A Difference in Weight Class

The sudden surge in popularity enjoyed by Wirye Jeil High had become a talking point among other baseball clubs as well.

But the flavor of that talk, if you had to sum it up, ran something like: a bunch of clowns who couldn't be bothered to actually play baseball and were instead peddling their faces for cheap fame, treating the sport like a joke.

The reasoning: bottom-of-the-barrel weekend league results — ninth place in the first half of the season, seventh in the second — and a roster of first-years being handed starting spots, as if they'd been picked purely on looks.

Of course, no one stopped to consider that those supposedly pretty faces were outperforming the actual starters, which was precisely why they were in the lineup. Common sense alone said it: maybe a second-year outplaying the veterans was plausible somewhere, but what school on earth had first-years beating out second- and third-year starters?

So the prevailing view among baseball purists — the schools that lived and breathed the game, that grinded out results through sheer dedication — was that Wirye Jeil High's fame was galling to watch, a slap in the face.

They gritted their teeth, fought through every game, swept both halves of the weekend league — and got nothing but silence. Meanwhile, those guys uploaded one video with a couple of clicks, and boom, front page of an internet news site.

A first-year with fewer than ten official games under his belt was drawing more attention than drafted-caliber players that professional scouts had been tracking for years.

Something here was deeply, fundamentally wrong.

Just as that sentiment was hardening into the consensus among most coaches, one manager unexpectedly refused to go along with it.

None other than Na Jung-hwan, manager of Gwangju Jeil High — Wirye Jeil's Round of 32 opponent. A man of considerable years, respected as an elder statesman of the industry, with a baseball philosophy that was, admittedly, a bit old-fashioned.

But he was a manager who understood, better than most, that baseball was, above all else, entertainment.

He manufactured controversies on purpose to keep the reporters fed, relished a good provocation, and actively encouraged his own players to embrace showmanship.

In his eyes, Wirye Jeil's approach was a perfectly legitimate strategy. Though even he, for all his open-mindedness, did not believe those players had been picked on merit.

"Hey now~ look at these kids, will ya? Have you seen what they're sayin' about us?"

But right now, he was furious. And naturally, it wasn't conservatism driving him.

"Heh heh. Look at this — apparently we're the Fake Jeil High now. Can ya believe it."

The flaw in Manager Na's open-mindedness, which endured well past his prime, was that it spilled over into his private life to the point where he behaved nothing like a man his age. His daily routine: ego-searching.

Ever since he'd discovered the internet, he'd been a chronic addict — searching for himself and his team dozens of times a day.

And these were the posts that had gotten under his skin.

When Wirye Jeil High first blew up, the nickname the internet had slapped on them was Fake Jeil High.

Schools named "Jeil High" were a dime a dozen — practically every region in the country had one — yet for whatever reason, of the 150 schools in the weekend league, only two carried ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the name: Gwangju Jeil and Wirye Jeil.

The problem was that Gwangju Jeil was an undisputed powerhouse in the baseball world, while Wirye Jeil — baseball club aside — wasn't even a particularly well-known school.

Hence: the real Jeil High was Gwangju Jeil, and Wirye Jeil was the fake.

And now these kids — kids who had just stepped into their first-ever Bonghwangdae Round of 32, kids with no participation record in any other major national tournament whatsoever — had gotten a little viral buzz, and suddenly we were the fakes?

Manager Na knew perfectly well it was just netizens joking around. That didn't stop the fury.

"Oi, Park Do-hyun, me boy. What d'ya make of this garbage?"

And so he passed his fury along to the team's ace and captain, Park Do-hyun — the boy who had come to Gwangju on a baseball scholarship from Seoul.

"Coach, I'll just flatten them on my way out. If we put up, say, a 10-0, that kind of talk will dry up real fast."

"Feelin' confident, are ya?"

"We have to win this tournament. It'd be a sorry state of affairs if I couldn't manage that much."

Park Do-hyun was currently drawing attention from professional clubs — but only vaguely, tepidly so.

As things stood, his fate was either a middling round draft pick on the strength of lukewarm interest, or abandoning the draft altogether for university. Which meant the Bonghwangdae — his last chance — demanded a dominant performance to flip the script on his evaluation.

Truthfully, his feelings toward Wirye Jeil were as indifferent as his coach's. If anything, he was almost grateful. All that attention was about to pivot to the next game — and if he put on a show then, catching the eyes of the pro scouts would only get easier.

And so the manager and his ace, each burning with a slightly different grudge, stoked their competitive fire toward Wirye Jeil High and began preparing for the next day's game.

Bonghwangdae, Round of 32: Gwangju Jeil High versus Wirye Jeil High.

The game was assigned to the Jamsil Baseball Stadium auxiliary field. Practically next door to our school, it was as close to a home field as we could ask for — another stroke of luck on our side, though the seniors had no room for joy. They were too busy being wound tight as drums.

Gwangju Jeil High.

They never appeared in the original manga, but they were a traditional powerhouse all the same. The Gwangju Phoenix — the pro team based in their home region — was just the start; several of their graduates were active players on rosters across the league. A storied baseball school that represented Gwangju itself.

Online, they were the "real Jeil High" and we were the "Fake Jeil High" — and the gap in prestige and firepower was wide enough that I could hardly mount much of an argument.

Which was why the seniors and the coaches were raising their voices, insisting we could push through it — while wearing nerves so obvious it hurt to watch. Coach, meanwhile, simply watched them in silence.

"Well, what do you know. We're playing on the road after all."

"Sorry... on the road?"

The coach's non sequitur hung in the air.

"The Central Rounds or no Central Rounds, and Jamsil being our home turf or no — you really think it's normal for a crowd this size to show up starting in the Round of 32?"

"I mean, we're massively popular online. It makes sense they'd come out for us."

"Right. They came out for you."

And with that, the meaning of his words finally began to sink in.

"Folks come to see you pretty boys, and out pops some potato-faced stranger instead? You ever hear that saying — the opposite of love isn't hate, it's indifference? That's what's gonna hurt those seniors of yours the most."

With that, he fell quiet and simply watched the seniors warming up.

Listening to Coach and then turning my eyes back to the crowd and the seniors, it all became crystal clear. From all over the stands came murmurs — people craning their necks, searching for us.

And we weren't the only ones watching those wobbling seniors.

The opposing manager was tracking our every move with an intensity I could feel from across the field. He looked up there in years, but his presence, his gaze — nothing about them had dimmed. He was, in every sense of the word, a beast.

At first glance, the man plainly looked furious — but the players beneath that fury were the opposite of rattled. They moved through their warm-ups with an easy composure, as if this were a place they'd been a hundred times, running through the routine they always ran.

A completely different animal from a team like Gyeongju High, which had let its anger curdle into sloppiness and wrecked its own game. My gut told me today's match was going to be far harder than I'd imagined.

Top of the first inning. The seniors marched to the plate wearing grim, resolute expressions — and went down in order, three up, three down.

The scoreboard flashed the opposing pitcher's top velocity at roughly the mid-to-high 140s. Impressive on its own, but worse were the curves that came sailing in with waterfall-like drops sprinkled between fastballs. Two batters had already gone down looking. The man was every bit the ace of a true powerhouse.

Then it was our turn at the plate.

Hyeon-su, taking the mound for us, was buried under a first-and-third, one-out jam before anyone could blink.

I didn't know him well — he wasn't close with anyone in particular, and he wasn't a character who'd appeared in the manga — so my knowledge of him was shallow. All I knew was that he could touch 140 on the gun but had next to no command.

True to form, he punched out one batter, then walked the next on four pitches. Under pressure from the runner's steal attempts, a wild pitch slipped loose, got hammered, and here we were.

He looked badly rattled. The crowd showed Hyeon-su no interest at all — the only voices in the stands belonged to the small knot of Gwangju Jeil supporters.

It genuinely felt like the entire crowd was cheering for the other team. Like a true road game.

Stepping into the box: Park Do-hyun, the current ace of Gwangju Jeil High. The handful of fans grew louder still.

Our pitcher was wound to the breaking point. But he gathered himself, set his stance, and delivered the first pitch—

"Strike!"

The ball landed true — a slider painting the outer edge, licking the corner of the zone.

"Ball!"

Pitch two, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠a changeup drifting just off the plate. The batter held his swing, but it was quality pitching. If he could just keep this up—

Crack!

Then came the bat, ringing clean through the air.

The ball threaded the third-base line and rolled all the way to the fence. Our fielders converged on it as fast as humanly possible, but the seniors' arms simply couldn't generate the throw needed.

The desperate relay bounced once before barely reaching the shortstop's glove — and by then, every runner on base had come around to score. The batter ambled into second base wearing an expression of utter ease, as if to say this was nothing out of the ordinary.

The pitch he'd just hit — the course had been flawless, no question. And the velocity on the board read 141. That was nearly Hyeon-su's personal best, and by any high school standard, hardly slow.

Had it landed where intended, it would have been a four-seamer buried right at the corner. And the man had turned it, flat-out, into a double.

That was no fluke. The swing had been deliberate — a ball struck precisely where he aimed it.

Hyeon-su was, frankly, living a career day right now. An awkward fastball and shaky command were what had left him at this school in the first place. But whether it was luck or a good day, the ball kept finding the right spots.

And Gwangju Jeil, as if to declare this a simple matter of class, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠kept batting him around and racking up runs with the lightest of touches.

Hyeon-su surrendered one more run before finally escaping the first inning. The pitches themselves had been good. The other team had simply hit them well.

In the second, Seung-yong — our captain, our third-year ace — stepped to the plate and went down swinging on three straight pitches. Another three-and-out.

The third? We finally strung together a hit — only to strand it and end the inning. On defense, we gave up another run.

Fourth inning: no runs.

Fifth inning: no runs, two more allowed. Our pitcher came out on the pitch-count limit; Choi Kang-cheol took the mound.

Sixth inning: no runs, one more allowed.

Somewhere along the way, the score had become 6-0.

One by one, spectators who saw no sign of us taking the field began filing out, until barely a quarter of the original crowd remained. But the Gwangju Jeil faithful were only getting more into it, their voices swelling.

Gwangju Jeil's baseball wasn't trendy, modern baseball. It was old-school smallball — built on executing plays and putting the ball in play.

No single dominant ace. No towering slugger. But every player on the field moved as one organism. Put a runner ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠on, and a surprise bunt would materialize from a moment no one saw coming.

Get a runner into scoring position, and even their big power hitters would just punch the ball through, prioritizing the run above all else.

People dismissed this style as outdated, "old school" in the derogatory sense — but for Wirye Jeil, it was far harder to play against than any modern attack. The proof was written all over our fielders: not just the infielders but the outfielders too, caked head to toe in dirt.

Charitably, you'd call it playing defense with passion. Less charitably, it meant they couldn't read balls off the bat and didn't have the range, forcing diving stops and sliding catches again and again.

It was baseball with zero emotion, a slow, methodical press of sheer weight. Run by extracted run, Gwangju Jeil was crushing us on skill alone.

And yet even as our team got battered like this, Coach called no plays. Offered no extra motivation. Nothing.

Even when scoring-position chances came along, he simply watched, motionless.

And then — bottom of the seventh, one out, bases loaded. Our first genuine big-inning chance of the game.

That was when Kang Min-hyuk picked up a bat and marched into the dugout.

"All right, Min-hyuk. What is it?"

"Coach. I'd like to go in as a pinch hitter."

Kang Min-hyuk's face was grave with resolve. The coach answered without so much as glancing at him.

"Didn't you start the last game? Go sit down and rest quietly like a good boy."

"I'm confident, sir. If we score here, we can flip the momentum of this game entirely."

Kang Min-hyuk had started two days ago. One day of rest after pitching — a pinch-hit appearance was, maybe, physically feasible.

"If we win this game, you're starting the next one. I told you to rest, and I meant it."

But the coach's tone was flat finality, a man with zero intention of budging.

"Coach—!"

"You think my orders are funny right now?!"

I'd never seen Coach this angry. He'd raised his voice before, plenty of times — but screaming with his face flushed crimson to the ears? Never.

"You get a little good at baseball and suddenly your seniors, your coach — we're all a joke to you, Kang Min-hyuk?"

"That's not it, sir! I am seriously confident!"

"Then what about him, huh? Does he look not confident to you?"

The batter he'd gestured at had just made an out, and with that, the bases-loaded threat died at two outs. The senior trudging back into the dugout wore a look of pure confusion, clearly baffled by whatever was happening.

"Kang Min-hyuk. Look at your senior's face right now — the one walking back from the plate. Does that look like the face of a man who's given up?"

"But—"

"But nothing! Hey, Manager! Drag this punk out of here. A kid who started last game can sit down and rest like he was told."

At the coach's bellow, Lim Song-ah, who'd been watching from the back, hurried over and gently coaxed Kang Min-hyuk away, soothing him as she went. Unable to bring himself to shake off her hand, Kang Min-hyuk filed slowly out of the dugout.

The coach — the same man who'd been screaming moments ago — returned to his seat in complete silence, as if none of it had happened.

"You leave that boy alone and he'll try to play the whole damn game by himself."

"Coach..."

"What, now you're asking to be put in too?"

"I just mean — you could've told him to take care of himself nicely, instead of yelling."

"...Haaah."

His eyes stayed fixed on the players out on the field as he spoke.

"You think I don't ache for it too? You think the Round of 16, the quarterfinals, don't cross my mind?"

"But you held back anyway, sir."

"Of course I did. You know why a baseball coach is called a manager in English and not in any other sport? Because a baseball manager isn't a coach. He's an administrator."

In most sports, the man at the top of the bench is called the head coach. In baseball, he's the manager.

"Is baseball something you're only playing today? Win it all today burning the kids out, then what about the next game? And next year? If I pinch-hit Min-hyuk today to win, who the hell starts tomorrow?"

This was the single greatest difference between this man and the manga's coach. Even while pretending otherwise, this man quietly always kept in mind that his players were students. He worried about overuse, yes — but about their character, their grades, all of it.

The coach in the original work, by contrast, would have wrapped Kang Min-hyuk's demand in the glowing rhetoric of passion. No — scratch that, he'd already have been running him as the designated hitter. In the third-year season, on days Min-hyuk wasn't starting on the mound, he was played in the field. Every single time.

And that wasn't all. Whenever an injury opened a hole anywhere in the lineup, the first man shoved into it was Kang Min-hyuk. Once, when the shortstop went down, he was even played at shortstop.

The more I thought about it, the more it seemed the original coach who ground those players to dust, and Kang Min-hyuk who volunteered to be ground down, were both out of their minds. Sure, protagonist armor carried him through — but was he really only planning to play baseball through high school?

"And you can call it an excuse all you like, but I mean every word of it. Most managers feel this crushing pressure that they have to do something in a short series — call a play, make a swap, anything."

Even as he spoke, our batters kept going down, and the bases-loaded chance evaporated for good. But Coach showed no trace of regret whatsoever.

"And I have never once seen one of those panic-fabricated gambits actually work. The manager panics first and starts wavering — you think the players execute a fancy play and produce results under that? Watch the game. I have not given up on this one."

But in the end, Wirye Jeil High lost.

Our seniors had truly given it everything. In the eighth they scraped together a run by any means necessary, and refusing to quit until the very end, they put up three more in the ninth — chasing right down to the final out.

But that was where it ended. Wirye Jeil's offense stalled at four runs, and those three runs of distance between us and Gwangju Jeil were, quite simply, the difference in weight class.

In the gloom hanging over the dugout, I approached the coach carefully.

"Coach... would it really not have been better if we'd played?"

Four to seven. We'd been chased to their very heels. If our hitters had done just a little better — if they'd had just a little more at the plate—

"Hmm... everything's hindsight, isn't it? Though watching us claw back this far today does stir up a bit of regret. And seeing the starters hit like they did... well, it does make me wonder if you kids would've really done any better."

The starting lineup had been a different animal from their usual selves today. Luck had finally come their way in the late innings, and the good swings kept coming — a senior who hadn't even been batting .200 had gone one-for-five with a sacrifice fly to show for it.

In baseball, hitting cycles like that happen to any team on any given day — even weak teams get their lucky nights. Our seniors' bats today were good enough that I honestly couldn't say for certain the first-year squad would have topped them.

So then — why had Wirye Jeil High lost?

"Hey! Enough with the sobbing, all of you — heads up! What crime did you commit, huh? Your dummy of a manager lost the game. So why are you the ones crying?"

Just as the coach was telling them now — had it been a failure of the manager's judgment? No way. Among all the major sports, baseball is the one where the manager's influence is smallest.

Any longtime baseball fan already knew the answer. Where that overwhelming gulf in class came from — the kind that guarantees a loss even on a night when the hitting cycle is clicking perfectly.

The hour had arrived to finally set in motion the last future plan I'd been putting off until now.