Even Breaking Balls Have a Spoon Class

As soon as the game against Gwangnam High was over and I'd taken a decent breather, I threw myself straight into breaking ball prep. I couldn't just keep throwing fastballs forever, after all.

It wasn't that I'd never gripped a breaking ball during that month of pitching practice — but with barely enough time to nail down my fastball command, I'd literally done nothing but hold the grip, nothing more.

Going by manga standards, Kim Yi-seon's hand feel was objectively pretty good. Slider or not, easy to learn or not, this was a pitcher who could throw three distinct variations of a single breaking-ball family. Which is probably why I'd made the mistake of assuming picking up new pitches would be easy.

"Ooh, that slider angle looks great! At this rate you could use it in a real game, no question."

In fact, on day one of breaking ball practice, after receiving nothing more than a simple explanation and a few tips, I'd started producing a respectable-looking pitch the very first time I threw a slider.

The one marveling right now was our team's pitching coach. The Director had said it was good to hear from someone experienced, so we'd brought him in.

"At this point it's already half-finished. Once you get the command and the feel down at full effort, it'll be perfect."

See? So I'm a genius too — it's Kang Min-hyuk who's the weird one. It's only fitting for a rival. Maybe I can't throw seven different breaking balls, but one or two should come quickly enough.

Except the next day, when I got serious about studying breaking balls alongside equipment measurements and physical testing, I learned that throwing a pitch that looks pretty doesn't mean a damn thing.

"Are you doing that on purpose? Twisting it, I mean."

"Uh... no?"

"Then start being conscious of it from now on. Feel it out like you're not rotating your wrist at all."

There were plenty of other problems too — my delivery changed so visibly when I threw the slider that you could spot it with the naked eye, and my break angle still wasn't consistent — but those were merely fatal. The biggest problem was the wrist.

"Like I told you when I examined your arm before — you're a pronation type. So when you're throwing something like a slider and you add wrist rotation on top of it, that's dangerous."

The explanation had been long and complicated, but the Director's point boiled down to this: when I threw my slider, I was twisting my wrist at the last moment to manufacture the break.

"Instead, preset your wrist — turn it partway before you throw, then hold that position. When you rotate it mid-delivery like that, the shock doesn't just hit your elbow. It can travel all the way up to your shoulder."

Even the pitching coach, listening beside him, wore the expression of a man hearing something like this for the first time.

"Director? I've heard vaguely similar things before, but never the actual theory. Does that apply to every pitcher?"

"It depends on the case. That boy is pronated to an excessive degree, that's all. For someone who's the opposite — a supination type — adding rotation mid-slider might actually be perfectly natural."

From there it only got worse — pronation this, supination that, the relationship between elbow ligaments and forearm muscles, how impact forces transfer through the chain — an endless flood of medical and physics lectures that I understood maybe half of.

The pitching coach, who'd asked the question, had gone blank-eyed within minutes too. Sure, he'd gone to college, but he came up through a baseball program. How was a ballplayer supposed to follow that?

"So to sum up, Director — you're saying I shouldn't snap my wrist inward when I throw breaking balls?"

"Put simply, yes. Doesn't your elbow feel something right now? Not quite at injury level, but you can feel it, can't you?"

He was right. It wasn't quite a throbbing ache, but a faint sensation was definitely creeping up in there. It was a feeling that had always been present whenever I threw — just to varying degrees — so I'd always brushed it off. Apparently that was an injury warning sign too.

This was something I'd never have known if I hadn't met someone who understood the theory perfectly and could measure everything with precision equipment. Even I only noticed because I was watching myself on high-speed camera — left to my own senses, I had no idea I was twisting my wrist mid-release until after the ball left my hand.

If the Director hadn't been there, I'd have heard nothing but "great arm" and ended up injured from hurling wrist-snapped sliders by the bucketload.

Thinking about it made me furious. Seriously, what is this body even good for? It's a minefield from head to toe. Where's the upside?

So I channeled all that indignation and demanded answers from the Director.

"Then is being a pronation type all downside? No advantages? Nothing like a breaking ball I'd throw especially well?"

"Oh, of course there's an advantage. From what I can see, you're actually blessed."

And so, after trying a few other breaking balls, I caved to his strong recommendation and decided to learn that pitch as my secondary.

Blessed, my ass. I couldn't get the feel for it at all. Once in a while, when it caught the seams just right, a good ball would come out — but that was rare.

"Hey, you little punk! I said you'd learn it faster than other people, not that you could coast on it! There are guys who spend their whole lives trying to master that pitch and never get it. 'Blessed,' he says!"

Then what am I supposed to throw right now, Director? I'm sorry, but out of ten throws maybe four or five catch the grip properly, and the rest come out looking like slow fastballs.

He'd dismissed my slider for having a slightly loose break, but apparently with this one a weak break angle was fine? Why?

With the feel refusing to come, I asked the coach, but he said he'd never thrown that pitch well even in his playing days, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠so he couldn't help me. And outside of Coach, there was no one around to ask.

And so, drifting along in that awkward half-state, a day passed, then two, and the weekend rolled back around — weekend league day.

Today's opponent was Paldal High. The venue, as always, was Eonju Civic Baseball Stadium, our home field.

Being our home ground, the crowd was sizable — over five hundred, by the look of it.

These days it wasn't just the Seoul Twins PR team's camera anymore; I could spot proper video cameras brought in by other people too.

"Yi-seon. What's with you, freezing up like this? It's not like you. Loosen up and get ready to play."

Our manager was looking oddly cheerful.

"Scouts from other clubs are here — did that rattle you? Nothing to be scared of. Even if you're rough today, with the attention you've got, you're going pro no matter what."

"Scouts from other clubs?"

"Hm? You didn't know? And here I thought that was what had you wound up. Besides the usual Twins crowd, a couple of teams — the Wiz, a few others — came to watch you today. A few college programs showed up too, not just the pros."

No wonder there were more cameras than usual. Not paparazzi — scouts.

"Right. If it were scouts, there'd be no reason for me to be this stiff."

"Manager, should I stick to fastballs today too? Honestly, I don't trust the new pitch."

No matter how I looked at it, it still seemed too raw for live use. Compared to the big-league pitchers in my memory, it was an absolute disaster.

The manager just stared at me like I'd lost my mind.

"I watched your practice. You threw it fine. Did you seriously think you'd have a perfect breaking ball four days after starting?"

"Some people do."

"Those people are the weird ones. Aigoo, geniuses, honestly. Stop worrying about nonsense and just go play."

Then he clapped me on the shoulder and added one more thing.

"The way I see it, it's already good enough. And your secondary pitch lives and dies by how strong your four-seam is. Even if it's a little rough, a fastball of your caliber will get the job done."

I took the mound today in the sixth inning, one inning earlier than last time. Kang-cheol hyung had taken a real beating out there. We were down three to five.

I climbed the mound, raised my two-handed glove, and looked at the next batter. Their three-hole hitter. A lefty, so I'd better wear the glove on my right hand.

I gave my left shoulder a light roll, then rubbed rosin into my palm.

A nod to the batter stepping into the box, then eye contact with my catcher, Nam Kang-min — communication of a sort.

Nam Kang-min, who knew full well I'd be throwing nothing but fastballs, wasted no time. The instant I set my stance, he was holding the mitt dead center in the strike zone — no signs, nothing. Like he was telling me to quit stalling.

Still, if I just threw without any ritual, there'd be no mind games. I fake-read a sign with a nod and fired my first pitch.

"Ball!"

Whoa, he's not giving me that one?

I'd buried a high fastball up in the zone, but it was called a ball. That should've earned a strike — apparently today's umpire was stingy up top.

Still, I could see the batter flinch at that pitch. The radar gun read 151. Yeah, that'd spook anyone.

The next pitch followed.

"Strike!"

Trying to stay honest with the zone, the ump had only shaved it down a touch — and the pitch landed nearly dead center. The batter looked pretty sour about that one.

Watching it all, I didn't think much of it — but from behind the plate, Nam Kang-min sent a demand: hammer him. Right down the middle, full force, just like that?

It wasn't like my command was precise enough to be painting corners anyway, so fine — but did we really need to make it a pride contest?

But when I hesitated, Nam Kang-min pushed even harder. All right, all right. Pitchers and hitters do lock horns sometimes. I threw exactly what he asked for.

Crack—!!

"Oww!"

"Foul!"

What the hell was that? A hair more inside and that wasn't a home run, but it was one hop from a triple. The ball sailed over the side wall, foul.

Worried the ball had slipped, I checked the board — 144. A touch slow, but nothing serious.

Had he already caught up to my timing? If so, going to the fastball again felt dicey, and I still wasn't confident in the breaking ball.

While I was mulling it over, Nam Kang-min fired in another aggressive sign. Seriously? The breaking ball?

That easygoing, round-faced lump of a country boy turned into a fireballer the moment a game started — calling a pitcher's game, swinging for the fences, the works. And now he wanted me to just throw it.

‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠

Yeah, if I got rocked throwing to the same spot I'd just been beaten on, my confidence would take a hit. But that last one was a foul, after all.

You know what? I don't know either. Getting hit on a fastball or getting hit on a breaking ball — what's the difference?

The Director said it was ready. The Manager said it was ready. Coach said it was ready. Even if I got tagged, it wouldn't be my fault.

With a strangely light heart, I reseated my grip and threw.

Hm. Felt like it barely caught the seams coming off my fingers, too.

"Stri-i-ke!! Out!!!!"

Huh? That worked?

The Seoul Twins scout, roped into the PR team's project and assigned to watch Wirye Jeil High's games on a regular basis, had grumbled plenty at first.

Now, though, watching a gem of a raw stone sparkle in front of him, he was quietly glad he'd been assigned.

The overall talent across the roster was better than he'd expected. And the brightest talent of them all was the boy on the mound right now — Kim Yi-seon.

He'd converted to pitching not long ago. His repertoire was thin, his command consisted of throwing the ball roughly toward the middle of the plate — but even accounting for all that, the talent poured off him.

So the scout had been thinking about nothing more than how this raw stone ought to be polished, and at what draft slot they'd need to take him —

"Stri-i-ke!! Out!!!"

The Paldal hitter flinched mid-swing and checked the bat. The pitch, though, had been squarely in the zone.

For a moment, the scout doubted his own eyes.

Because to his eye, the ball had visibly paused somewhere on its way to the plate.

So he turned and asked the PR team's cameraman beside him.

"That last pitch. That was a changeup, right?"

"Yes, sir. Want me to pull up the footage?"

He nodded wordlessly, and they slowly rewound the mound footage in slow motion.

Unmistakable — from the grip to the movement of the ball, a textbook circle changeup.

Raw stone? What raw stone? A circle changeup, mastered in a single week — what kind of raw stone does that?

It still looked a little rough, but that didn't matter. When a fastball like that comes screaming in, what does a hitter do when a changeup shows up once in a blue moon? Sit on the changeup and hand over the count on fastballs?

The scout felt a wave of absurdity wash over him, followed by hollow disbelief. This was no ordinary monster.

"Yes, Team Leader. It's me."

He'd marched straight back to the club and blown through every reporting procedure to call the head of the scouting department directly.

That's right. The breaking ball the Director had pronounced easy for a pronation type was the circle changeup. The pitch he'd called a blessing — the ideal offspeed weapon for a pitcher with a powerful four-seam.

Of course I'd accepted the logic. Anyone who'd watched even a little baseball knows how devastating a hard fastball plus changeup combo is.

But it's a genuinely difficult pitch, there's nobody around ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠to teach it, and when exactly am I supposed to learn it? It's the middle of the season. I have to keep pitching in games.

The Director insisted that someone like me would pick it up fast, that real games were the best practice, and told me to throw it aggressively. But from where I stood, my proficiency was absurdly low.

"Isn't the changeup supposed to be a pitch for opposite-handed hitters anyway? I only ever face same-handed batters. Maybe I should've just practiced the slider."

"No, you dummy. The point of a changeup isn't the movement. Don't you get how incredible it is to throw a breaking ball with the exact same delivery and arm swing as your four-seam?"

"I get it. But before we get to that point, there has to be some movement. Right now, if I'm lucky, it's hittable as a fastball."

"Considering your fastball, this is plenty. Looking at the changeup in isolation, sure, it seems mediocre. What matters is how it plays off your heater."

He went on to say that while it was still rough, it was more than enough for live high school baseball, and to just throw it with confidence — but how was I supposed to believe that?

The vertical drop was kind of bland, the velocity came out a good ten or so km/h slower than my fastball — would that even fool anyone? Off my gun reading, that's ordinary high school pitcher velocity. I figured I'd be the one getting teed off on.

Yet against every one of my doubts, it was working beautifully.

"Out!"

Another changeup, another strikeout, and the inning was over. I'd just finished eight innings.

Throwing at roughly an eight-to-two fastball-to-changeup ratio, every single changeup produced either a whiff or a batter frozen watching it.

No, seriously — why? Why is this garbage pitch working?

"That's because hitters are people, not machines."

I'd come back to the dugout after closing out the inning and was asking the team exactly that when the manager sidled up.

"Frankly? When you throw a fastball like that, you could lob an Arirang ball or a slow curve up there and it'd still get a piece of them."

"Come on, the polish on this thing is terrible. It's really that effective?"

The manager just chuckled and answered.

"Nine out of ten guys who throw great breaking balls in high school get tagged 'unusable' the moment they go pro. So there's no point measuring your polish against the pros. High school is where you learn by doing — not where you're supposed to be perfect from day one."

Huh. When you put it that way...

"Even pros need half a season at minimum — sometimes years — to truly add a new pitch. If you could bolt on breaking balls overnight, that wouldn't make you a genius. It'd make you an alien."

"Kang Min-hyuk does it."

"That one actually is an alien."

...Fair. Watching that kid's delivery, alien is honestly the right word for it.

Top of the ninth. Two outs.

While Paldal had been slamming shut the door on their own scoring, Jeil High had piled on four more runs — the score had already flipped to seven-five, our lead.

Playing on the road, if they didn't score now, the game was simply over.

With one out remaining between them and defeat, the batter stepping to the plate was Paldal's three-hole hitter — the same man who'd faced Kim Yi-seon first.

His hitting ability ranked among the team's top three, and everyone on the bench believed in him. As luck would have it, he'd singled this inning, putting a runner on second.

A home run here reset the game to zero. Even a well-placed hit would keep the rally's embers alive.

He steeled himself and met Kim Yi-seon's eyes.

In that first at-bat, he'd panicked and struck out. But now he knew. The hidden weapon that boy had been holding back — the changeup.

If he stayed conscious of Kim Yi-seon's monster four-seam, he could never, ever swing at the changeup. But if he sat only on the four-seam? That was a pitch almost impossible to hit even when you did look for it.

Which left one answer: abandon the fastball entirely. Sit on the changeup and nothing else.

Go ahead and throw it. Your changeup itself is an easy pitch to hit.

Kim Yi-seon's delivery moved with an almost lazy fluidity, like a man gently pushing the ball out of his hand.

"Stri-i-ke!"

The first pitch came in high and was called a strike.

He'd let it go on purpose. The changeup is a dropping pitch — Kim Yi-seon would bury it low. If that course had been a changeup, it would have landed smack in the heart of the zone.

Maybe it had simply gotten away from him — but the batter respected Kim Yi-seon's skill too much to believe that, and held his swing. The right call. It was the truth.

He scrubbed that blazing fastball from his mind as best he could and kept his timing intact. Today Kim Yi-seon had thrown eight changeups, all sitting in the roughly 130s — comparable to the high school pitchers he faced every week.

The second pitch came in — this time on a course that would be dead center if it were a fastball.

This one's the changeup. It'll fall — bottom of the zone. Time it perfectly and swing!

"Stri-i-ke!!"

Fastball. It buried itself dead center.

That's the cruel irony of playing the guessing game from the batter's box.

The count had snowballed against him, but there was nothing to be done. He'd known the odds when he chose this fight. If anything, this was better — with no balls and two strikes, surely the pitcher would toss a waste pitch or two?

By the book, the next pitch would almost certainly be the breaking ball. Total focus, all the way to the end.

And Kim Yi-seon's next pitch came in—

There it is! Dropping slightly low. A changeup that starts in the zone and dives out of it!

Certainty flooded him. He trusted his uppercut swing above all else. Coil every ounce of power into his body, unwind the twist, and go—!

"Stri-i-ke!!! Out! Ballgame!"

It was just a fastball.

"...Damn it. He didn't throw a single damn breaking ball."

Paldal High had lost.

Unlike yesterday's outing, I'd given up two hits today. Still, the result itself was good. Four innings, six strikeouts, no walks, two hits, zero runs. That's a respectable day's work, no?

Honestly, the weird one was the Gwangnam game. Thirty-two straight fastballs, zero breaking balls, and those guys couldn't manage a single hit off it? Who does that?

I was resting with ice on my shoulder when Ha Kyung-woo wandered over and struck up a conversation.

"You threw three straight fastballs to that last guy. He'd almost caught up to your fastball timing the at-bat before — why no changeup there? It would've worked, wouldn't it?"

The reason, huh...

"Just because."

"Just because?"

"Yeah. Just didn't feel like throwing it."

I mean, even if it was getting the job done, that pitch was still too embarrassing to show strangers. Needed more practice first.

At my answer, Ha Kyung-woo looked at me like I was some kind of weirdo. Some solidarity between pitchers would be nice, honestly.