The Phoenix Flag Final (2)

In the end, Kim Joong-hwan was forced to throw his 103rd pitch in the sixth inning. Factor in the fluke single that slipped through, and the math was unavoidable — someone else would have to take the mound from the seventh on.

The top of the seventh saw Daegu High's offense stuffed flat by Kang Min-hyuk, another scoreless frame burned away. This was the pivot point of the game, the moment where everything could flip.

And now, the bottom of the seventh — Wirye Jeil High's offense, opening at that very pivot.

Leading it off was Jeil High's number-two hitter, Sung In-hoon. He'd been hitting well over .350 this tournament, showing off some genuinely high-caliber bat skills. And behind him waited the heart of the order — Kang Min-hyuk, then Cha Il-sung.

Into this desperate, do-or-die crisis stepped the most trusted arm Daegu High had: their bullpen workhorse, Jang Joon-sik.

But being "reliable" was just another way of saying he'd been ridden into the ground. Never mind that he'd gotten an occasional day of rest between appearances — the Phoenix Flag main tournament was a relentless march of games, one after another with no end in sight.

Jang Joon-sik had not missed a single outing from the Round of 64 all the way to this final, and he'd frequently chewed through multiple innings at a stretch.

The pitching coach, naturally, opposed this appearance outright.

"Coach, Joon-sik is worn to nothing. And it's only the seventh — you're bringing him in now? Why not Si-hyeon instead?"

Coach Lee Man-sik didn't so much as blink.

"Coach!"

"Joon-sik. You got confidence?"

"Why even ask? You only had to say 'go get 'em.'"

Jang Joon-sik answered with a tight grin.

"I've never once not had confidence, sir."

The pitching coach finally exhaled and gave the nod. It was the final, after all. With no tomorrow left, your best card had to come out at the most dangerous moment.

The Jang Joon-sik standing on the mound now was certainly not the light, springy version of himself from early in the season. His arm felt like it was hauling sandbags, heavy and dead, and his back wouldn't generate power no matter how he dug in.

Still, he was fine. The hospital had said so — just fatigue, nothing injured. A grown man couldn't go whining that things were hard.

He exchanged a light nod with the batter in the box.

A second-year already hitting .350-plus at a national tournament? That's one hell of a stat line, kid.

But it's still too early for you. You've got next year — so why are you trying to feast this year? Step aside nice and polite for your seniors.

Even with the end drawing near, Wirye Jeil High's energy somehow ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠wasn't rising.

Dragging the opposing ace out of the game in the sixth had been a genuine coup — but the bullpen arm who followed swallowed the heart of Jeil High's order, three hitters in a row, three easy outs in the seventh. A lifeless, empty frame.

On defense, Kang Min-hyuk was still painting pitches with surgical cleanliness, holding Daegu High scoreless — but his pitch count kept climbing, and now he'd surrendered a hit.

If things kept flowing like this, it would end 2–0. Two runs is nothing — one good inning produces that easily — but the lineup due up in the eighth and ninth did little to inspire hope.

Wirye Jeil High had a wide gulf between the top of its order and the bottom.

And the poster child for that bottom of the order was the number-nine hitter, Lee Dae-hyun. Yes — the first baseman Dae-hyun-hyung, whom Kim Yi-seon slanders on a breathing schedule.

Granted, his defense was admittedly a notch below Kim Yi-seon's, but hardly deserving of that level of slander. If anything, it was his hitting — once praised as "actually not bad" — that had fallen apart.

His weekend-league average sat somewhere in the mid-.250s, and through this entire Phoenix Flag run he'd scraped just under .200. For a fixture starter at first base who'd played game after game, those were ugly, ugly numbers.

Naturally, the Jeil High fans expected nothing from him. He suspected maybe a handful even knew he was a student at their school.

Even now, as he stepped into the box, the cheering sounded like air leaking from a tire — halfhearted, deflated. And this was with runners in scoring position.

But did you know that, among Jeil High's third-years, this was actually the best treatment going? When last year's Phoenix Flag ended, only four players stayed with the baseball team — and he was the only one still starting.

Choi Kang-cheol had it slightly better since he was a pitcher, but even he was the third starter and second reliever at best. The remaining two had been shoved into complete subservience, reduced to pinch-hitting and pinch-running.

Once, at a gathering of third-years from other schools, someone had said this to his face:

'Well, at least if you guys ride the underclassmen's bus to a Phoenix Flag title, you'll get into college, won't you?'

He'd laughed it off on the spot — then gone home and lain awake all night, stung to the bone.

He knew. His skills were lacking. Even his decision to stay with the team after last year's tournament hadn't come from any faith in his baseball — it was because he had no confidence he could suddenly start studying now.

But he, too, was a man who had poured nine straight years into baseball alone, since the fourth grade. And they wanted him to just hand his future to the young ones' hands and walk away?

Bottom of the eighth, two outs, runners on first and second. A new pitcher took the mound this inning. The arm from the previous frame, he'd heard, was Daegu High's closer — apparently deciding that with the heart of the order already neutralized, the bottom of the lineup would be easy pickings.

Good. Look down on me all you want now. For a man with no pride left to protect, that's honestly a gift.

He glared holes through the opposing pitcher and squeezed the bat hard. The first pitch came in.

Compared to what he'd thrown at the heart of the lineup, it was a yawn-inducing, telegraphed pitch. The commentators had probably called it without a trace of excitement.

Kang Min-hyuk would have flicked it into a double. Kim Yi-seon might have simply let it sail on by. That kind of pitch, thrown as if to say you don't scare me — and in truth, he hadn't hit it.

Didn't matter. Keep underestimating me all you like.

Count 1-2 after three pitches. About time he came in hunting the strikeout.

Which was exactly why Dae-hyun had been waiting on one single pitch. The pitch born of arrogance — the kind thrown because a hitter like him could be put away easily.

He had waited for precisely that pitch. And this time — the feeling was there.

Pitch four.

He swung with everything he had. Like Kim Yi-seon. Like Cha Il-sung. Like Kang Min-hyuk. Like the underclassmen who had carried this team this far.

CRACK!!

"UWAAAAAAAHHH!!!"

He couldn't tell if what tore out of him was a scream or a shout, and he rounded the bases at a dead sprint, all-out, circling the infield.

Tears were falling. He hadn't meant to cry — not shamefully, not like this — but they were pouring out faster than he could even think to stop them.

"Dae-hyun-hyung, WHAT is happening, holy—!"

"Lee Dae-hyun! Lee Dae-hyun! Lee Dae-hyun!"

"Home run hitter Lee Dae-hyun! Right-handed slugger Lee Dae-hyun!"

When he stumbled into the dugout, his teammates mobbed him with wild celebration, and his helmet took an endless barrage of delighted whacks.

Tears and a grin of pure joy on his face all at once, he roared with everything his excited voice had left:

"I showed them! You all saw it! I can do it too!"

Top of the ninth. The momentum had flipped completely.

Kim Si-hyeon of Daegu High had to own the home run he'd given up, but there was nothing to be done about it. Jang Joon-sik had already appeared in far too many games and was running on fumes — multiple innings were out of the question — which made Kim Si-hyeon the next arm in line.

He'd looked shaky at times — a hit, a walk — but he'd battled cleanly to two outs. Throwing stones at him for it would have been cruel beyond reason.

If they failed to push across even a single run this inning, they would lose just like this. They had to score. And if they couldn't score, then at least reach base and pass the baton to the next man — and if they couldn't even do that, then grab onto Kang Min-hyuk's trouser leg and drag the game out however they could.

But—

In a blink, Kang Min-hyuk had stacked up two outs.

That, Dae-hyun could feel it in his bones, was a monster on an entirely different level.

Through six and two-thirds innings, he had allowed exactly two hits. Walks? Hitters had worked the count to three balls, but not a single one had drawn a free pass. Two baserunners — pure and simple — in the entire game.

Now, at this do-or-die moment, Daegu High's number-five hitter Jo Han-sol stepped into the box, feeling like the pressure was about to crack his skull open.

Waiting passively for a walk was a guaranteed strikeout. But swinging to hit? He'd managed it exactly twice all game — every other swing had ended in a lazy fly or a whiff.

Then the manager came over quietly.

"Hey. If swingin' true's too hard, then don't swing at all."

"Coach?"

Manager Lee Man-sik spoke with a look of mild grievance.

"Tch. That Coach Choi — never seen the man stoop to sneaky tricks, and what does he do. A man's fought his way to the final, he oughta settle it face to face. Dang straight, I say."

And with a sly grin, he gave Jo Han-sol his instruction.

"Don't force the swing. Just figure you're watchin' the ball — let it come to you, look at it good, then hit it. And if anybody asks later why you did it, tell 'em the other fella's a slick one, and you were just runnin' his pitch count up in the ninth."

Jo Han-sol was no fool — he understood exactly what the manager meant: don't carry the weight, that's not what this is for.

But honestly, that suited him just fine. Once the decision was made, all that remained was to grit his teeth and walk back to the plate.

Something unprecedented was happening on the mound.

Kang Min-hyuk had never once had a duel dragged out this long. Even hitters who prided themselves on making contact had never fouled off more than two of his pitches — and yet this at-bat had gone the distance?

Choi Kang-cheol-hyung, who had drifted into the bullpen on the off chance he'd be needed and was loosening his shoulder, was already trembling head to toe, getting ready to take the mound.

And then a scene from the manga flashed unbidden through Yi-seon's mind.

The period when the manga's Kang Min-hyuk was still a first-year. The image of Choi Kang-cheol-hyung, who had rushed to the mound after Kang Min-hyuk kept the next round of the Phoenix Flag alive with scoreless relief — only to fail to record that final, single out, and lose it all.

In the end, Kang Min-hyuk was taken off the mound. As if his feet refused to leave, he trudged down the slope with a hollow, empty expression.

The situation was spiraling into chaos.

Choi Kang-cheol walked up onto the mound, but his head was nothing but blank white — bleached, scrubbed of every thought. His heart was pounding hard enough for the whole stadium to hear.

It was the simplest situation imaginable — throw one strike and it's over. And he had absolutely no confidence.

Before he came up, Dae-hyun had shouted at him at the top of his lungs: 'We can't ride the bus forever, hyung! Show them what you've got too!' — but Dae-hyun, you hit a home run today, didn't you? I'm just a garbage-inning pitcher.

Ha Kyung-woo crouched behind the plate, slapping his mitt loud and sharp as if to say trust me, demanding the ball down the middle, with confidence.

His heart was hammering like this even now — a head-on duel? Absolutely impossible.

Right. Throw the strike — but in the toughest corner he could manage.

Choi Kang-cheel signaled for a splitter at the bottom of the zone. Ha Kyung-woo considered for a moment, then gave the target his pitcher asked for.

He choked down the trembling in his hand and threw. The first pitch—

The ball sailed in an ugly, ragged arc, bounced once off the dirt, and rolled to the backstop.

Thank God the bases had been empty — no runner advanced, no run scored, but in a real situation that would have been a wild pitch wild enough to score a man from second.

Choi Kang-cheol froze up completely.

Losing a strike — watching an out-count slip further away — was problem enough, but that pitch had shattered whatever confidence he had left. Past his trembling hand, now his whole shoulder was shaking.

The sounds around him smeared away to nothing, and a high-pitched ringing filled his ears.

His vision went white, and in the instant he felt he might faint—

"Kang-cheol-hyung! You're fine! Just throw easy! Even if they score four, I'll win it back for us!"

From the dugout, Kim Yi-seon — who had inexplicably put on full batting gear, helmet and all — started raising hell.

Bellowing at the top of his lungs, clearly meant to carry all the way to the mound.

"Ugh, come ON. Coach, let go of me! Kang-cheol-hyung! There's still a bottom of the ninth, you know!!"

That kid threw twelve innings last game — what on earth is he saying right now? And back then, during that Phoenix Flag, didn't the manager refuse to bring in Kang Min-hyuk too?

And that line — it was exactly the same as the first game they'd ever played together, back in middle school. A laugh burst out of him before he could stop it.

Come to think of it, the game was still only in the top of the ninth. Even if he gave up a run or two, the bottom of the ninth was still waiting for them.

Right. Four runs would be pushing it, but three? The kids could come back from three.

With a changed heart, Choi Kang-cheol faced Daegu High's number-six hitter.

The runner on first seemed to be doing his best to distract him, but he ignored it entirely. Steal your way to third for all I care. Not my problem.

The moment the batter stepped into the box, he came set without a thought for holding the runner—

And without a second's hesitation, fired the first pitch.

Only after the ball left his hand did the batter across from him finally come into clear focus. You're struggling too, huh?

Somehow, he felt a kinship with him. Not that it meant he was about to take it easy on him.

You see, our team — we made a promise to a friend whose father has passed on.

So you're second-years with another year ahead of you — spare us that line.

Carrying that quiet apology, and a firmness nothing like his usual timid self, Choi Kang-cheol delivered the final pitch.

"...Streeeike THREE!!! OUT! GAME SET!!!"

"UWAAAAAAAAHHH!!!"

The Wirye Jeil High players swarmed the mound. Ha Kyung-woo came flying at him where he stood.

And Choi Kang-cheol was hoisted up on every hand around him, thrown higher and higher toward the sky.

In one corner, Kang Min-hyuk knelt before the mound, sobbing uncontrollably; from another direction, he could see Dae-hyun looking at him with a face that said, you did it too, hyung.

That's right—

"I DID IT!!!"