Grand Slam

Han Seo-hee had already thrown her dignity clean out the window.

She had never known until now. Baseball was a sport that could drive you out of your mind! No wonder the fans were always losing it! That searing revelation was hitting her in real time.

An unexpected home run in the seventh inning had tied the game at three all.

Right up until Kim Yi-seon had taken the mound and the team was still holding the lead, she'd been so relaxed she was practically feeling relieved — like everything was already settled. After all, in every game since Yi-seon had converted to pitcher, there had been outings where he gave up a run, but a game where he gave up two? Not once. Not a single time.

So why, of all days, was that once-never going to happen today...

"Please... please..."

Honestly, even winning the Grand Slam might not be enough to make Grandpa withdraw her uncle's organizational restructuring. They weren't the kind of people who moved without a plan.

But there was no hope anywhere else. That was how desperately she was praying.

"Heh heh, seems like Team Leader's gotten pretty attached yourself, hm? That's the charm of high school baseball. There's a tight-knit quality you just don't get in the pros."

Section Chief Park Young-chul, striking up conversation with a face of pure serenity. No — it's because you're about to get cut that I'm going through this hell.

A surge of spite made her snap at him.

"And yet you're not cheering very hard yourself, Chief Park? Colder than I expected."

"No way. I'm cheering plenty. Guess it's an occupational hazard from my scouting days — I got so used to watching high school games with an analyst's eye."

Despite the barb, Chief Park only left behind a good-natured smile and a hearty chuckle.

Then, in a calm voice meant to soothe her, he added:

"And when the player himself is loose and overflowing with confidence, there's no reason for the spectator to be nervous. Just watch. Yi-seon will pull this game out too."

The Wirye Jeil High dugout had gone utterly silent, save for the sound of breathing. And in that silent corner where Kim Yi-seon sat, nobody dared come close.

Kids. I get that you're managing your starting pitcher's mental state, but this is basically an excommunication.

Not that he could say it out loud — if he did, it wouldn't be his mentality that cracked but everyone else's, players and coaches alike. So he sat there obediently, stretching his arms toward the ceiling.

"What, you look fine to me."

Ye-eun strolled back into the dugout again. And this time it didn't look like it was her own idea.

"Somebody ordered me over here."

"Cha Il-sung. Waving his arms around going on about how something terrible happened — I thought for sure you'd look like a soggy puppy."

She settled quietly into the seat beside him and leaned against his shoulder.

"You've confirmed I'm fine, so go back in. The cameras are pointed here."

"Let them film. Is there a single person in Korea who doesn't know Kim Yi-seon is mine?"

There was nothing he could say to that.

Once he and Ye-eun were pressed shoulder to shoulder like this, the tension in the dugout finally began to thaw. Watching it happen, he realized — so this wasn't mental maintenance for him, it was mental maintenance for the team.

The moment the mood loosened, the first to come over was Coach.

"Uh... Yi-seon. You can keep throwing, right?"

He must have thought his ace was still reeling from giving up his first home run — the man had been treading on eggshells around him for a while now.

Well. They say some pitchers take real psychological damage off their first homer allowed, but I'm a far cry from that type.

Even the greatest pitchers in history gave up a handful of home runs a season. Who was he to think he'd never give one up? Giving up homers and runs was something a pitcher had to avoid wherever possible — but it was also fate you couldn't dodge forever. If you hated it, go ahead and throw some 250 km/h monster heater.

Besides, the situation was almost comical. Bottom of the eighth — didn't that mean he'd gone six innings, two runs allowed? That was past quality-start territory. Why was everyone pacing around like he was already saddled with the loss?

These bastards. I've raised them far too gently. The starter always shuts the door scoreless or one-run, so they've straight-up forgotten how to win with their bats. Greenhouse flowers, every last one of them.

The top of the ninth, their turn at bat, was about to begin. Vowing to toughen up his lineup, Yi-seon made a declaration:

"Hey! I'll shut them down like always, so score me one run in the bottom of the ninth. If we go to extra innings again, I'm going on strike."

Gwangju Jeil High had completely forgotten its early defeated haze. Now a confidence — the feeling that they could do this — wrapped around every player's body.

What's that? He's never given up more than one run? Never allowed a single home run in his career? Well, there's a first one now.

Which meant making Kim Yi-seon the losing pitcher for the very first time — how could that be impossible?

Batting seventh for Gwangju Jeil High, Park Han-sol dug in his resolve and stepped to the plate.

A first-year who had muscled his way past upperclassmen to claim a starting spot on the roster. And having broken into the starting lineup only to ride all the way to the national championship finals, his confidence wasn't just adequate — it was overflowing.

Kim Yi-seon was already past eighty pitches, running on fumes. Even that terrifying top velocity of 155 was visibly slipping.

A fastball over 150 wasn't something you saw every day in high school — but once in a while, the nation's elite aces would flash one. Being able to handle this kind of pitch was what earned you the right to turn pro.

Kim Yi-seon stood on the mound. Even just standing there in silence, he was an intimidating presence. That stare-down routine of his — locking eyes with the batter — was bone-chilling enough to crush your spirit every single time you went through it.

But I'll win. He's human like anyone else. The ball he throws isn't some invincible thing — like Jang-hoon hyung, I can take it deep. I can slap a base hit off it.

Batting clenched tight, facing the first pitch—

"Striiike!!"

"Kim Yi-seon breaks his own personal velocity record yet again! And on pitch number eighty-three of all things!"

"Hold on — it's true the radar gun here isn't the same equipment they use in the pros, so it's not perfectly accurate, but that pitch registered a spin rate of 2745? In the pros, a high spin rate is considered around 2500, 2600 — this is..."

"Stuff that announces to the opponent exactly what class of pitcher they're facing!"

...Human? Am I sure he's human?

He'd looked into the batter's eyes and seen them all lit up with we can get him now, which pissed him off so much he'd chucked the pitch at full power, command be damned.

Luckily it landed for a strike. Even if it had been a ball, it would've made for a decent warning shot.

He retired the side in order, and when he came back to the dugout the mood was a low murmur instead of a morgue. If his memory served, the next inning would start the lineup at the top of the order — his heart of the batting order.

"Alright, let's get that grand slam!"

"Somebody shut this bastard up."

Finally, the dugout sounded like itself again. Cha Il-sung had been thrashing around all day, and the rest of the guys were laughing and shouting too.

Ahh, finally I can breathe.

Instead of the corner spot that had become his reserved seat as starting pitcher, he sat down right next to Coach.

"What is it? Something bothering you?"

"No, nothing like that. I'm done hitting after today. Quitting the batting thing."

Coach was flustered by the abrupt announcement, grilling him over whether he was hurt somewhere, whether something was wrong.

Yi-seon answered that everything was fine, then explained with an easy tone.

"Doing both pitching and hitting wears on me. If I stop hitting, worst case the lineup turns stupid — but honestly the other guys hit better than I do. Time to hang it up, right?"

He was penciled in as the cleanup hitter, yes — but not because he was the best hitter in the top of the order.

Truthfully, the best overall hitter was Nam Kang-min batting third, and if you stripped away raw power, even Cha Il-sung out-hit him.

Though even that power wasn't just his own estimation — by everyone else's accounting it was top-of-the-nation caliber for high school. That was why Coach had planted him in the cleanup spot: fishing for the occasional home run or extra-base blast.

"Next year the first-years become second-years, and I have to give them their chances too, don't I? The pitcher can't keep hogging the lineup forever."

If my overall hitting skill is this mediocre no matter how "national-elite" my power is, what good is it in the pros? I'll be pitching-only there anyway, so better to quit early.

Coach nodded, looking less than thrilled about it.

"Fine. I respect your judgment, Yi-seon. But why are you telling me this now?"

"Because this is about to be my last at-bat as a hitter, so I figured I'd give you a heads-up."

Coach's face went puzzled.

"We're starting this inning from the leadoff spot. If we score before your turn comes up, you don't bat at all, right? Even a home run might be too much to ask — but a couple of doubles and..."

This is Wirye Jeil High you're talking about.

Not a chance in hell. He'd already warned them he'd go on strike if nobody drove in a run, but he didn't trust these bastards one bit. In the end, unless their ace grabbed them by the collar and put the period on the sentence himself, they couldn't win.

And sure enough — predictably, inevitably — his at-bat arrived.

"""Kim Yi-seon! Kim Yi-seon! Knock it out, Kim Yi-seon!"""

Cheered on by the crowd, he stepped into the batter's box.

Two outs, runner on first. Not by design — but by sheer coincidence, Nam Kang-min had drawn a walk, and the next turn happened to be his.

Among the cheering fans, he could spot Seo-hee noona in the stands — her usual tidy hairstyle nowhere to be found, on the verge of total derangement. She was screaming her encouragement at the top of her lungs, too.

Then he looked toward the mound. He didn't recognize the name, but Gwangju Jeil High had apparently prepared for extra innings — a reliever other than their closer stood on the hill.

Hm. I get the logic, but we haven't even gone to extras yet. Isn't this a little arrogant?

So thinking, he choked up long on the bat and waited out the first pitch.

"Strike!"

"First-pitch strike."

"It really is physically demanding, doubling as a hitter while you pitch. A player who's already thrown over ninety pitches as a pitcher stepping ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠into the batter's box — keeping up that kind of focus isn't easy."

Oh, you little—

The pitcher had gone straight fastball, dead center of the zone. It came in so guilelessly that Yi-seon had second-guessed it as a breaking ball and missed his timing to swing.

Previous batter: a walk. This pitcher: not the closer. And now a meatball fastball right down the middle?

Maybe none of it was deliberate disrespect — but each and every choice was scraping against his pride like sandpaper.

Swallowing his indignation, pitch two came in.

"Ball!"

"Two balls, count two-and-oh."

"Good discipline. When the count piles up against you, a lot of hitters swing at a pitcher's junk pitches without meaning to. Kim Yi-seon's pitch recognition is genuinely excellent."

A curveball that looked utterly laughable. He could throw a better one, and he was being serious.

You buried a ball like that down to the dirt and called it a chase pitch? You think I'm falling for that?

Maybe that really was this pitcher's best effort. And yet it still made him angry. So you looked at me and decided a guy like that could get me out?

Which meant there was exactly one thing to do.

Pitch three came flying in.

CRACK!!!

"Ah — he swings at the third pitch! He got it! To right-center! Right-center and it's — it's GONE! Kim Yi-seon's tenth home run of the season!"

"Is this even possible? He's playing as a pitcher — his plate appearances are a fraction of what the other hitters get, and he has ten home runs? That's practically a homer every three games."

"The game they clawed back with a homer — and Kim Yi-seon closes it out with a homer of his own! The 2018 National Youth Baseball Golden Lion Flag champions are Wirye Jeil High!"

"Uuunghuuuuu!! You— you rotten, rotten bastard!"

After the victory ceremony wrapped up and he'd finished responding to the crowd, he went looking for Seo-hee noona for the MVP interview.

He couldn't tell if she was happy, furious, heartbroken, moved, or relieved — the expression was all of them at once — as she bawled her eyes out and jabbed a finger at him.

Guess she suffered a lot watching from the stands. He grinned and said:

"So? A Grand Slam. We really did it, didn't we?"

"We did! You rotten— if you were going to do it, couldn't you have made it easy on us, I swear, uung—huuung..."

Her crying voice was genuinely one of a kind. She was clearly trying to sob quietly without making a scene — mouth clamped shut, tears streaming — but the sound leaked out anyway, turning into the strangest little wail.

Left alone, her makeup was going to be ruined beyond repair, so he pulled a tissue from the dispenser and dabbed at her tears first.

"Anyway, you won the title, so that's that. Now come on — big breath. In through the nose!"

When he told her to blow her nose too, sniffling and all, she turned her head away in embarrassment and refused.

So he patted her back and waited, letting her cry as much as she needed, until Seo-hee noona finally seemed to steady herself.

"Okay. Noona, feeling confident now? If it's too hard, say so. Whatever I can help with, I'll help, no matter what it is."

"...Yeah."

Her eyes had hardened with fresh resolve. Until just days ago the mental strain had left her half-broken, but now that hope was in sight, the light was back in her eyes — and it looked good on her.

"Yi-seon, winning the championship isn't the end, you know. I'm going to make the documentary as good as it can possibly be, and I'm going to work on the plans for what happens when you join the Twins. So... you really can't just go to America, right?"

"Hmm... let's hear the conditions first?"

"Hey!"

Frankly, for an achievement as massive as the Grand Slam, public opinion was a bit underwhelming.

Wirye Jeil High's run and results to this point had simply been no joke. Even the antis who trashed the school had started conceding up front that yes, talent-wise, they were the undisputed number one.

No matter how devoted a fan of some other school you were, watching what Wirye Jeil High had shown so far forced a reckoning with your own place in the hierarchy.

Fans who'd gotten into baseball because of Wirye Jeil High, meanwhile, took the championship so completely for granted they had no idea it was even remarkable.

And so the high school baseball fandom muddled along, offering lukewarm congratulations and lukewarm joy before drifting off. Unlike them, the people genuinely losing their minds were somewhere else entirely.

KBO club fans, thrilled at the prospect of picking Wirye Jeil High players in the draft.

The second-year season was over now, and the draft wasn't far off. Word was that this class of second-years was a historically loaded one, so it was only natural that attention was flooding toward Wirye Jeil High, whose ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠players had looked head and shoulders above that talent pool.

The hottest commodity, Kim Yi-seon, was all but locked in as the Seoul Twins' first-overall pick and thus off the table — but every other player on the roster was coveted merchandise too.

Take Kang Min-hyuk: debates raged everywhere. Considering his popularity and the rarity of a submarine pitcher, he should go first round, not second.First round, tenth or later — isn't that a joke?The Twins are holding the fifth overall pick anyway, so isn't fifth round where he's already confirmed? And so on, arguments flying every which way.

Discussion of the other players bounced around too — this club should grab him around the third or fourth round, and so forth — fans trading draft talk back and forth. That was when a massive armageddon dropped onto the communities.

And in step, Han Seo-hee's march was about to have to turn desperate.