Phoenix Flag Finals (1)

'Once this final is over, there's a place I'd like you to come with me. Ah, it's not far. My father's burial plot.'

'I hated to admit it all this time, but I admit it now. You're Min-ah's boyfriend, aren't you? The least I can do is pay my respects.'

'I think I've been afraid without even realizing it. Afraid that, talent or no talent, I might never deserve to stand on this stage. Thank you. It's all thanks to you.'

I should have shoved a sock in Kang Min-hyuk's mouth back when he said all that.

Inside the bus bound for the stadium, the air was thick with tension — but not the crushing, fatalistic kind that ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠comes with a sensed defeat. It was the good kind, crackling with excitement.

Except I was the only one squirming, unable to shake off this vague, creeping unease.

How does someone pick out only the most delicious defeat flags and spit them out like that? Honestly, that's a talent of its own. Could you believe every single one of those lines came out during a brief chat just last night?

"Once we get to the stadium, should we take a group photo?"

"Noona. That one is genuinely not okay, so please sit still."

Seo-hee noona had followed us all the way to the bus, saying she wanted to film the "important moment" herself, and now she was practically bursting at the seams to stack even more flags. By the time I barely managed to talk her down, I felt even less steady than before.

And it wasn't just her. It was like the whole team had been possessed by the spirit of defeat — everywhere I looked, someone was piling up flags.

"I've been feeling great since this morning. I really think I can show everyone something different today."

"I never thought... I'd actually get to play at Dongdaemun..."

"What's that? Oh, a talisman your mom gave you for good luck today? Toss one over here too."

You absolute lunatics, cut it out already.

Just as I was seriously debating taping everyone's mouths shut — a whole roster of idiots desperate to stack defeat flags —

"Alright, we're here! Everybody off!"

At the coach's shout, the chatter cut off mid-sentence.

One by one, we filed off the bus, and sounds of awe began to ripple through the team.

Then my turn came. I stepped off the bus, looked ahead — and heard myself let out the same dumbfounded gasp.

A colossal wall of fans lined both sides of the road from the bus all the way to the stadium entrance. Beyond the cheering banners, every time a player stepped down, they blasted a chant through megaphones and roared their support.

So that's why the guys ahead of me were all standing there dazed and awestruck.

Walking a gauntlet of human barricades, the cheers poured in from every direction.

"He's gorgeous!"

"Think he'll pitch today too? If he does, I'm betting big!"

Not the usual shrill, ear-piercing tones this time, but the rougher, gravelly voices of middle-aged men. Glancing around, the women were still plentiful — but I could feel it in my bones that people of every age and walk of life had come out to cheer for us today.

And at the end of that road stood the stadium itself.

Dongdaemun Baseball Stadium. The living history of Korean baseball, and holy ground for amateur ball.

I saw the far more massive Jamsil Dome on a daily basis, but the sheer presence of Dongdaemun operated on a different level entirely. It felt as if the decades and the tradition themselves were speaking to me.

Something caught in my throat.

Yeah. Defeat flags and all that nonsense — those things live in manga. Nobody stacks them in real life.

Everyone's going to do fine. Look how far I dragged us here, after all.

Before entering, I turned around one last time and waved big to the fans, then headed straight for the dugout.

"Coach. Are you really sure about this, no adjustments to the batting order at all?"

"And what exactly did you hear from me yesterday? I said cute little tricks are what lose you ballgames, didn't I?"

Daegu High's batting coach, rattled by the pressure of the big stage, couldn't help himself and threw the question at Manager Lee Man-sik.

"But today's starter is a left-handed sidearmer. Our top two in the order are both right-handed pitchers who bat left..."

"Just watch. Waerie — those boys don't know how to sit still."

And with that, Manager Lee Man-sik ambled over to his players as if it were nothing at all.

"Jae-min, Su-bin. You boys confident today?"

"Yes sir, confident as can be, sir!!"

"That'll do."

Manager Lee shot the batting coach a look — you see that? Frustrated, the coach had no choice but to swallow his objection.

"Alright, everybody up! Come take a look at this ballpark!"

Clapping to draw their attention and break the tension, Manager Lee Man-sik pointed a thick finger out past the field, toward the stands.

Dongdaemun Baseball Stadium, with a capacity of nearly thirty thousand, was packed to the rafters. And a considerable share of that crowd was Wirye Jeil High's cheering section. Their chants were the louder, too.

But even amid all that, one section held a dense, sizable block of Daegu High supporters.

Over the speakers rang a beloved regional folk song, the kind used even at professional games to rally a hometown crowd. Short, punchy chants with thick regional accents rose up between verses.

"Y'all see them folks over there? Them's yer uncles who came up to Seoul and been grindin' it out ever since, hopped on a bus and a train and rode all this way 'cause they heard their Daegu boy made the finals. And them's yer aunts and cousins livin' here in Seoul, the ones who used to come round every holiday to play with ya."

Not literally everyone, of course — but that's what high school baseball is. Back when the country was still scraping by, if somebody from your neighborhood made the finals of a big tournament, the whole town would turn out, relations removed to the fourth degree and all, to cheer him on.

The times have changed and most of that has faded away. But what remains of it — that's romance, plain and simple.

"Them girls over yonder are cheerin' their hearts out, and we gonna let ourselves be embarrassed like this?"

"NO SIR!!"

"Then get out there and do it proper. I ain't tellin' ya to win. Just don't go embarrassin' yerselves in front of yer own people. Dismissed!"

"YES SIR!"

Daegu High's players poured out of the dugout to prepare for the game.

Manager Lee Man-sik turned his head and gave the batting coach one long look.

"You see that? That's high school baseball."

The game would begin with Daegu High batting. Coach Choi Sang-ho had decided to burn every card he'd been saving for today.

"Jun-soo. You don't need to be great out there today. Just be your usual self."

"No sir! This is going to be the best I've ever thrown in my life!"

Jun-soo answered brightly and marched to the mound. The first move of Coach Choi Sang-ho's game: the Seo Jun-soo opener.

A left-handed cross-fire sidearmer. When a pitcher with that extreme a style comes out of the gate, ordinary batters simply can't adjust. And Daegu High in particular runs a heavy lineup of left-handed hitters.

Only three lefties in the lineup on paper — but all three anchor the heart of the order: the one, two, and five-hole hitters. Seo Jun-soo's matchup was worth plenty.

Daegu High's leadoff hitter was a textbook right-handed pitcher, left-handed batter contact specialist — the type who prioritizes putting the ball in play over hunting for extra bases.

And against a hitter like that, Seo Jun-soo's two-seamer and slider were nothing short of a nightmare.

"Str-rike!"

It was, quite simply, torture incarnate.

The cross-fire delivery's signature deception made his timing nearly impossible to pick up. Even when you did catch his timing, you had no idea whether the ball would run left or right. And even if you managed all that and swung — the ball dropped harder than expected, and you rolled over into an easy out.

Just like that.

Coach Choi Sang-ho was savoring the feeling of a game unfolding exactly on schedule from the very first pitch.

The first inning vanished in an instant, and the game rolled into the second.

Daegu High's batters, flustered by a pitcher type they'd never seen before, came to their senses only to find they'd already been retired in order — three up, three down, barely having laid eyes on the ball.

On the defensive side, Daegu High's ace Kim Joong-hwan ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠answered in kind, carving up the inning with a clean, efficient frame of his own — another three-and-out.

But the game was still young. Every player on that field was brimming with confidence and fighting spirit.

Daegu High's cleanup hitter, Yoon Si-jin, was no exception. Walking to the plate, he deliberately wiped all his scouting notes on Seo Jun-soo from his mind.

Against a pitcher that unusual, half-digested information only bred confusion. He'd decided to simply watch the ball and swing free and easy.

If he got his bat on one, he had every confidence he could drive it a long, long way.

So after that bizarre windup, the first pitch came flying in.

"Foul!"

He'd gotten careless contact on a fastball. It sounded absurd to say you'd mishit a fastball — but when the pitcher on the mound was built like this one, the concept made sense.

Ordinarily that would have thrown him into disarray. He brushed it off. Like the manager said — you don't do anything embarrassing.

The next pitch:

"Ball!"

A slider that broke far more than it should have. The opposing pitcher clearly felt he'd been baited into a bad spot, and his face showed the regret.

Count 1-1. The moment when the mind games between pitcher and hitter were most evenly balanced ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠— and the chess match got complicated.

He wasn't a professional catcher, but even he could see the opposing catcher chiming in with unusual assertiveness while the pitcher hesitated over something. The sign conversation dragged on. Usually, in these situations, the pitcher's preference carried the day.

So — what pitch would the pitcher be wanting here?

Psychological warfare wasn't exactly his forte. He had no idea.

But one thing was certain.

CRACK!!!

The certain thing was — for some reason, he just knew he could hit it.

In the second inning, Jun-soo got roughed up worse than anyone expected. Four hits allowed, two runs surrendered in total.

I wondered if it was time to pull him when the hits started piling up, but the manager watched the game in complete serenity, without a flicker of agitation.

And when Jun-soo finally clawed his way out of the inning, the manager greeted him warmly, then turned straight to the rest of the team.

"Good. Everything's going exactly according to plan. You all remember — Jun-soo's job was only ever to get through one trip through the order, right? From the next inning on, it's Min-hyuk's turn, just like we prepared. Min-hyuk, go get your arm loose."

"Yes, Coach."

He handed off the situation as naturally as breathing, underscoring that every move was the pre-scripted sequence. Telling Kang Min-hyuk — who had no at-bats coming this inning — to go warm up his shoulder.

With that instruction delivered, the manager settled back into his seat with a bored expression and resumed spectating.

I carefully took the seat beside him and settled in to watch the game myself.

Meanwhile, out there, Cha Il-sung was marching up as leadoff hitter and getting straight-up clowned. Seriously, does that idiot's IQ drop every time he sees an off-speed pitch?

"Yi-seon. Something got you nervous?"

"Sorry?"

"Just be your usual self. Usual. Because your usual self would be going, 'Honestly, Coach, Jun-soo's getting lit up out there — why didn't you pull him? Just bring in Kang Min-hyuk already.' What's the matter, worried it'll jinx things if you say it out loud?"

He got me. Because honestly, those were exactly the thoughts running through my head.

"Good grief. Your total obliviousness is usually your most charming quality, but when you go sulking around like that when it doesn't suit you, it drags the whole team's mood down with you. Bad dream last night? Superstitious about jinxes now, are we?"

How on earth does he know these things.

"Know? Boy, I've watched you long enough — you're an open book. It's not some amazing talent that lets Ye-eun or Min-ah read your mind off your face alone. It's all right there on display."

The manager said it with a chuckle.

"And I wasn't sugarcoating anything — this really is all going to plan. Two runs? Sure, that's a lot on a stage this big, but Jun-soo's hardly the type to get rattled over giving up a couple. I trusted him to get through two innings, and he did."

He added a grumble about how he'd never understand why the kid turns into a pumpkin the moment the sixth inning rolls around.

"So do your usual oblivious self a favor and sit there running your mouth about nothing while you wait. Your friends out there aren't weak enough to fail at scratching back two measly runs."

And when I turned my eyes back to the field, there was another of our batters making an out.

We are winning this, right, Coach?

Daegu High, riding the momentum of their two-run second inning, suddenly found the atmosphere turned to ice water on them.

The reason stood atop the mound: that alien.

Seo Jun-soo had been unusual, but Kang Min-hyuk operated on a whole different level. Worse, just when every batter had finally taken one turn against a lefty sidearmer, a right-handed underhand pitcher strolled out of the bullpen — it was enough to drive them mad.

Thanks to that, Daegu High had been blanked without a single run for three straight innings, through the fifth. Even now, with two outs, he was sealing the inning shut flawlessly.

No wonder the guy posted a sub-zero ERA in weekend league and hadn't surrendered a run in the entire Phoenix Flag tournament. Watching him on TV or video and facing him in the batter's box were two entirely different experiences.

Daegu High hadn't climbed this far on Kim Joong-hwan's back alone — but every game Kim Joong-hwan started, Kim Joong-hwan had won on his own arm. That was the power of a projected first overall draft pick.

"Heard them punks threw a perfect game and all that. Maybe I'll throw one too."

"Have you lost your mind? We kept our mouths shut on purpose so it wouldn't get in your head — and now you're saying it yourself?"

Kim Joong-hwan had been perfect through five innings. Everyone on the team had been half-aware of it, tiptoeing around the topic — and here he was, declaring the record out of his own mouth, bold as brass.

"If a record breaks just because you talked about it, it was never going to happen in the first place. Just you watch. Those second-years calling themselves aces? A year too early for that title. Next year, maybe. I'm gonna go up there and teach 'em the difference myself."

The final batter of the inning went down, the signal for the switch of offense and defense sounded, and Kim Joong-hwan began his methodical preparation. Heading into the bottom of the sixth, his pitch count stood at 81.

A touch high for a perfect game in progress — though that was only because his basis of comparison was freaks like Kim Yi-seon and Kang Min-hyuk. For any ordinary standard, 81 through six was perfectly respectable.

He took the mound to face the first batter of the inning. Having been perfect all game long, it was the seven-hole hitter waiting for him.

The first pitch came in easy and confident.

"Str-rike!"

He'd thrown a lot of pitches and was starting to feel the fatigue, but the ball still outran most high school hitters with ease. And the location — tucked hard in on the hands — painted the corner to perfection.

The next pitch:

"Str-rike!!"

The batter had half-cocked his bat before folding back into his stance — and the ball still speared the strike zone with ruthless precision.

This was why they called him a first-overall talent: a fastball topping out at 153 km/h, paired with a high-velocity slider at up to 142 km/h that he could dot anywhere he pleased.

Next to Kim Yi-seon — a second-year already touching 155 from the left side — his star had dimmed somewhat, but on its own merits this was towering talent. He hadn't drawn massive headlines yet, but word of major league contract offers had been trickling in quietly all the same.

Kim Joong-hwan had no intention whatsoever of stepping down from the throne of high school's strongest ace. It wasn't jealousy, exactly, nor contempt — nothing so ugly. Just the competitive pride every pitcher carries. The pride of a man unwilling to hand his seat to juniors a full year younger.

And so, for this pitch too, he committed everything. Pitch three.

CRACK!

"Foul!"

Huh?

The location had been good, and he'd coaxed exactly the swing he wanted. The radar gun read 150. Considering he was on his eighty-fourth pitch of the day, that was seriously impressive velocity.

So how — how had a batter who couldn't even summon a swing against him last time around suddenly stayed with his fastball? How?

A sliver of doubt crept in, and this time he reached for the slider.

His pride wanted to go back to the four-seamer, but this was far too big a stage for a pissing contest. He chose the optimal pitch.

Pitch four:

CRACK!

"Foul!"

Again?

And this was the second move Coach Choi Sang-ho had prepared.

Amusingly, Daegu High and Wirye Jeil High shared a striking similarity: a heavy dependence on their ace in pitching management. Granted, a storied program like theirs wasn't short on arms in the bullpen — but there was no one they truly trusted to carry a game.

Their strategy was simple: let their high school ace, Kim Joong-hwan, bulldoze his way through.

Which raised the question — why should Wirye Jeil High be the only team whose ace gets hunted?

"First time swinging a bat in a while, boys. So — how's it look? No adjustment issues?"

"You bet, Coach! Still turning over nice and smooth!"

"That's because it's lighter now. Obviously."

So we decided to do it too. Hunt the ace.

Word was everyone who relied on those cheap little tricks had lost, right? That's because their opponents happened to be Kim Yi-seon and Kang Min-hyuk.

Coach Choi Sang-ho had absolute, unwavering faith in his own disciples. Kim Joong-hwan or whoever — who did that kid think he was going to outlast?