willed. Maybe middle school is different, but if you chose a specialized baseball program all the way into high school, you owe it that much effort.

On top of that, I'd deliberately gone to the head coach and declared that we wouldn't enter weekend league games until the first-years had gotten themselves into some kind of shape. The coaches, apparently delighted that the first-years were running on "self-directed" (?) training, gave the whole thing an enthusiastic thumbs-up.

Complain all you want — there's nowhere left to run.

And so, with the entire first-year class rolling around on the floor according to the Kim Yi-seon daily schedule, I ran headlong into one fatal flaw.

"Yi-seon. Look, we still need to do team practice and skill work, and at this rate there just isn't time, is there?"

We didn't have enough hours.

"You're right about that."

There were roughly four hours a day available for training. School let out at four in the afternoon, and we trained for about four hours after that. Even that was an hour squeezed out of what was officially a three-hour practice window.

Four hours. Factor in yoga, strength work, running, and skill practice on top of that, and the schedule wasn't just tight — it flat-out didn't fit.

Especially with guys whose defensive skills were lacking at the moment — and defense is an area that grows through experience and repetition, the kind that demands generous practice time.

"Coach, did you hear? That bastard Cho Sang-bin showed up late to school today."

"Late? Doesn't he live right in front of the school?"

"Overslept, apparently."

And then, on top of everything, this absolutely infuriating situation cropped up.

Strength, technique — even height growth — all of it only happens with proper rest. But no matter how hard I grind them at school, if they go home, fail to sleep properly, drag themselves out of bed late, and then doze off in class... it's all wasted.

Of course, I understand. In my past life, I'd stay up into the small hours writing garbage forum posts or binging manga and web novels before finally crashing. But you lot are aspiring athletes. Your body is your competitive edge. Your body is your assets.

"The more I think about it, the more I'm sure there's only one solution that fixes everything in one stroke."

"Isn't that too rushed, though? If it really comes to it, we could do what other schools do and make use of the vacation."

"Of course we're doing it over vacation too. And did you already forget about the Phoenix Flag?"

"Well, when you put it that way..."

After a long stretch of deliberation, the head coach gave a reluctant nod, with the air of a man deciding there was no stopping me at this point.

Excellent. You cursed bastards — I'm going to make it so all you do is eat and play baseball.

The very evening the head coach gave his approval, I summoned the entire first-year class.

One or two of them had lately been trying to slink off and hide the moment I looked their way. Fat chance. I dragged every last one of them in, without a single escapee.

I gathered my gravity and got straight to the point.

‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠

"First — the head coach has raised a concern that our training time is insufficient."

"What's that supposed to mean? Insufficient? We're already adding an extra hour on top of regular club practice and grinding ourselves into the dirt with that lunatic."

They looked completely baffled, but that wasn't what I meant.

"What we're doing right now, strictly speaking, isn't training — it's individual conditioning. How much real time are you actually getting for defensive drills, batting, pitching? Be honest."

"So what you're saying is... we should do three hours of proper training like the seniors, and then three hours of conditioning on top of that?"

"Yep. I've already been doing exactly that."

Their expressions soured a little, but they could at least accept the logic. Well, none of them are kids who refuse to put in work. Bad attitude or lazy bones — none of the above, which is why they passed.

"So I went ahead and drew up a daily schedule based on my own routine. The head coach has reviewed it and signed off."

I turned on the TV in the corner of the classroom and put the schedule up on the screen.

A schedule with a distinctly military flavor to it. Faint wisps of memories from my past life — of boot-camp timetables just like this one — rose gently to the surface.

The other members chewed over the schedule slowly, a few times through, and then, as if some question had occurred to them, raised their hands to request the floor.

"Yeah, Se-hyeong. Go ahead."

"Yi-seon. Setting aside how brutal this is, if you lock in our bedtime and wake-up time too, isn't it going to be impossible to actually follow? I mean, even you spend a good thirty minutes just on the bus to school every morning."

"Oh, that? I won't be commuting anymore."

Their faces sank deeper into confusion at my answer. Come on, this one's obvious.

"Starting now, all of us are moving into the dorms ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠for a training camp. That way we can optimize everything — sleep schedule, evening training, meals, all of it."

For a moment they puzzled over what I meant, and then comprehension hit and the room erupted.

Why do you get to decide something like that on your own? You're not a coach — aren't you going too far these days? Other schools only do training camps over vacation; who runs one during the semester? And on and on.

Hah. These bastards still haven't gotten it through their heads.

"Hey. Is this really the time for you to be nitpicking this and that?"

"No, still, there are limits—"

"Limits? There's no such thing anymore. Wake up. You're not middle schoolers. You're high schoolers now."

Up through middle school baseball, there's still a decent chance of turning back. Plenty of kids quit after middle school, and even then it doesn't exactly derail their academics.

But choosing baseball all the way into high school? That's a do-or-die bet. Fail to make it to the pros or college, and you're left as a high school grad with nothing to show for it.

"You know why our school only has six third-year seniors right now, don't you? When they enrolled, they were eleven — one more than us."

And so, though it's a late decision, plenty of students end up quitting the club belatedly, midway through their second year.

It's especially common at lower-tier schools, because for them, the Phoenix Flag — held over summer vacation of their second year — is the final official tournament. Play through the first semester of second year, and if you can't see a future, you quit and buy yourself a year and a half to pivot.

But even setting aside the ones who see the writing on the wall and bail early, do the ones who stay have an easy road to the pros or college? Of course not.

Forget pro draft picks — barely forty percent of all high school baseball graduates even get into university. And most of those admissions are concentrated at the top-tier schools, leaving lower-ranked programs in an even more miserable position.

Wirye Jeil High has had years where exactly one graduate went on to college. That's how cutthroat it is.

"So even if the head coach has promised you starting spots, you don't have time to coast. You think it's enough to catch his eye? You need to catch the eye of college scouts and pro teams."

If I'd handed this speech to Kang Min-hyuk standing quietly beside me, he probably would have launched into something passionate about winning the Phoenix Flag, or a promise to his father.

But I'm far too old on the inside for those soft, squishy talks of youth — and honestly, they wouldn't do these kids much good anyway.

So: as cold and adult a perspective as I could manage.

"It won't be forever. Let's just suffer through this one half-year. Once your fundamentals take hold, we'll be able to balance real training just fine without needing anything as extreme as a forced camp."

Coaxed and sweet-talked, the mood in the room shifted as my teammates slowly began to think it over seriously. At this point, the training camp was as good as decided.

The five outside recruits who'd already been living in the dorms looked a little dazed — they hadn't signed up for this — but don't worry, boys. I'll be right there on top of you, grinding you down too.

Wondering how to structure the detailed curriculum, I picked up the pace on camp preparations.

"Kim Yi-seon. What is with you lately?"

And then I hit an unexpected reef.

"Am I bothering you? Way to be oblivious."

"No, that's not it..."

"Then what? What's wrong with you?"

Tears were beginning to well up in Lee Ye-eun's eyes. Hold on, just a moment—