A House Cleaning and a First Rebellion
Unlike before, the ripple effects of that last game were now reaching beyond the stadium walls. Apparently there were far more middle-aged men out there who only kept a casual ear to the ground for high school baseball than I'd realized.
To put it in perspective, in my past life, even when a promising Korean MLB player was making waves, the typical reaction was a dismissive huh, good for him, that's impressive before scrolling on. But now that they'd seen my games with their own eyes for the first time, it seemed to have finally sunk in. Watching my pitching and Kang Min-hyuk's, only for the broadcast to cut straight to the Korea-Japan game and its underwhelming youth national team, must have been a brutal reality check. And so, this was the result.
"Umm... I can't speak English berry well. So talk to my agent. Okay?"
The American guy who'd chased me all the way to school — that made four of them now. When the Cheongryonggi ended, the wave of nationalistic fervor online had caught me a little off guard, but I could understand it. What I couldn't understand was why, since that day, the MLB suitors had gotten several times more aggressive.
"Okay Ethan, don't forget, I'm here. I'm Roman Pearce, leader of the San Francisco Giants scouting team. Make sure to keep your business card."
There he went, forcing out that English even though I'd told him I couldn't follow. Maybe out of consideration, he was speaking slowly in simple words, so with my past-life TOEIC score of 800 I managed to catch most of it — barely.
All that had changed was winning the Cheongryonggi, so why was everyone suddenly this much more proactive? It made no sense.
"Kim Yi-seon, who's that guy this time?"
"Who else? Someone from an MLB club. Up until now they at least sent Asian scouts who spoke Korean, but lately they're all sending Americans with fancy job titles instead."
Thanks to that, Min-ah's mother — my agent — had been run off her feet. Apparently these days it wasn't vague please keep our club in mind overtures anymore, but concrete proposals going as far as detailed contract terms.
"Did you hear that from your agent? The one team in Seattle... what was it called?"
"The Seattle Mariners."
"Right, that one. Apparently they offered you not just the signing bonus, but a contract hiring your wife as the club's player manager — with a salary on top?"
It was the word wife, not the money, that had hooked her, because Ye-eun looked absolutely delighted. The courtship from the major league clubs right now was beyond anything I'd imagined. I'd asked my agent to hold off since there was still time, but more than ten clubs were already flooding in with conditions, heedless of that.
A signing bonus in the six-to-seven-million-dollar range was table stakes for every single one of them. On top of that they were piling on every perk they could think of — a personal nutritionist and meal plans, a private house, a housekeeper, even guaranteed club employment for family members or partners.
And I'd complained plenty about Ye-eun and Min-ah to the Americans, sure, but I never dreamed they'd go so far as to offer US university recommendations and full scholarships or club jobs for the two of them. These terms were getting to the point where it wasn't just my future on the table anymore — it was Ye-eun's and Min-ah's too...
"Kim Yi-seon. You're drifting off again, aren't you?"
Ye-eun grabbed both my cheeks and tried to force eye contact.
"See, it's always the same pattern with you. Normally you do whatever you want."
Then she yanked my head down and whispered right into my ear.
"My dream is to be Mrs. Who-knows anyway, so college and jobs don't really matter to me. Or what, were you thinking of quitting baseball and living as a bum at home? In that case I'll start job hunting right now."
She planted a little peck by my ear and spun away, beaming. Judging by her expression, she wasn't joking — if I quit baseball and became an unemployed layabout, she'd probably be thrilled — so I just laughed it off.
"...So that's the part I really don't get? Sure, the Cheongryonggi is a big tournament, but is it really enough to flip the whole atmosphere overnight like this?"
This was the kind of thing I should've been discussing with my agent, but she'd been swamped lately, and besides — what son-in-law just casually picks up the phone to call his mother-in-law about business?
After casting around for someone else, I ended up going to Seo-hee noona, who probably understood this sort of thing better than anyone.
"Well, MLB clubs know perfectly well that signing an Asian player doesn't automatically translate into marketing gold."
"Marketing?"
What did the Cheongryonggi have to do with marketing?
"You stamped your face onto the consciousness of the entire nation this time. At this point, any MLB club knows that if you just develop into a big-league-caliber player, the marketing value would be astronomical."
It was true that MLB clubs had signed plenty of Asian players through international amateur free agency, and a few of them had put up respectable numbers at the major league level. But according to Seo-hee noona, their marketing impact had been disappointingly modest. This matched what I remembered from my past life, so I roughly got it. Players who hadn't built a fanbase in Korea first — who just started from scratch in America — tended to hover in popularity limbo.
But I was different: without even turning pro, I already had name recognition and a fandom that outranked most professionals. So on top of my value as a player, they'd slapped on a massive marketing premium, and that was why they were throwing themselves at me like this.
So this was the power of nationalistic intoxication? I'd been impressed seeing the fabricated gung-ho-patriotism video compilations about me rack up views in the tens and hundreds of thousands, but apparently this was on another level entirely.
I braced myself for the next question, the one that was bound to come flying sooner or later. The question of whether I was really going to the majors — whether I wasn't staying in Korea.
Frankly, that was the whole reason I'd sought out Seo-hee noona for this talk. Knowing the club, they'd be chewing their nails over reports that I was fielding contract terms from MLB teams. Every now and then you had to send an all-clear signal, or else noona would end up suffering for it.
But no such question came. And Seo-hee noona's expression didn't look like someone holding back words, either.
"Noona, aren't you going to ask if I'm really going to the majors?"
Wasn't that the script? Why wasn't she taking her cue?
After a long silence at my words, Seo-hee noona opened her mouth slowly.
"You don't have to tell me things just to spare my feelings. I just want you to make the best choice for yourself, Yi-seon."
It had been about a year since Han Seo-hee started working at the Seoul Twins organization.
Even someone who found interpersonal relationships as draining as she did would, given that long, develop a few familiar faces around the office.
"Well if it isn't Team Leader Han! Shooting video with the second-team boys for the PR department again today? You know, there's one kid these days who's been working really hard—"
Coach Choi, the second-team defense coach. A burdensome man who'd been bombarding her with trivia ever since their very first meeting.
The man talked so much that she now knew which animation his three-year-old daughter was obsessed with, and which of the second-team players he coached cycled through girlfriends the fastest.
"Oh, you're here? Today's lunch is your favorite, Team Leader — seafood pasta. Shall I give you a little extra?"
The club cook — though "warm-hearted school-cafeteria ajumma" fit her better than any fancy title. She memorized the tastes of every staff member as well as every player, and prepared each meal accordingly.
"Hey, you know, back when this club was first founded, I went door to door to the National Assembly members and the chairman himself, got down on my knees and begged. 'Mr. Chairman! Please, just help us this once!' And so—"
"One more time and I'll hit a thousand. Just eat your food, sir."
The facilities management team leader, mid-lecture from his corner of the cafeteria. A former coach who'd been with the club since its founding, moved to the front office's facilities team when age and circumstances caught up with him.
His love for the club ran deep, and he knew its history better than anyone, which had made him an invaluable resource for the PR department too.
So the Seoul Twins, it turned out, were a far tighter-knit, almost family-like organization than anyone would have guessed. These were people who had built a professional team from bare ground on nothing but the conviction that the club should be an independent baseball team, not an appendage of a corporation.
To Han Seo-hee, that passion and closeness was still exhausting — but it no longer felt simply bad. If anything, she was coming to see it as the Twins' greatest strength.
She wrapped up a simple lunch, left the warm chatter behind, and headed for the president's office. Knowing her uncle, she'd been summoned over Kim Yi-seon again.
She opened the door with a light heart — and found not just the president, but three more directors standing there. The entire team-leader corps.
General Affairs. Human Resources. Scouting and Analysis. And her own PR team.
The atmosphere was anything but ordinary. Han Jang-yeon, the president, gave her a single cold glance — unlike his usual self — and began speaking in a flat, matter-of-fact tone about something that was anything but.
"I'm announcing the second front-office restructuring. Team leaders, keep your staff in line and make sure none of this leaks."
Then came the stack of folders being handed around. Flipping through the slightly thick bundle, she found the résumés of club employees — and stamped across the bottom of each one, savage little phrases: Voluntary Resignation. Contract Non-Renewal. Department Reassignment.
The second-team defense coach, who'd been doting on his players not ten minutes ago. Department reassignment to a dead-end front-office post.
The cook who'd quietly prepared little side dishes for the staff beyond the regular menu. Contract non-renewal.
The team leader who'd devoted himself to the club, from coaching players to running the facilities team. Voluntary resignation.
And then, as she kept turning the pages, a single résumé seized both of Han Seo-hee's eyes and wouldn't let go.
Park Young-chul, Section Chief, Public Relations. Voluntary Resignation.
The other team leaders left a few perfunctory questions behind and quietly filed out, as if this were nothing more than the inevitable come due. But Han Seo-hee could not make her mouth form a question, nor her feet carry her out the door.
As she stood there frozen, President Han Jang-yeon raised the topic in an easy, almost gentle tone.
"Hm? Seo-hee, did you have a question? Take your time."
She forced open the mouth that refused to move, carefully, cautiously — taking every care that her voice wouldn't tremble.
"Th-this restructuring... isn't it rather sudden? And large in scale?"
At that question — the most reasonable framing she could manage — President Han Jang-yeon burst out laughing and began to explain, step by measured step.
"Until now there was no justification, so I couldn't bring the blade to the front office. But the Twins finished dead last this year, didn't they? That's all the justification a sweeping overhaul needs, in the name of refreshing the organization. Learn this, Seo-hee. You can't clean house just any old time — so when you do it, you do it thoroughly."
"Even so, a lot of them are core people who've served this club for years..."
"Which is exactly why they go. If the old-timers linger, is that still the Seoul Group's Twins?"
She couldn't find another word of rebuttal. Han Seo-hee had always been the sort of child who obeyed her elders without protest.
Then President Han flashed a mischievous smile and steered toward a different subject entirely.
"By the way, I hear young Yi-seon has been wavering again under the spell of those wicked thieves from America? Our Team Leader Han ought to go and soothe him with a noona's tender embrace, hm?"
Her uncle had clearly found his niece's old shuddering reactions to such teasing adorable, because he asked it constantly. It was almost surreal that this was the same man who'd been coldly orchestrating mass layoffs minutes ago.
Han Seo-hee, unlike her usual self, offered no reaction at all. She only nodded quietly.
In the days that followed, requests came down more than once to sound Kim Yi-seon out about his intention to stay in Korea. But Han Seo-hee could not bring herself to say the words aloud.
Her own heart was wavering — how could she make such a shameless request of Kim Yi-seon on top of that?
So when she spoke to him now, she spoke her true feelings. Wanting good things for Wirye Jeil High and for Kim Yi-seon was genuinely, honestly what she wanted.
Having heard her out, Kim Yi-seon wore a grave look for a moment as he mulled it over — then broke into a grin and answered.
"Then signing with the Twins must be the best option, isn't it? Where would I even go, leaving my noona behind?"
That sly little rascal. Joking his way through even a moment like this, toying with her heart. And if she asked what he meant by that, no doubt he'd come back with something like, why would I leave for unfamiliar territory when there's a team whose front office I already know?
Caught between the anger that had surged up out of nowhere and the tangle of feelings underneath, Han Seo-hee heard herself say the soft, fragile thing she had never meant to say.
"If I weren't at the Twins — if there were no one you knew there — would it still be the best option?"
So that's what's been weighing on her lately. Her title said team leader, but she was still, at heart, a first-year rookie in the working world.
It reminded me of my own past-life grind. Those first few months after landing a job, you ran yourself ragged telling yourself so this is what office life is — and by the end of year one, the thought of quitting had usually taken over your head entirely.
First, partly to give her some courage, I started the conversation lightly.
"If you weren't there? Then I'd just go to America. Why would I pick the Twins?"
She reacted faintly to that — then sank right back into her sullen expression. Still, a reaction was a reaction. So she was a little shaken.
"I've never worked at a company, so I don't really know what's been wearing you down, noona. But if you want advice... don't hold it in. Just barge straight through."
That was advice from the bottom of my heart. Office politics, reputations — those were concerns for the promotion-hungry grinders and the guys with families to answer for tonight. Looking back on my past life, the truth was that for us lowly grunts, charging headfirst was always the right answer.
And if it didn't work out? Then you just quit. Where in the world is there only one job? All the more so for someone as capable as Seo-hee noona. Why suffer the stress of an unfair workplace?
"Isn't it kind of funny, though? Who at the Twins worked harder than you this year? If you hate it, just walk out. And if you've got nowhere to go, I'll ask my agent to set aside a desk for you."
This was an agency representing two of the very best pitchers in the country. Even if the director ran it herself, she wouldn't refuse to create one more seat beneath her.
Seo-hee noona, who'd been listening all this while, finally seemed in the mood to talk — she met my eyes.
"...Kim Yi-seon."
"Yes?"
"If you keep this up, something terrible is going to happen to you one day."
"I'm sorry?"
Chase that rubber-spined weasel out of your head, she told herself, and quietly began to sort through her thoughts.
Truthfully, her uncle's actions fell within the range of the understandable. If chaos swept the Seoul Twins as an organization and its operations seized up? With the club already flat on the floor of the standings mid-rebuild, the damage now would be less than usual.
And she could even grasp the logic that, for her grandfather's lifelong dream of a baseball team to truly function as part of the group, the old club's colors had to be scrubbed away. The employees marked for cuts this round were hardly the capable or polished sort, either. If staff armed with modern, scientific theory and cutting-edge baseball came in to replace them, it might even be better in the long run.
But Han Seo-hee didn't like it. If failing to suit the intentions of Grandfather or Uncle counted as grounds for dismissal — then surely failing to suit her own heart was grounds enough to refuse, wasn't it?
In her whole life, she had never once defied the adults of her family. Without some compelling reason, this time would be no different, most likely.
And yet, at the urging of a certain boy, Han Seo-hee found herself ready to commit the first rebellion of her life.
Not that leaking the restructuring plans or agitating the staff — that was amateur hour. And the very first step, though she truly hated doing it, was preparing a number she'd saved in a corner of her phone, the one she had never once dialed herself.
From a certain point of view, this was a player meddling in club operations, and a nepotism parachutist butting into the group's governance — so, truly, the world was in its twilight days.