First Appearance on the Mound (1)
Time flew by, and before I knew it, March 1st had arrived — the opening day of the Weekend League.
In the meantime, my personal training had been going well, and the video shoot had made considerable progress too.
They weren't just conducting individual interviews with the players — they'd gone through the coach, the principal, even the chairman, all the way down to the players' parents. I honestly had no idea why they were working this hard.
"Yi-seon! I know you'll do great today as well! Fighting!"
And at the very peak of that passion stood this man. Section Chief Park Young-chul, an employee of the Twins' PR team.
He'd always seemed like someone who loved high school baseball and was a sucker for stories of youth and passion, but after hearing the backstories of Kang Min-hyuk and the other recruits from out of town, he'd even shed the tears of a hot-blooded man.
Ever since then, he'd been cheering us on to the point of embarrassment. He edited the videos with such fervor that the students in them were all cringing.
Our opening opponent was Gwangnam High, and the stadium where we were talking right now was Gwangju Civic Stadium. Honestly, why do we keep running into those guys in the opener, year after year? Maybe it's fate.
And clearly we were the away team and they were the home team, yet the Gwangnam players looked positively on edge.
The reason was obvious without much thought. Even in an area with inconvenient transportation and a modest local population, the stands were packed with spectators and cameras — for them, this had to be an unprecedented sight.
Right now, the bleachers held what looked like over a hundred people — our cheering section. A handful of what appeared to be Twins employees had also installed cameras at various points around the stadium.
That's right — not spectators, but a cheering section. The Twins PR team had really outdone themselves with those videos.
Interest in the Wirye Jeil High baseball team had already climbed considerably. But that interest was purely meme-based and looks-based — hardly anyone cared about our actual games.
My agent had apparently judged that the current situation, where attention focused overwhelmingly on our looks, wasn't good for us either, so she'd sternly instructed the Twins PR team never to use content that emphasized appearance alone.
Because of that, I'd expected our videos to enjoy modest popularity at best — a little fan service for a handful of looks-obsessed fans and a cautionary warning against harassment — before fading away...
"In the Phoenix Flag Tournament where his father once played..."
"I did think about quitting baseball. But..."
"So we just had to raise him right, y'know? Right there on the spot, I called him 'Coach!' I sure did, yessir."
The sob-story marketing had landed spectacularly.
Since the interviews were posted on the club's official YouTube channel, they initially circulated only in baseball communities, but eventually spread across all kinds of forums and gained popularity everywhere.
And what drove the final nail in was the chairman's interview.
"Our Jeil High isn't a particularly famous school. But our school has stood on this ground since before Wirye City was even Wirye City. It was so when my father founded the school, and it will remain so in the future."
The same cheapskate chairman who never properly funded equipment purchases had stepped in front of a camera and transformed into a completely different man.
His packaging skills were so impressive that watching the video alone, you'd believe he was someone with boundless love for the region and school, investing generously at every turn. Sir, your hometown is a different town entirely — you don't even live in Wirye.
In any case, after all this, the school's fandom had grown to include all sorts of people — not just the looks-chasers, but those moved by the players' stories, and even Wirye natives born and raised here.
I heard that the school's official SNS account, which Ye-eun had created, had already passed 100,000 followers. It might seem like nothing special, but among high school baseball teams, only a handful of truly elite storied programs had more followers than that.
Still, that was just internet popularity — I wondered how many fans would actually travel to an away game. Turns out nearly a hundred had shown up.
Apparently, we weren't the only ones feeling the pressure of the crowd and cameras.
"Yi-seon, that number 3 looks like he can hit a splitter. Should I avoid him as much as possible?"
Kang-chul, today's starting pitcher, had issues of his own.
True to form as the frailest of fraidy-cats, he was already tense the moment a crowd and cameras gathered. But this man pitched just fine in the round of 32 at the last Phoenix Flag Tournament — why is he like this over something like this?
"Just throw whatever feels right, hyung. If you start overthinking, the results go down the drain too."
"It'd be reassuring if you could cover for me on defense... Why don't you just play first base instead?"
That's right. Today I was starting as the designated hitter. I don't do defense, thank you very much.
Apparently without me, there was no one at first base who could scoop throws the way I did, so that had him nervous too.
"If I give up a run, I'll just blast a homer to make up for it, so stop being such a scaredy-cat."
The man looks like a mountain bandit — why on earth is he such a coward?
Meanwhile, Jeil High's offense in the top of the first started with back-to-back hits. That was expected from Nam Kang-min, who'd always had decent bat skills. But Kwon Ji-wook, batting leadoff today, had transformed beyond recognition in his second year.
The scrawny noodle-armed kid from early first year was gone; he'd returned with a fairly solid build, considerably more height, and much sharper contact ability.
And it wasn't just Kwon Ji-wook — everyone had visibly grown across the board.
With Cha Il-sung, our number three hitter, now stepping into the box, I gradually loosened up and took my place in the on-deck circle.
In modern baseball, the role of the cleanup hitter has drifted far from the traditional ace-batter image.
The true hitting ace — someone good at everything at the plate — has shifted to the two-hole. What's demanded of the number four is the ability to deliver one big blow.
It's a spot in the order where striking out or flying out is fine, as long as you skip the weak grounders and singles and just unload a clean extra-base hit.
Of course, high school baseball doesn't have the luxury of such fine distinctions, but wasn't this role truly perfect for me? All the more so now, when my teammates had grown reliable enough to trust.
Cha Il-sung, the number three hitter, went down swinging at a dropping pitch like the blockhead he is. It wasn't even a particularly sharp breaking ball, but the guy's apparently got no brain for anything but fastballs. I cut him some slack since he hits fastballs well.
I gave Cha Il-sung a playful whack on the backside and stepped into the batter's box. One out, runners on first and third.
Two runners on with one out? Like I always say — watch out for the double play. Just lofting the ball deep would avoid the worst of it.
So there I was, gearing up for extra bases, when the opposing pitcher fired his first pitch. An obvious waste pitch — a ball nowhere near the zone. By this point it was basically a prayer: please, just swing at it.
The next pitch was a breaking ball dropping out of the zone. Ball two. That one was a bit of a shame — if it had come in just a little more, it could have been a strike. Though even if it had, it would've been well outside my personal zone, so I wouldn't have swung anyway.
And the third pitch. Another ball. Another waste pitch.
I could roughly see what they were going for. Pitching around me with an intentional ball from the very first inning would wound their pride, but facing me head-on scared them.
So, knowing my tendency toward swinging strikeouts, they were throwing nothing but waste pitches, begging me to chase? And they didn't mind if it ended in a walk?
With runners already on first and third, loading the bases intentionally wasn't a bad tactic, to be fair. But if that was the plan, a straight intentional walk would have been cleaner.
CRACK!!!
"WHOA!!!!"
What was meant to be a waste pitch had lost its break entirely and sailed straight into the heart of the strike zone — a misfire. I smashed it and sent it flying.
Every pitcher is destined to throw at least one misfire. What happens if you make such an amateurish choice?
From there, the game flowed along uneventfully. Kang-chul hyung had clearly gotten rattled — his control was off today. His pitch count did climb, but he only gave up about one run and a single walk, nothing that amounted to a real problem.
Beyond my home run, we'd added another two runs, so by the sixth inning the score stood at 5 to 1. Kang-chul hyung had just taken the mound and was facing the leadoff hitter.
"Yi-seon. Time to get ready."
At the coach's words, I quietly picked up my new glove. Then I glanced around and held it up for everyone to see.
A strange glove that looked as though it had a thumb on both sides. A glove made exclusively for ambidextrous pitchers.
They don't sell these in Korea, so I'd special-ordered one of the few models produced in the United States. Didn't one glove cost well over a million won? If the chairman weren't riding high on all the school publicity, I'd never have gotten funding for it.
Glove in hand, I slowly pushed open the chain-link door and stepped into the bullpen. As I entered, I could sense a faint stir running through the crowd.
And there in the bullpen, the pitching coach stood waiting, already suited up in full catcher's gear.
"No need to be nervous just because it's your first time. Got it?"
"Coach, am I the type to get nervous?"
"Right, of course not. I know that better than anyone."
As I slipped the glove onto my right hand and settled into my stance, the coach readied his target, popping his glove with a couple of hearty smacks.
The catcher's mitt held up just slightly above where the heart of the strike zone would be.
"Nice! Great ball, Yi-seon!"
Pop! — something seemed to burst, and my fastball slammed dead-center into the mitt.
But this was still a light warm-up toss, nothing close to true game pitching. I gradually shifted gears, letting the ball fly.
After about ten throws, the mitt wasn't just popping — it was booming like a cannon.
Something I'd learned while preparing to pitch: my shoulder loosens up unusually fast. I'd barely thrown more than ten pitches and I could already feel it releasing.
So I switched the glove over to my left hand without missing a beat.
I'd watched this scene several times before, but the coach still marveled at it every single time.
I let the coach's admiration wash over me in moderation and threw the ball right where he called for it.
"Hey, isn't that their designated hitter?"
"Looks like it? It's only the seventh inning, and they're winning. That's not pitch-count management — they actually put him on the mound?"
The bottom of the seventh — Gwangnam High's turn at bat.
An unexpected figure had taken the mound, and the Gwangnam dugout was in an uproar. It was Kim Yi-seon, Jeil High's batting ace, who'd even homered earlier that day.
Of course, position conversions to pitcher weren't rare. Talented players often had ability on both sides, so at the high school level it happened frequently depending on team needs or personal preference.
But a player who had just converted to pitcher taking the mound? Didn't that mean, to the opposing team, that they saw us as easy pickings?
And on top of that, it was Kim Yi-seon. Never mind that they were only in the same athletic federation — Gwangnam Middle's baseball team had been beaten black and blue by him every single time, and ever since he moved up to high school, every appearance against Gwangnam High produced RBIs that contributed directly to their losses.
And now that guy was coming out as a pitcher? Gwangnam's head coach felt his scalp heat up. As it was, Wirye Jeil High had been improving its results and gaining popularity, and the chairman was already breathing down his neck.
"Hey, it's his first official game on the mound. Guys like that can't even find the zone. Don't bother trying to hit — just work the walk."
But Gwangnam's coach was no amateur hothead who'd give emotional instructions. Be as rational as possible—
"STRIKE-! OUT!"
"Goddamn, that bastard splits the zone like it's nothing"
Rationally...
"Hey, is he wearing that glove on the wrong hand?"
"He's throwing lefty? Wasn't that right-handed just now?"
Ugh, forget it.
"HEY! Even if you strike out, just smash that son of a bitch. Load up on power and hit us a homer!"
The truth was, even though I'd made my debut today, my adjustment as a pitcher was still far from complete.
According to Dr. Jo, my muscles and pitching mechanics had the foundation and framework perfectly set, but apparently I still needed to adjust by actually throwing the ball.
And what had disappointed me a little was that my velocity hadn't reached the level I'd hoped for.
"Dr. Jo, is this velocity really right?"
"Aigoo, you impatient fool. Throwing a baseball is exercise too — you just started, so how would you be fast from the get-go?"
"But I did five whole months of strength training and pitching mechanics work!"
"The shoulder only gets strong enough to match throwing after you actually throw. You've only been training with the ball for a month — of course you're not there yet."
Of the three-to-six-month adjustment period Dr. Jo had originally laid out, I had at least finished the foundational work within five months. But actual practice throwing the ball? Exactly one month, right up until the season opener.
"Throwing the ball is what makes the shoulder stronger, you say? Did this man learn baseball theory in Japan instead of America?"
"Tsk, don't look at me with those innocent eyes. Overuse is the problem — there's nothing strange about the shoulder growing stronger the more you throw. The sensory and neuromuscular patterns optimized for a specific movement are only built by repeating that movement."
"So it's really fine to go straight into live games? From where I stand, my fastball's slow and I haven't even prepared breaking balls yet."
At my words, the doctor looked at me as if I were out of my mind.
"The only reason I'm tolerating your whining about slow velocity is because I have a rough picture of your physical specs — otherwise I'd have smacked you for insolence. And from what I can see, you could throw nothing but fastballs and still pitch scoreless."
"Still, it feels a little lacking."
"Cut the nonsense and listen to the precautions. Since you're still adjusting and the priority is data collection, for about a month, aim to appear in four or five games, keeping your pitch count under sixty per outing."
"Sixty pitches? Starting is out of the question, then."
"Did you plan on starting from day one? Once more data builds up, we'll gradually raise your pitch limit and fine-tune your mechanics. The limit will go up soon enough — for now, think of it as practice."
It was already the ninth inning. Gwangnam's lineup, facing Kim Yi-seon, was on the verge of losing its mind.
First of all, the coach had already lost all reason, raging that they had to demolish that bastard, while the previous six batters had all gone down on strikes. That's right — the last six hitters hadn't so much as touched the ball.
At this point, I'd almost rather just accept it — a gap in class, plain and simple — and bow out with my dignity intact. The problem was the look on Kim Yi-seon's face.
That bastard had been smirking smugly this whole time. In Kim Yi-seon's own head, it was probably a charismatic smile, but to everyone else it looked like nothing more than a grinning dolt beaming ear to ear.
On top of that, he hadn't thrown a single breaking ball. All four-seamers. It made our blood boil at how thoroughly we were being underestimated, and it made us want to pay him back with one big swing.
And so, with iron resolve to at least scrap together an infield hit, a Gwangnam batter stepped into the box.
Go ahead — keep throwing nothing but fastballs. I'm not so bad that I can't hit a heater even when I know it's coming.
And the ball came flying in.
"STRIKE!!!!"
Huh?
What just happened?
I'd swung at a ball that was clearly flying toward the center of the zone — but what actually arrived was a pitch riding up nearly to my shoulders.
And the speed on the scoreboard:
[147 km/h]
On paper, that was fast — but not impossibly fast. High school aces from lesser programs threw balls like that once in a while.
To be sure, I'd sensed he was a different breed when he cracked 150 in the eighth inning. Still, his average velocity sat in the mid-to-high 140s. For those other pitchers, that was their max — but there were players at other schools who threw in that range too.
And yet, standing in the batter's box, that pitch felt absolutely nothing like the fastballs I knew so well.
It felt faster than the 155 km/h balls I'd only ever experienced off a pitching machine. No — was it just my imagination?
While I was still wrestling with that thought, the second pitch came flying in.
"STRIKE!!!"
This time it was clearly a ball breaking just below the zone — yet it seemed to bury itself dead-center. I never even got the bat out, just stood there dumbstruck.
The radar read 145 this time. Slower, in a hittable spot — and I still couldn't touch it. Was it even actually slower? It felt so fast I couldn't tell the difference.
After seeing two pitches like that, whatever confidence I had left was gone. Swinging on pure prayer — please, just let me get hit by a pitch — I flailed the bat.
Dink.
Huh? I hit it!
I definitely made contact, and yet—
"OUT!"
As if the ball itself carried force that shoved my bat backward, it refused to travel. It just floated up, a lazy infield pop fly.
This was the first ball Gwangnam High had managed to put in play against Kim Yi-seon all game.
Trudging back to the dugout with that vacant expression on his face, the batter had no choice but to tell his next teammate in the lineup exactly what he'd heard from the dugout himself.
"Hey... that guy's fastball rises."
The game against Gwangnam High ended in a routine 7-to-1 victory.
Making my first appearance on the mound with velocity well below what I'd hoped had left me a little uneasy, but the result was three perfect innings. Gwangnam was a weak team, true — but even at my current level, I'd confirmed it was more than enough to get high school hitters out.
My line for the day: three innings, no hits, no walks, eight strikeouts, zero runs. I'd thrown only 32 pitches — well under the 60-pitch cap Dr. Jo had insisted on. Maybe I should enter games earlier next time.
The crowd was cheering my performance to the point of nearly fainting. And then, slipping in under the guise of a post-game interview, came the PR team leader with his camera.
I kept as straight a face as I could manage, fully aware of the lens.
"Kim Yi-seon, a switch pitcher — we were all stunned. Was there a special reason you prepared for this?"
"I'm naturally ambidextrous. I tried throwing with both arms, it seemed to work, so I prepared for it."
"I see. And both arms broke 150 km/h today, the fastest pitches of the game. Any secret behind velocity like that?"
"No particular secret. I just prepared hard, and the ball came out well."
For the rest of the interview, I answered everything as flatly as possible, playing the part of a genius who found it all perfectly natural.
Honestly, I'd always wanted to try this at least once in my life — playing the insufferably smug prodigy. This is secretly a ton of fun.