Head-On Showdown (3)

The Gwangju Phoenix ballclub spent a long while trying to figure out how they were supposed to process the situation unfolding in front of them.

"Is he messing with us or what?"

"If he were messing with us, he wouldn't actually be getting us out."

"So it's a card he seriously prepared, then?"

"Could be, I guess... but out of nowhere like this?"

The Phoenix hitters were huddled together even now, carefully pooling their opinions. Seo Yo-han, the leadoff man and the first to face Kim Yi-seon, ignored his frustrated teammates and came out swinging.

"Who cares which it is! You're all getting fleas without so much as putting up a fight!"

Fair point. They'd gotten roughed up by Kim Yi-seon during the regular season too. But weren't they being beaten a little too thoroughly right now?

It was already the fourth inning. Seo Yo-han, shouting away just now, had in truth been set down twice himself, and the cleanup trio currently at the plate were doing nothing but spinning the fan for all their trouble.

The one silver lining was that between a single hit and a hit batsman, they wouldn't be handing him a perfect game or a no-hitter the way the Mariners had. Not that the Phoenix players were in any mood to celebrate that.

"That thing he's mixing in between pitches is honestly straight-up garbage, for real."

"Hyung, if you call that garbage, the pitchers of the world are going to come for your life. Do you know how many guys can't throw anywhere near that?"

And this was exactly why they had gathered like this, venting their fury.

Out of nowhere, he switched the arm side he'd been expected to throw from? Naturally, they'd been caught badly off guard — nothing they'd prepared for. It was a strike straight at their blind side.

But these were hitters who had always found it easier to face pitchers from that direction, so it hadn't been pure downside. They got to swing exactly the way they always felt most confident swinging. Even the one guy who'd collected the only hit admitted it was precisely because of that.

That bizarre new pitch, however, was simply cheating.

"Is that a cutter? Too much movement missing for a cutter — it's basically a fastball. Four-seam, then?"

"Kim Yi-seon's four-seam always runs just a little off the barrel, away. And you're telling me he can fine-tune it to break the other way? Is he even human?"

"What's the problem? There's a guy like that among the Hall of Famers who went to the Majors."

"So Kim Yi-seon's Hall of Fame material?"

"Hall of Fame, I don't know about — but that kid could go to the Majors and start in an All-Star Game, I'd bet on it."

The Phoenix players, and even the coaching staff, could not for the life of them pin down what this pitch was supposed to be. A genuinely mystifying offering.

The ballpark's data-tracking equipment was running analysis after analysis even now, but the real-time feed was limited, so to confirm what exactly that ball was, they'd have to wait until the cleaning time between innings.

Approaching it from how Kim Yi-seon was deploying it and from the data visible even from the dugout: it was a type of ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠four-seam fastball, though every hitter who'd stood in the box against it swore a slight cut had been tacked on.

Meanwhile the coaches and the manager, watching from a step removed — not from inside the batter's box — found it looked slider-like in certain respects. No one had the faintest idea what to call it.

In baseball, a pitch that earns this kind of non-review is usually a true garbage ball — the verdict of "neither one thing nor the other." And in fairness, measured against the raw stuff Kim Yi-seon normally showed, that pitch was genuinely substandard.

"Wait — is he trying to throw a real slider, it's not coming out right, and it's drifting in as a hanging breaker with all the angle bled off? Kid's four-seam touches 164. That'd explain why his slider sits in the 150s."

"Pfft. If that were true, half the KBO's pitchers should grab their collars and reflect on their lives. Sure, next to Kim Yi-seon's fastball it looks like trash — but on its own it's not half bad."

Right. It was only "substandard" because the point of comparison was Kim Yi-seon.

Almost no rising action, and while a few hitters claimed to have felt a cut, third-party analysis put its break at less than the angle of Kim Yi-seon's original four-seam running away. And that was when it broke well — normally it was so straight you wondered how a baseball could travel that true.

A genuine straight fastball. On paper, that description makes it sound like the easiest kind of batting-practice meatball for hitters to tee off on. The problem was that, while the sample size was still too small to be certain, that pitch was crossing the plate at an average velocity north of 150 km/h.

The current KBO league average was 145. A pitch five full km/h faster than everyone else's on average? Even if it was a little flat, that was more than serviceable.

Now pile on Kim Yi-seon's signature, nightmare-inducing four-seam on top of it.

"Steee-rike! Out!!!"

And that was how you arrived at pitching that simply could not be dealt with. Kim Yi-seon's four-seam, already north of 160, was a miserable thing to try to hit on its own. Now factor in that strange new straight fastball? Then the breaking balls sneaking in between? Honestly, the words this game is rigged rose unbidden.

"...Still. I'm starting to pick it up a little now, aren't I?"

"Yeah. It threw us at first because it came out of nowhere, but watching it on repeat — it is getting a bit familiar."

But that was about to end.

The Gwangju Phoenix. The team holding the most feared lineup in the KBO today.

They hadn't earned that reputation playing poker. Kim Yi-seon's original four-seam and breaking stuff might as well be illegal in the KBO — fine — but that new pitch, which only looked familiar, was more than hittable.

Heck, the lineup had already turned over once and was nearly through its second pass — closing in on the third — so everyone was getting their read.

If anything, this might have worked out for the better. Until now there'd been almost nothing worth hunting; now there was a pitch you could actually sit on. If they'd known before the game that something like this existed, the whole flow of the contest might have looked completely different.

Seo Yo-han, pride visibly stung, made a declaration to the hitters.

Park Dong-min felt wonderful.

Our own hitters struggling out there? A little sad, sure — but a beatdown like this always tastes best on a day when you're the one dealing. That's just how it works.

Kim Yi-seon pulling yet another brand-new weapon out of his sleeve? That's what geniuses do. Even a non-genius like himself had shown up with a new weapon strapped on.

No — what mattered was his own performance, holding his ground against the likes of Kim Yi-seon and then some.

"Steee-rike!! Out!!!"

Ah. So this is how Cheon Dong-hoo sunbaenim felt back then? The man just kept smirking through that entire game, and young Park Dong-min couldn't for the life of him figure out why. Only now did he begin to grasp the grand design.

Logically, my rehab should be winding down. A performance like this doesn't add up. What he was showing on the mound today was, realistically, a hundred and twenty percent of his maximum. The reason? To teach that junior punk a lesson.

You've still got ten years before you get to call yourself a left-handed ace, kid! — that kind of lesson.

...Though the kid was a bit of a monster, so ten years was ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠pushing it. Make it one.

And just as he was thinking all this, the man stepping into the box was —

"Hae-ryong with a base hit!!!"

Lee Hae-ryong, a man aging a few years faster than himself.

"Hae-ryong."

"Yes, skipper."

"Let's get ready."

Top of the fifth. The Seoul Twins, scoring nothing as usual, reached for an unexpected card.

Lee Hae-ryong — who had started both games of the Mariners series in left field but sat today, the team citing his less-than-perfect condition — was being sent up as a pinch hitter for the designated hitter.

It had been the manager, after all, who insisted at the pregame meeting that Hae-ryong's swing had looked off since the last series, and that sitting him for a game this time was the right call.

A judgment in flagrant contradiction of the meeting. The hitting coach could not make sense of the choice.

But Lee Hae-ryong, who had clearly already heard some version of this conversation before, moved as if it were the most natural thing in the world — which only doubled the hitting coach's confusion.

"Skipper, you're sending Hae-ryong up now? Just like that?"

There had even been medical support team data suggesting the decline in his swing wasn't merely technical or mental, but a matter of conditioning and lingering nicks. Which was exactly why Hae-ryong had done nothing but sit on the bench in case of emergency — he'd barely done any game-prep work at all.

And now you're throwing that guy in starting in the fifth? It defied belief.

"You see Park Dong-min out there?"

"Yes, sir. His stuff today is no joke. Doesn't look like a man who just came back from Tommy John at all. But — what does that have to do with anything?"

"That's exactly why it has to be Hae-ryong."

An even more baffling statement. The hitting coach understood the situation less and less.

"If I explain it in words, it's easy enough... but it wouldn't be exact. Watch with your own eyes, Tako. You're good at everything else — this is where you're weak."

Manager Jeong Jin-haeng shut his mouth, making it plain he had no intention of explaining further.

As hitting coach, his stomach churned at such an incomprehensible decision at such a critical moment — but the final authority on any call was, now and always, the manager. All he could do was watch Lee Hae-ryong walk to the plate.

Whatever the reasoning, the call had been made. Praying to every god available that it was the right one, the hitting coach held his breath and fixed his eyes on his pinch hitter.

Park Dong-min — exactly how old do you think you are, carrying on like that already?

Lee Hae-ryong clicked his tongue inwardly.

Seriously, if thirty-three is enough to get you like this, then is our Hyun-seok hyung — hitting the age of confusion this very year — ready for the coffin?

...Come to think of it, that math kind of checked out.

Anyway. Whatever was going through Park Dong-min's head, whatever method he was using to perform like that up on the mound — Lee Hae-ryong's eyes could read every bit of it.

That's textbook stubborn-old-timer stuff. "I'm not dead yet," pitched shamelessly at a kid half his age.

The hyungs in their prime used to pull this on every junior at least once, and now the whole world was getting a front-row seat to Park Dong-min doing it.

The thing about that particular tantrum: to anyone who knew the situation, it was endlessly ugly and unpleasant to watch — but to outsiders, it looked impressive as hell, because those old-timers came at you having poured out every ounce of know-how and fighting spirit they'd banked over a career.

Which was exactly why he could no longer leave this to the young kids.

He stepped into the box.

"Hnngh..."

From his wrists to his back to his knees, every last joint ached. His muscles were stiff somewhere deep. No wonder the medical staff had recommended rest, no wonder the manager and coaches had kept him out of the starting lineup.

He was thirty-seven now. Considering that hitters' careers — and their primes — ran a few years shorter than pitchers', his body was every bit as washed-up as Hyun-seok hyung's by now.

Sure, he'd abused the hell out of himself playing center field from a young age, but a body creaking this much wasn't the price of overwork. It was just age. Plain and simple.

He locked his eyes on Park Dong-min.

"Steee-rike!"

Every single pitch is shameless. The kid was basically his uncle's-nephew age — some uncle-aged kid he could've babysat — and look at him, absolutely determined to win a head-to-head duel no matter what it took.

You could tell just from watching the ball come out of his hand. The man was gritting his teeth and grinding out there.

If it were devotion to the team or hunger for a championship, it might be a little less ugly to watch.

Pitch two.

"Ball!"

But look here. Park Dong-min isn't the only one allowed to be shameless.

Lee Hae-ryong could feel it in his bones: the end was drawing near. Next year would likely be the last he could physically manage at the top level. The team would be pouring its investment into the younger roster anyway — there'd be no reason for him to cling desperately to his spot.

So then — didn't he owe himself one last "I'm not dead yet" of his own?

And if a man of thirty-three got this shameless, had anyone stopped to imagine what a thirty-seven-year-old hitter's shamelessness looked like when it landed?

Pitch three.

The first had been a fastball in on the hands. The second, also inside, had been a slider — drifting just off for a ball.

So the third would be... he could feel it coming. You didn't face guys like that for just a day or two; one look at their expression and you knew everything.

CRACK!!!

The Phoenix had taken an unexpected punch. But the mood in their dugout wasn't actually bad.

Yes, they'd surrendered a run — but setting that aside, Park Dong-min was dealing superbly, and there was still plenty of game left to give up on anything. The biggest reason, though, was that the hitters had finally settled on a strategy.

"Everybody got through the analyst's material during cleaning time?"

"Yes, sir!"

The break after the fifth. The manager and coaches, the analysts, the players — all of them packed together, forgoing even a moment of rest to bury themselves in discussion.

And what they'd uncovered about Kim Yi-seon's new pitch.

"It really is a slider — just one that refuses to break properly. Never in a million years would I have guessed that."

"How does he even command a thing like that? A ball that won't break on command, and he spots it wherever he wants?"

"No idea. That's what genius means, I suppose."

Analysis of the grip, the small sample of deliveries where the movement showed most clearly, and the overall spin axis confirmed it: what Kim Yi-seon had been aiming for was a slider.

In other words, what they'd all taken for some sinister new black-magic pitch was, to any other pitcher, a hanging slider — a misfire.

That even a botched one looked like a perfectly serviceable 150-plus fastball was absurd in its own right. But now they knew what it was, they'd felt it with their own bodies, and it had become all the more huntable.

They wouldn't sit on that pitch alone — but if he threw that absurd slider again, they now had the confidence to turn on it and drive it out of the park on the spot.

"Good. And I'll say it again: Kim Yi-seon isn't invincible either. We put three on him during the regular season, and Young-jun took him deep once. We can do this."

The positive energy was climbing. Pour that heat directly onto the field, and they could win this.

"Philip and me, then Jeong-su hyung, are up in the sixth — everybody get ready."

Seo Yo-han declared, loud and proud, that this inning they would score in bunches and drag Kim Yi-seon off the mound — and stepped into the on-deck circle.

"Min-su hyung. No more sliders?"

"Nope. You've seen all there is to see."

Cleaning time strategy meeting — though "meeting" was a generous word. It was really just pitcher and catcher sprawling out during the break, tossing remarks back and forth, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠with neither the coaching staff nor the analytics team anywhere in sight.

"And stop calling it a slider. That's an insult to sliders everywhere."

"Excuse me, hyung, you're the one who told me to try throwing one."

The whole exchange was less grand strategy than playful idle chatter.

But threaded through it was Bang Min-soo's ice-cold judgment.

The architect of this surprise operation was a profoundly level-headed man. How level-headed? Level-headed enough that he categorically refused to allow himself to spiral.

"Call it whatever you like — the stuff itself is terrible. As a one-time surprise card, it's plenty. As a permanent member of the repertoire, it falls short."

"That's what I said — I shouldn't throw it. It's not a matter of whether they read it; the skipper said the same, that if a hitter even thinks it's coming, you're getting tattooed."

"They weren't thinking about it, and look how well it served us. Now we seal it for another year."

And so he had no intention of letting Yi-seon throw that garbage ball — belonging somewhere between slider, cutter, and fastball — again. They'd shown exactly as much as there was to show.

From here, the Phoenix hitters would have to keep fighting a psychological war against a pitch that would never appear again.

"But hyung — didn't you say the opponent was walking into a head-on duel? Are we allowed to pull tricks like this?"

"Life is live fire. And where in live fire does anyone find something so vile as *fair*? If it isn't against the rules, you use it."

This wasn't some medieval knight's duel. Where in the world is it written that if the opponent charges, you must meet them head-on?

In a game where a bonus worth roughly twenty percent of his annual salary hung in the balance, Bang Min-soo had absolutely no intention of doing any such thing.