Head-On Clash (1)

"This isn't going to be easy, is it?"

While the Twins fans were giddy with joy and fans of other teams watched from a comfortable distance, thinking it was none of their business, one group was watching with heightened wariness.

The Gwangju Phoenix — their Division Series opponent, and the first-place team of the Southern Division in the regular season.

The Phoenix manager had been reluctant from the very start, ever since the meeting held the day after Seoul's Division Series berth was confirmed.

"Jeong Jin-haeng has sharpened that blade of his properly this time. They had one fewer game to play, so they get an extra day of rest — his players will be fresh, and Kim Yi-seon will have had time to come out as the Game 1 starter, no question about it."

On paper, the Phoenix held an overwhelming advantage in overall strength. But the people on the ground knew better. The Twins were not an opponent to take lightly.

The Division Series begins just one day after the Playoffs end. The short turnaround is supposed to be a perk that gives the division winner a physical edge — except the Twins had swept their series 2-0, which eroded most of that advantage.

On top of that, the first day of the series falls just three days after Kim Yi-seon's last start, so there's more than enough time for him to take the mound. In other words, they'd be facing a full-strength Twins head-on.

And if it comes to that, the fatigue of having just played a series simply transforms into the advantage of sharpened game feel.

"The players also struggled to figure out Kim Yi-seon in our regular season matchups."

"Exactly. Once Kim Yi-seon faces a team, everyone's timing goes completely out of whack..."

There may be no team in the league that hasn't been beaten around by Kim Yi-seon, but the Gwangju Phoenix hitters had a particular problem: after facing him once, they'd somehow lose their hitting groove altogether.

The coaching staff still remembered Seo Yo-han's head spinning with nonsense — 'Is it left-right? No, up-down? But that eyebrow movement could be a decoy pitch...' — even against a straightforward fastball. Every one of them was filled with the same thought: if there was one pitcher they did not want to face, it was Kim Yi-seon.

Which is why, unbecoming of a team as stacked as the Phoenix, an unthinkable discussion had actually come up.

"Now, it's not as if Kang Min-hyuk, or Matt, or Paulo behind him will be pushovers... but what if we conserve our energy against Kim Yi-seon and aim to take the 3-1 instead?"

In other words: if we throw our ace and all our core hitters at Kim Yi-seon, we'll just burn out the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠starters and wreck our hitters' timing. Better to let the backups rough through that game.

Under normal circumstances, someone would have barked, "What kind of defeatist nonsense is that?" But the coaching staff listening now were dead serious. Not one of them got angry; they all weighed it carefully.

"Still, no. That's going too far. Kim Yi-seon's good, but he's not invincible. If we can put even one run on the board, we have a chance."

The manager, having considered it in earnest, shook his head. Kim Yi-seon was not invincible — especially not lugging around the Twins' dismal lineup.

Given a proper ace, and a lineup capable of dragging Kim Yi-seon off the mound early or scratching out even a single run, the game could absolutely be turned around.

Honestly, their overall team strength was superior. Being so spooked by the opposing starter that they were even having this discussion was laughable in itself. And if they cooked up some strange strategy and the opponent caught fire the wrong way, things could get genuinely dangerous.

Just as the coaches were firming up their thinking on the Game 1 starter—

"Manager. I'll take it."

"Weren't you still in rehab? Already?"

"Yes. My condition is fine. The doctors cleared me too."

A man who had spent this entire regular season buried in rehabilitation walked boldly into the meeting room.

"I'm the Phoenix's homegrown ace, aren't I? And you'd rather save your starters anyway, Manager."

"You're really good to go?"

"You know me."

National team left-handed starter. The Phoenix's homegrown ace, Park Dong-min.

He had thrown down the gauntlet, openly challenging Kim Yi-seon to a head-on duel.

[Division Series Game 1: Gwangju Phoenix (SP: Park Dong-min) VS Seoul Twins (SP: Kim Yi-seon)]

"Park Dong-min's back already? Tommy John takes a full year, doesn't it?"

When I asked with a baffled expression, Kang Min-hyuk gave a shrug and shook his head.

"I don't know either. But they announced him as the starter and there's been no word otherwise, so he must really be back."

I know that much. That's not what I don't understand.

After Tommy John surgery, you need to focus on recovery for at least a year. In longer cases, it can drag out to two.

But he got hurt around November, at the Premier12 before the season started, and it's early October now. Has it even been a full year?

If you really stretched the argument, sure, he could return — but considering a player's body, wouldn't resting be better? It's not like the Phoenix rotation is such a disaster that an injured pitcher has to rush back.

If this were someone planning to burn his final flame and retire after this, maybe. But at thirty-three, he's still got a good stretch of baseball left in him.

As if he'd overheard my doubts, Kang Hyun-seok — I hadn't even noticed when he'd arrived — put in a word with a wry smile.

"Dong-min's blood's boiling, seems like."

"His blood's boiling?"

"Yep. Seems he figures he won't feel right unless it's you he tears apart. Lefties, man. I'll never understand them. That throwing hand of theirs is practically a rank of nobility."

Me?

Why me? Sure, I wasn't super close with Park Dong-min on the national team, but we weren't on bad terms either?

To my bewilderment, Kang Hyun-seok just grinned and said nothing more. Seriously, why do people start sentences and then just stop?

"Anyway, prepare hard. From what I can tell, the Phoenix over there is planning to blow our kid apart head-on. Show up half-ready and you're in for a world of hurt."

"It's the postseason. Everyone's going to prepare for a head-on fight."

This wasn't some pennant race where you hand off a game and manage your roster — this was a fight to the finish.

"Honestly, watching you, sometimes I think you do it on purpose... never mind. You're not the only one, with Min-hyuk there too. Guess I can't just skip over you two."

And then, once again, he trailed off into some incomprehensible mutter, cut the conversation short, and walked away. I honestly couldn't tell what the guy — or the Phoenix, for that matter — was thinking.

I turned instead to Kang Min-hyuk, who was at least someone I could communicate with.

"Did any of that make sense to you?"

"Uh... not really?"

Figures. Still, it was reassuring in a way. If I didn't get it but that lunatic had, it would've felt like I was dumber than him, wouldn't it?

Unlike Kim Yi-seon, who understood not a single word of it, Manager Jeong Jin-haeng had understood the Phoenix's declaration of war perfectly.

"Park Dong-min? Ha. The Phoenix really did sharpen their blade for this."

"It seems they have no intention of avoiding it."

Phrased this way, Jeong Jin-haeng might sound like a talent-riding, incompetent manager — the kind accused of coasting on his players. And yes, relying on two high school graduate rookies might invite the sneer, and you call yourself a manager? But once you'd seen those two play, it was impossible to think that way.

Still, up to now he'd used them sparingly, with the feel of a bomb in an arcade game or an elixir in an RPG. If you threw your guaranteed-win cards around carelessly, you might not have them when it truly mattered. Absolutely not because fans would call him a prospects-grinder if he didn't.

But now it was the postseason. From here on there was no tomorrow, and the fans demanded total war — so unlike the regular season, he intended to wring every last drop out of them.

Instructor Jo Sang-shik had given his approval as well. Neither of the two was showing any unusual fatigue, and both were fully cleared — complete games, pitches past the hundred mark, all of it fine.

Nothing stood in the way anymore. All that remained was the endless cycle of Kim Yi-seon, Kang Min-hyuk, X, X, Kim Yi-seon, Kang Min-hyuk. An invincible rotation that, in theory, wins the Korean Series going 4-2.

And as Jeong Jin-haeng saw it, if someone was going to mindlessly throw Kim Yi-seon and Kang Min-hyuk out there over and over, there was only one wise response an opposing team could take.

Dodge whichever of the two was the stickier matchup, concentrate everything on the lesser threat to steal one win, then beat the two remaining starters for the rest.

Which meant the Gwangju Phoenix could have gone all-in against Kang Min-hyuk, the comparatively easier matchup from the regular season, and simply sidestepped the clash with Kim Yi-seon...

"Guess even the defending champions have their pride, huh?"

It was a surprising call.

This lineup could fairly be described as uprooting themselves from the very foundation and charging in.

"The position players are committing like this too?"

"Yes. Effectively every core hitter available right now is starting."

They'd rushed back a homegrown ace who should be rehabbing all season, and fielded their key hitters without omitting a single one — a lineup that went beyond their very best.

A clear signal: no flinching, no dodging — let's meet force with force, properly.

Strategically speaking, a straight slugfest wasn't a favorable fight for the Twins, whose overall depth fell short. Against a team committing this hard, the Twins might be the ones who should ease off and evade. The starting pitcher was already set, sure — but the position-player lineup could still be shuffled.

Yet considering how much of the Twins' strength lived in Kim Yi-seon, such a choice would be the worst play. They could not afford to forfeit a Kim Yi-seon start as a lost game.

In the end, both sides would have to fight a genuine, no-retreat, blades-drawn showdown.

"I don't much care for this kind of matchup, I'll say."

"The postseason leaves no choice, sir."

Jeong Jin-haeng, a man so obsessed with his rotation roulette and manufacturing variables that he'd earned the nickname "Ran-dong," disliked head-on clashes like this one. In a duel like this, the manager's cunning simply mattered less.

In a game where each side collides at its absolute maximum, the single biggest factor in the outcome isn't clever strategy or pinch-hitting — it's just the raw weight of the team.

"Beats me. Yi-seon will figure out how to win on his own."

And so he gave up on thinking about it.

"Can you really say that, Manager?"

"If it bothers you so much, why don't you coach-sit in this chair? And trust me — once you've had a taste of using Yi-seon and Min-hyuk, you'll change your mind too."

"That much is true, but..."

Out in the world, these tactical chess matches were playing out — but few fans thought in terms of such fine-grained maneuvering.

For them, it was easier to simplify everything: famous star players, each team's history and strength, and plenty of other irrational factors besides.

So the conversation that emerged looked nothing like the picture inside the clubhouses.

Last ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠year's defending champions. Their rotation had a small crack this year thanks to an unforeseen loss of personnel, and their lineup was judged to have a few holes compared to last season — but they were excellent all the same.

Thanks to that, they'd claimed another division title, and as if to prove the Phoenix fans weren't bringing up the rebuilding of the Phoenix dynasty for nothing, the players' form only climbed as autumn drew near.

The biggest star in the KBO right now is Kim Yi-seon, with Kang Min-hyuk, Lee Seung-kwon, and others close behind — but the team with the largest concentration of players worthy of the word "star" is the Gwangju Phoenix.

Which means the gap in strength between the Twins and the Phoenix looks, on paper, insurmountable. In the clubhouse, people felt Kim Yi-seon carried a weight beyond that of a single player and guarded against him accordingly — but fans who mostly couldn't attend in person and watched on TV broadcasts were bound to think differently.

Well — except for the casual fans who'd gotten into ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠baseball because of Kim Yi-seon in the first place.

Looking at all this, it may be that the better you think you understand baseball, the more your eyes get clouded.

"Dong-min hyung. Are you really okay?"

"Yeah. Fastball's coming, so receive it clean. Hup!"

CRACK—!!!

The number registered on the radar gun. He'd thrown it with full effort, and yet it felt a touch short. He'd been pushing his body hard these past weeks, but perhaps a body forced back before it was ready simply couldn't keep up.

Still, it was fine. He figured he'd brought himself back to at least ninety-five percent.

Erasing the stray thoughts from his mind, Park Dong-min threw himself into the final preparations for taking the mound.

"It's already decided, so I can't talk you out of it, but I still don't get it. Why not just rest this season? What if you aggravate the injury?"

"Because this is the only chance I'll get."

The minor-league catcher catching his bullpens — he'd even given up his rest days to help with Park Dong-min's training — grumbled a little as he rattled off his concerns alongside the throws.

This, and putting up with the sudden private sessions too — the kid had a good heart. And Park Dong-min was grateful for the worry. But he couldn't let this chance slip away.

What chance? The chance to beat Kim Yi-seon, face to face.

If his instincts were right, both the Twins and Kim Yi-seon would only grow stronger from here. So much stronger that Park Dong-min — busy just fending off decline, let alone improving — could never hope to catch up.

Which was exactly why he wanted this full-strength confrontation with Kim Yi-seon to be his.

Was this base jealousy? The last flailing of an aging has-been?

Who knows. Maybe those feelings were in there too. But the reason he wanted to beat Kim Yi-seon was something a little different.

"It's not a particularly fun story, but there's a reason I'm doing this."

"A reason, sir?"

When Park Dong-min debuted, the league was in the grip of a historic left-handed pitching drought.

The great left-handers of the shining generation before him were retiring or aging out one by one, and no good young lefty was emerging in the new generation — the whole baseball world was desperately hunting for a left-handed ace.

And amid that era of scraps, the least bad of the lot had been Park Dong-min.

Granted, a homegrown starter reliably holding down a rotation spot was, given his age, a genuinely fine pitcher.

He thought so himself. Through high school he'd been so dominant there wasn't a single real rival in his generation.

So of course his head swelled. And when the national team selection talk started, his arrogance knew no brakes.

That is, until he met that man in the playoffs.

"You know who Cheon Dong-hoo is?"

Cheon Dong-hoo. Not a valley-generation lefty like Park Dong-min, but a legend who'd starred as the national team's left-handed ace at the very height of the lefty golden age. Park Dong-min had faced him as the opposing starter in that man's final postseason series before retirement.

"I never met him, but I know of him."

Made sense. When Park Dong-min met him in the playoffs in his fourth year, the man was thirty-eight — and he was off in the States for coaching training now, so a catcher quite a bit younger than Park Dong-min would never have crossed paths with him.

"Anyway. I matched up against him once in the playoffs. I threw scoreless that game."

He remembered every detail of it still. Park Dong-min had pitched something close to perfect — so well he doubted he could repeat it if asked today. Seven full scoreless innings.

"And? What happened?"

"And I lost."

Cheon Dong-hoo, already old enough to be written off as a has-been, had thrown ten scoreless innings and carried his team to victory.

"And when the game ended, he said one thing to me. 'You're a long way from being called a left-handed ace.'"

It burned. Badly enough that he'd wanted revenge more than anything. And then the man never gave him another real head-to-head — he just retired on the spot.

"Who wins and then runs? Nobody does that. So I made up my mind back then. If a junior ever came along behind me who deserved to be called the left-handed ace, I'd pull the same move on him before I go."

He learned later that it was a kind of tradition. When a next-generation lefty ace emerges, the old one beats him soundly in a head-to-head and trash-talks him on the way out. That, apparently, was how the left-handed lineage got passed down? And there was no way he was going to be the only one it happened to.

Kim Yi-seon's a switch pitcher, so technically not a lefty — but whatever.

The catcher, who had been listening to all this, answered with a look of pure disbelief.

"So you're rushing back from injury... to beat Kim Yi-seon once and trash-talk him?"

"Yep. If I win, I hand down the left-handed ace mantle with my pride intact. If I don't, I get to hear 'remember when you lost to me?' for the rest of my life."

Petty, maybe. But absolutely unbearable all the same. It might mean nothing to outsiders, but that is exactly how the lineage of the left-handed ace is carried on — discipline passed from senior to junior, and from that junior to the next.

And he was supposed to just pass up his final chance to discipline a junior? Not a chance. He might be the weakest left-handed ace in history, but even he couldn't be the one to sever the line of tradition.

Steel himself with that resolve, Park Dong-min readied the ball once more.