The Preparation Is Complete
Preparations were complete.
Kim Yi-seon was suffering, caught in the crossfire of his own karma among the girls — but setting that aside, Jeil High's baseball club training was proceeding without a hitch.
"My ball!"
Cha Il-sung, our right fielder, sprinted all the way into territory that would normally belong to the center fielder.
Back in our first game, his range couldn't charitably have been called wide, but now it outstripped even decent center fielders.
"Whoa, Cha Il-sung. That catch had some style to it."
And once he'd planted his feet, he scooped the fly ball up with the casual ease of a game of catch — pop, just like that.
He used to be hopeless at judging where a ball would drop. Even after he'd gotten into position, watching him leap or slide for balls he should have caught standing still drew a steady stream of sighs out of me — but now his play was spotlessly clean.
Growth like this owed something to the grueling training, of course. But if a month or two of practice could improve anyone this much, why would there be a single baseball player in the world who couldn't field?
"Man, this is honestly amazing."
"You country bumpkin. You're telling me a baseball player went his whole career without a single proper checkup at the hospital? Does that even make sense to you?"
"Hey, don't go calling me a country bumpkin from over there. And people go to the hospital when they're sick, right? Who ever goes when they're perfectly fine?"
With that, he fiddled with the sports sunglasses perched on his face.
That's right. This was the single biggest reason his fly-ball judgment had improved.
As it turned out, the guy's eyes were extremely sensitive to light. Whenever he looked up to track a fly ball and direct sunlight or stadium floodlights entered his eyes, his vision would whiten out completely — that's why he couldn't see the ball at all.
According to him, he'd just assumed everyone saw the world that way. I told him to quit spouting nonsense and sent him straight to that university hospital ophthalmology department I knew well for a full examination. Those sunglasses were a product recommended by that very clinic.
The price had been steep enough that he'd grumbled about it at first, but after wearing them through a few practices, he'd gone out and bought himself a backup pair.
"Nice catch!"
Meanwhile, over in the infield fungo drills — specifically, our keystone combo.
During games, they'd been a pairing forever one step short, leaking balls left and right, but now they didn't let a single catchable ball through.
"What was your reasoning for trying to take that last ball yourself?"
"Huh? Well... the bounce felt like it was coming to my side?"
"Hmm. Okay."
There had actually been one more reason behind their defensive horror show last time, beyond pure skill — or lack thereof.
The personalities of the keystone combo, the two players whose timing matters most of anyone on the field, were complete opposites.
Kwon Ji-wook, our shortstop, was a brains-first type even at the plate, and on defense he had a tendency to read his teammates' intentions first and move to match them.
Second baseman Sung In-hoon was the opposite — an instinct player who moved first and adjusted his judgment on the fly based on what his gut told him.
Naturally, Ji-wook misread what In-hoon intended, while In-hoon's first instinct told him the ball was Ji-wook's to cut off and left it alone — and their coordination was a disaster.
I'd racked my brain over how to fix this, and the answer came, unexpectedly, from the manager himself, crystal clear.
"Is that so? Then tell them to talk to each other more often."
"Really? That's all it takes to fix it?"
"Fix it, I can't say. But it'll definitely help. Didn't I ever tell you I played infield utility back in my corporate league days?"
So we instructed them to discuss every single play — why each of them had judged and moved the way he did — and, remarkably, the more they drilled, the faster both of their defensive skills visibly improved.
Well, well. Even for a corporate-league alum, a man who'd played nothing but baseball for over a decade carries a certain vibe that only experience can teach.
And so the fielders' defense improved beyond recognition across the board. But truthfully, the people showing the biggest changes were two others entirely.
"Aigoo. I'm only throwin' till today, ya hear?"
"Aw, sorry! But did you see it, though? My max velocity got clocked? I finally broke 140!"
That would be Nam Kang-min, our catcher, and Ha Kyung-woo, the second of our freshman pitchers.
Ha Kyung-woo had gone through the same forced bulk-up regimen as me and packed on a full four kilograms in two months. Still a long way to go, of course, but the effects were showing up fast — his velocity had climbed for sure, and his stamina had improved, if only a little.
On top of that, Nam Kang-min had grown to the point where he could now field anything short of a genuine wild pitch or a nasty double-hop reasonably cleanly.
"See, I told you, didn't I? Problem is a fella who can't even walk tryin' to run. Just ditchin' the mitt work works this well, don't it."
"Yup, sure does. Sure is nice not havin' to do it."
Obviously some of this was raw skill and physicality built up through the training camp itself, but he'd also gotten his own one-point solution: the abandonment of framing.
Watching Nam Kang-min's dropped balls closely, I noticed he actually failed to catch the vaguely-missed pitches more often than the outright wild ones. I dug into why, and it turned out the kid was catastrophically bad at framing.
Trying to force framing he couldn't do meant his mitt work went sloppy and balls squirted out everywhere — which made it worse than not doing it at all.
At first, he dug his heels in, insisting that framing was a fundamental duty of any catcher.
But once I forced him to try going without it, even he found it easier, and now he was swallowing down pitches that landed practically dead-center in the zone without a second thought.
Not now, but ABS will come in eventually, and framing will all be a waste of effort anyway. Catch the ball first — worry about the rest later.
Watching one player after another make tangible defensive strides like this, I could feel the training camp paying off. I couldn't say how it'd hold up in real games yet, but a confidence was building — the sense that we could stop what needed stopping.
Coach Choi Sang-ho checked his team's standing in the weekend league.
In the first half, luck had been on his side, and they'd at least avoided last place — ninth in their region. The second half was already past its midpoint, but with no sign of a rebound, they were sitting at tenth.
His head throbbed. He'd never dreamed of big tournaments like the Cheongnyonggi or the Golden Lion, but surely they needed to show at least some hope in the Phoenix Flag.
Judging that the team would be in real danger if this atmosphere drifted on with no turnaround, Coach Choi Sang-ho set out to find a way to change it.
"Right, Hitting Coach. The freshmen's level has come up quite a bit, hasn't it?"
"Yes, sir. They're not without their rough edges, but compared to how they looked early on, they've improved considerably. Defense especially — I'd say they don't lag behind the starters, or are even better in spots."
"Really? Then I suppose it's about time we started preparing to field them."
The card he had left to play was deploying the freshmen. He'd already cycled through every last one of the second- and third-years, and naturally there wasn't a single player among them who could produce a variable the current starters couldn't.
He knew the timing was a bit early. But he resolved to act boldly. Left as things were, they'd finish dead last anyway. It wasn't as if a few extra games would suddenly swing open a college door for the third-years — so he decided to use them cleanly, as lab subjects.
"So how should we go about telling them?"
"I'm not planning to make them play every remaining game. We'll just split the weekend league in half — one day a week with the current starters, one day with only the freshmen. Pitching Coach, what do you think?"
"Hmm. Min-hyuk's been growing fast lately — his velocity keeps creeping up, whether from the growth spurt or his body finally filling out — so personally, I think a bit more tempering would serve him well. But game experience wouldn't be bad for him either.
As for Kyung-woo, his stamina has improved somewhat, but I'd recommend a self-imposed cap of around fifty pitches rather than pushing him. His curveball has definitely come along."
The coaching staff's judgment was a green light. At this level, it should be no problem.
"Good. Then we start them this Sunday, against Donghyun High."
"Donghyun, sir? Wouldn't Paldal High be the safer bet? They're the tougher opponent on paper."
"That's exactly why — a tough opponent clears the mind. Tell them they're probably going to lose anyway, so go out there and play however they want. These aren't kids who'll get demoralized over a loss."
And in any case, Kim Yi-seon and Kang Min-hyuk would surely manage something.
Kang Min-hyuk in particular had been hitting like he was possessed lately. At this rate, going without a designated hitter looked like the clearly better option.
Kim Yi-seon's side, too, seemed to have finally finished adjusting to the wooden bat — his swing looked murderous at a glance. And the kid had already been huge, but he'd grown even taller, and his power was no joke.
Even if the others' defense turned a bit messy, the two of them would carry it together, just like back in middle school.
Friday — the day right before the weekend league game. The manager read out the roster for this weekend's matches.
"Starting this week, to give the freshmen their opportunity, we'll be splitting the weekend games evenly between the starters and the freshman entry. So, first up: Saturday against Paldal High. Starting pitcher—"
Personally, I felt like everyone still needed a little more polishing, so the thought crossed my mind that this was a bit soon.
Their defense finally looked human, but their hitting — maybe because their bodies hadn't filled out or grown in yet — still looked like something was missing.
Our school's hitting coach was an old-school type who figured that since everyone had passable contact skills, there'd be no real problem — but if we went out there as-is, the only person likely to produce extra-base hits besides me would be Nam Kang-min, at best.
While I was picking apart the roster name by name, the manager called out the Sunday lineup.
"Consider the Sunday lineup I'm about to read the freshmen's main entry. From here on, this is the group you'll be moving and breathing together with.
Starting pitcher — Kang Min-hyuk.
Catcher — Nam Kang-min.
First base — Kim Yi-seon.
Second base — Sung In-hoon.
Shortstop — Kwon Ji-wook.
Third base — Oh Se-hyeong.
Left field — Jeong Gwang-wook.
Center field — Cho Sang-bin.
Right field — Cha Il-sung.
Chan, you're in the utility role, so your playing time won't be all that different from the others — don't be discouraged. Kyung-woo is first out of the bullpen. The moment Min-hyuk comes out, you're going in next. Make sure you understand that."
After that, the manager's gaze swept around the gathered players. The weekend league results had been poor lately, and with the third-years just starting to see their college placements take shape, the mood among them was wretched.
And now even their playing time was being split with the freshmen — they were the very picture of depression worn like a second skin.
"Il-sung, why are you glancing around like that? A Gangwon country boy surrounded by Seoul kids — you scared?"
"No, Coach, I keep tellin' you I'm not a country boy! It's fifty minutes to Seoul by car. At that distance, there's no difference between Suwon over there and Hongcheon where I live. The real country is where Kang-min's from — Buyeo."
"What's that now? They don't got hamburgers where you're from?"
The manager tossed out a joke or two, trying to loosen the air. The kids had lived together in the dorms long enough to be close, and the atmosphere lifted quickly.
He watched for a moment as the freshmen took turns — my town has this, well my town has that — running their little village-ranking contest, then gave the hitting coach a light nod and dismissed the squad.
Evidently he'd coordinated this with the manager beforehand, because the hitting coach pulled the freshmen aside as they filed out.
"You already know from the lineup, but long-term, the manager is thinking of having Min-hyuk pitch and hit both. Min-hyuk. What about you? Any problems with that?"
Two-way play was unquestionably punishing on the body. That was probably why he wanted to hear Kang Min-hyuk's own thoughts first.
"No, sir. No problem at all."
Kang Min-hyuk radiated the air of a man who would do it as long as it meant winning. This was the guy who'd literally ground his body into dust to win Jeil High the championship in the original story, so the answer was only natural.
This time the coach singled out Park Chan — one of the few internal promotees who'd come up through Jeil Middle.
"Chan. The reason you're not in the starting lineup is exactly what I described. Don't take it to heart. Even with the lineup set, we can't know where a hole might open up — and you do everything well, don't you? Keeping you ready is the choice that helps the team operate best. That's why I made it."
Don't be resentful, the coach was saying — hinting that the moment an opportunity came, Chan could see the field as a pinch hitter, pinch runner, or defensive replacement.
Park Chan seemed to get the gist, nodding with a grim, determined face. He really was a versatile kid, even if every one of his stats was a small hexagon. Decent hitter, serviceable anywhere you put him, and not slow on his feet either.
"The manager hasn't said this in front of the other classes, but just as he promised when you enrolled, the plan is to run this team around you starting next year.
So the games you play from here on are for experience. There's no need to push yourselves trying to win at all costs. Just go out there feeling like you're giving it everything you have. That's all I ask."
"Coach. We're not the kind of cowards who walk onto that field scared of losing. We'll win and come back!"
"That's the spirit, Kyung-woo. Good energy. All right, then this time we really are dismissed. The game's in two days, so training is fine, but take good care of your bodies. Dismissed!"
With a light shout, the freshmen clustered into small groups and headed back to the dorms.
They'd kept the original promise — eat well (a lot well) and just play baseball — far better than I'd expected. Even the three internal promotees, who'd had less at stake to begin with than the outside recruits.
The manager's decision to deploy the freshmen now was only possible because these kids had kept up, too. They groaned, they complained, they milking every ache for sympathy — but not one of them had genuinely failed to hang on.
In a way, this might be the point where real, proper baseball finally begins. There was no one left to blame on the team — I'd recruited them myself, and their talent wasn't lacking.
"Hey, Kang Min-hyuk! Your defense is actually decent now. You feeling confident?"
Where the hell is this bastard?
That question — you confident you can go a whole game without giving up three runs? — I was determined, this time, to get a proper answer out of him, so I'd gone to his room. Empty.
"Min-hyuk? He went to meet Hyeon-ah noona."
"Ha. This bastard is unbelievable, honestly? How does a guy that busy with training still find time for this romance nonsense?"
In the original story, there'd been no training camp in the first year. Which meant, physically speaking, he shouldn't have had the spare hours to get entangled with any other girl — and yet, astonishingly, this bastard had grown close with one of the original heroines.
At this point, was it just destiny? The man was absolutely infuriating.
"Well? What? If you've got something to say, say it."
"Oh, no, nothing. I didn't say a word."