The Rigged Stadium (1)

Vacation had already begun, and Wirye Jeil High stood empty. But the baseball clubroom tucked away in one corner of it stayed packed even during break—especially today, the day the team members returned from finishing their Round of 128 match.

"Yo! I'm back! Everybody been doing all right?"

That meant Kang Min-hyuk and I were back to training as of today too. The timing couldn't have been better—the moment we heard the team had returned from their game, we bolted straight over. And so I kicked open the flimsy door particular to these container-box clubrooms, only to find...

"Cho Sang-bin! Thinking about it just pisses me off. What were you supposed to do if you'd dropped that ball, huh? Anyone could see it was headed your way!"

"It landed in right field's range, so how is it MY ball? It wasn't even ruled a wild pitch!"

"God, I'm losing my mind. Il-sung! Dae-hyun! That grounder—that was the center fielder's ball, not the right fielder's, right?"

Why the hell are these guys fighting?

Okay, sure, I'd spent the entire vacation with my brain switched off at Min-ah's place, but I'd at least checked how our team's games went. Round of 256, Round of 128—going by the records alone, they'd won cleanly, hadn't they?

I shook Jun-soo, who was slumped over beside me, snapped him back to his senses, and asked what on earth was going on.

"Hey. Why are they fighting? Didn't we win the game without any drama?"

"Sunbae... I'm only ever playing in normal stadiums from now on..."

Jun-soo looked like a war veteran with fresh PTSD. Dude, your stat line says you only gave up one run today, you know? You pitched three solid innings.

"What on earth happened that you're all still at each other's throats?"

Both games had required some serious travel, admittedly. The Round of 256 opponent was Hyesan Forestry High, an amateur baseball club, and the Round of 128 opponent was Mokpo Marine High, which had finished dead last in the Jeonnam region.

They'd traveled from one end of Korea to the other, so I could understand the stress and exhaustion. Just riding a bus that far wipes you out—and they'd played games on top of it. But the scene in front of me wasn't just simple tiredness, was it?

Guys still bickering over the actual game content, a guy wearing a thoroughly displeased face as he argued about something, and one weirdo who looked angry but somehow a little pleased with himself. Just as I was voicing my confusion about the mood, the coach sidled up to me.

"The stadiums were a bit... unusual. Cut them some slack—you didn't play."

"The stadium? Was there something wrong with the dimensions? Which school was it that everyone was complaining had foul poles barely 90 meters out?"

It's not like home runs were raining down at some absurd rate for high schoolers, so I couldn't fathom why the kids were this rattled. The scores were fine too—10-3 in the Round of 256, 11-6 in the Round of 128. For games without me and Kang Min-hyuk, that was pretty smooth sailing.

"No, the dimensions were perfectly fine. Honestly, the field maintenance was better than what we get at Eonju Civic."

"Then what was the problem?"

"The location."

Location? What kind of problem could a location cause?

"The stadium Hyesan Forestry High uses—it's not on flat ground, it's built on a hill. As if the area weren't already a high plateau, they went and put a baseball field on a hill on top of that."

The coach answered quietly, and my brain briefly blue-screened at the reply.

"...You're telling me high schoolers played baseball up there?"

More importantly, why does a stadium like that even exist in Korea?

"They at least had the decency to hand out plenty of oxygen tanks. Even so, the kids were in rough shape."

"That's not the point, though!"

If I ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠recall correctly, the Kaema Plateau sits at an average elevation of around 1,200 meters. Hyesan, sitting practically at the foot of Mount Paektu, would be even higher. If even that region has a hill somewhere, it might give Coors Field in the States a run for its money.

This world is genuinely baseball-crazy. They went and built a regulation baseball field in a place like that, twisting their own arms to make it happen.

"Right. Fine, I understand the Round of 256. Playing up there, even a win would put you in a foul mood. But that was five days ago! What was Mokpo Marine's stadium like that the kids are THIS shaken?"

"Well, about that... You couldn't tell from the map alone, but when we got there, the stadium was—no exaggeration—literally pressed right up against the sea."

"Okay, but Oracle Park exists in the US, and Fighters Field exists here in Korea. Waterfront ballparks aren't exactly a problem."

"The problem was that the hitters stood with the ocean at their backs in perfect position—and the fence in front of them was only three meters tall."

"WHO designed that?! What kind of lunatic?!"

Seriously, what kind of lunatic? Did they know it was a baseball stadium when they drew it up?

"Who knows. Anyway, that's why our pitchers kept getting lit up, the hitters couldn't judge fly balls to save their lives, and the errors piled up sky-high. Everyone had a rough couple of games, is what I'm saying."

He said it matter-of-factly, but I was only now starting to grasp what kind of stadium hell had unfolded. No wonder it had felt strange lately—our kids' bats had come alive to the tune of ten-plus RBIs two games running, and the opponents had put up big scores too.

My gratitude for being granted rest and cycled out of the starting rotation ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠was blossoming by the second. So THAT'S why Gang-cheol was the most broken of all—I'd wondered why he was lying collapsed in the middle of the practice field.

Even a perfectly sound pitcher would lose his mind pitching two games in stadiums like those. That little chick keeping his composure and throwing properly is nothing short of a miracle.

"So who's our next opponent?"

If we won our way into the Round of 64, then surely all of that was just a bad episode. Time to prepare properly for the next one.

"Ah, right. They just contacted us, and I was about to announce it. All right, everyone, listen up!"

At the coach's shout, the dead eyes around the room finally showed a flicker of life.

"Our Round of 64 opponent has just been decided! Two days from now, we face the Wonsan Saedaebugo High baseball team! They're famous as the powerhouse of the Hamgyongnam-do region, so no one gets complacent—prepare calmly and thoroughly!"

Hold on. Where did you say our opponent was from?

"Once again we're headed on the road, but finishing both halves of the season in first place is the weight of the crown our Jeil High must bear. And here's the good news: Wonsan Saedaebugo plays their home games in an actual domed stadium.

I hear it's practically brand new, only a few years old. A dome means no more of the outside interference we've suffered lately. Wouldn't you say so?"

At the name Wonsan Saedaebugo, a few scenes from the manga began to surface in my memory.

Three rigged stadiums in a ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠row in this tournament is making my head spin...

Wonsan has no professional club, but it does have a high school that is nothing less than the pride of the city itself—beyond even Wonsan baseball.

Wonsan Saedaebugo High.

The school's tradition stretches all the way back to Wonsan Haksa, the first modern school established in the waning years of the Joseon Dynasty, and it stands as the very symbol of the region. So deep is that loyalty that plenty of locals who support no particular pro team will still root for Wonsan Saedaebugo.

And at this very moment, the school's head coach, Lee Hak-ryang, was deep in quiet anguish.

"Pitching coach. Which one of them is the tougher matchup for our team?"

"That'd be that Kim Yi-seon fella, wouldn't it, Coach? When I watch him throw, it fair gives me the shivers."

Their Round of 64 opponent in the Bonghwangdae was the school on everyone's lips lately: Wirye Jeil High. Having burst onto the scene so suddenly this year, they were short on data—little intel on the returning third-years and nothing on the opposing coach's tendencies—leaving precious little to analyze. But their strength was unmistakable: the pitching staff.

The one-two punch of Kim Yi-seon and Kang Min-hyuk anchored Wirye Jeil High so solidly that no exploitable weakness presented itself at all.

"They'll have rested up good, so their arms will be plenty fresh. Truly a difficult draw."

Those two hadn't so much as appeared in the dugout since the final game of the weekend league, let alone played. For Kang Min-hyuk, that was only natural given his academic ineligibility suspension—but hadn't Kim Yi-seon been playing, too?

When pressed by the press, Wirye Jeil High's Coach Choi had explained: "We gave them rest in consideration of the schedule so far." And the duo's long-awaited first appearance had, of all things, been scheduled to begin with the Round of 64 matchup against his own team.

"I wish they'd rested right up until someone else's game. This is a real headache, Pitching Coach. And Kang Min-hyuk won't be any easier, surely?"

True to form, the pitching coach shook his head.

A few insiders liked to leave baseless nonsense behind—claims that Kim Yi-seon and Kang Min-hyuk were just frogs in a well whose true colors would show once they faced a properly competitive team. But Coach Lee Hak-ryang indulged in no such wishful optimism.

His job security dangled over the guillotine at all times; there was no room for happy delusions.

In the Wonsan baseball world, Saedaebugo graduates were the settled aristocracy, Wonsan University alumni the royal bloodline, and outsiders like himself perpetual commoners. Coach Lee Hak-ryang was not so foolish as to chase happy fantasies from a precarious seat instead of producing results.

"Hitting Coach. In the end, there's only one way, isn't there."

"Yes. If Kim Yi-seon were some unorthodox stylist, maybe—but he's a fundamentally sound pitcher with genuinely good stuff. Any gimmicky tricks would only backfire. Play them the way we always do, in the manner that suits our environment."

Like Lee himself, the hitting coach was an outsider from another region—and he was walking his own tightrope. The methodology he had transplanted into Saedaebugo in the pursuit of victory alone had apparently not ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠gone over well with the local baseball old guard.

It didn't matter. Even if they played in perfect harmony with the locals' baseball philosophy, the insular local sentiment would never look kindly on them anyway. So long as a method produced wins, he wouldn't discriminate.

"Passive tactics? Already shrinking at the Round of 64, and how do you expect to climb any higher?"

"This isn't the weekend league anymore—it's a knockout tournament. In a short series, the side that scrapes out runs wins."

The pitching coach—a Saedaebugo graduate and true local aristocracy, unlike himself. Unsurprisingly, he clearly despised this style of baseball, but under the greater cause of victory he swallowed his distaste and went along.

"Very well. We'll settle the Kim Yi-seon countermeasures at that. Next—let's review the pitching rotation for tomorrow's game."

The day of the Bonghwangdae Round of 64. Cha Il-sung, having laid eyes on the field the moment we arrived at the stadium, wore the expression of a man one step away from losing his mind entirely.

"Kim Yi-seon. Tell me the numbers on that fence aren't in meters. Please."

"And what, they're in yards?"

If numbers are painted on a ballpark fence in Korea, they're in meters. Obviously.

105 meters down the left and right foul lines. 134 meters to the center fence. 126 meters in the power alleys.

Bigger than Jamsil from my past life—bigger even than the old Yankee Stadium.

The mere thought of defending that vast expanse of grass seemed to be driving Cha Il-sung out of his skull; he wore the face of a man dying of sheer indignation.

"Come on, this is insane. Who uses a stadium like this for high school games?"

I know, right?

Wonsan Dome. In the manga it had been a setting glossed over without much fuss, but thinking about it now, it stood as a monument to populism and brainless public works spending.

This was the home ground of Wonsan Saedaebugo, our opponent this round.

Saedaebugo is popular, admittedly. Even now, looking at the stands, half of the 25,000 seats I'd heard the stadium held were filled. Facing Wirye Jeil High—the hottest ticket in high school ball these days—in the most popular event on the calendar, the Bonghwangdae, that's still serious drawing power.

But no one builds a stadium like this intending it as a high school home field. Naturally, the story goes that it was originally constructed to lure a professional club. The problem: with no franchise confirmed, the mayor went ahead and built the stadium first, and it turned into a white elephant.

Befitting its original pro-club purpose, the initial design called for over 40,000 seats—but with only high schools, universities, and corporate teams cycling through it, who was going to fill 40,000 seats? They revised the design before completion and slashed the seating.

"Man, how much spare space does this place have that the bullpen is THIS big?"

Since I was slated to start today, I'd come in to loosen up my shoulder—and the bullpen felt a good two times larger than the one at Eonju Civic.

Apparently they'd initially covered the space reclaimed from cutting 40,000 seats down to 25,000 by making everything bigger. A sprawling bullpen, luxurious locker rooms, roomy dugouts, plus seminar rooms and multipurpose spaces stuffed throughout the stadium.

But even then, the area equal to 15,000 seats was far too much to use up. So they'd supposedly turned nearly all the surplus space into field. The result: that absurdly deep outfield, and the distant fence that had us all wondering if any ball could actually clear it.

"Coach. The more I think about it, the more I say this rulebook is broken. Soccer and basketball have maximum dimensions locked down—what kind of pseudo-sport only sets minimums?"

"What can you do? If it bothers you that much, quit baseball."

The coach tapped his catcher's mitt, brushing me off and wordlessly telling me to get back to throwing. If I ever became the MLB commissioner or some other baseball bigwig, the first regulation I'd write is a maximum outfield dimension. How is it acceptable that the only existing rule is a 'recommendation'?

Anyway, Wonsan Saedaebugo—with its distinctive ballpark and passionate fanbase—appears in the manga as a school with real character.

The role of an artificial, entry-level opponent designed to scream 'THIS is the national tournament!'? They also show up as the Cheongyonggi opponent in the second-year arc and the Bonghwangdae opponent in the third-year arc—a supporting team with a fair amount of screen time. And true to that, they come loaded with plenty of distinctive traits.

Look at them even now.

Lately, whenever I started loosening up in the bullpen before a game, my fangirls would shriek themselves hoarse—so cute! so handsome!—the whole nine yards. Some even showed up with telephoto cameras trying to snap pictures of me.

But right now, buried under the ominous bellowing of a school anthem sung by more than ten thousand grown men, not one of those cheers reached my ears. The telephoto camera guys? The atmosphere around them had turned so hostile that none of them could even get close.

"Coach. Be honest with me. You said some choice words to the operations committee, didn't you?"

Because there's no way in hell we'd get assigned three rigged stadiums in a row otherwise.

"It was a pure random draw, I'm telling you. I'm losing my mind over how unfair it is myself."

After what happened the last two games, the coach had actually gone out to scout the venue this time. And when he'd seen what this opponent's stadium looked like, he'd apparently hopped around in a fury. Getting three miserable stadium road trips in a row—I can't blame him.

"Anyway, today I'm putting everything on you and you alone. You understand how I feel, right?"

"Coach. Have you been coasting on game management lately, just leaning on me and Kang Min-hyuk?"

Where's the man who managed that brutally tight game in the Round of 32 of last year's Bonghwangdae?

"If I got you and Kang Min-hyuk an extra week of rest, that IS season management, isn't it? That's what coaching competence looks like. Honestly, this is a masterclass in player rotation."

The coach declared it with his chest puffed out. Fine. We did punch through to the Round of 64, so I'll give you that much.