Hibernation Is Preparation for Next Year

Do you know where foie gras actually comes from?

These days it's a dish made by force-feeding geese until their livers swell into fatty, buttery morsels — but the original foie gras was nothing of the sort. The goose is a domesticated wild goose, and the very first foie gras was made from the livers of wild migratory birds.

Geese fly down to the warm south to winter, then return to their northern homes when the thaw comes. So for people in the south, scratching by on meager rations through the lean winter months, the liver of a goose stuffed to the brim with stored-up energy for its journey home was, quite literally, the perfect meal.

The reason I'm telling you all this is—

"Here you go, Oppa. Today's brunch."

"Min-ah, doesn't 'brunch' sort of imply you skipped breakfast or lunch?"

"Less talking, more eating. Open up."

It's because my current situation bears an uncanny resemblance to that migrating goose.

We closed out our second-year season in triumph, and then came the farewells — and the newcomers.

"You really can't predict how the world turns. Who would've guessed Choi Kang-cheol would land a scholarship with the Kaesong University baseball team?"

First, the third-year seniors who'd stuck with us to the very end were finally heading off to college. Graduation ceremonies were still a ways off, so technically they were still high schoolers, but it was time for them to report to the universities that had drafted them and begin training with their new teams.

"Thank you... meeting all of you is the greatest luck of my life..."

Kang-cheol hyung, sobbing until the bitter end. When a man built like a mountain bandit cries like that, it's usually comedy gold — but this time even I felt my throat tighten, and I nearly joined him.

The other third-years who stayed in the baseball club all made it through their entrance exams without a hitch, too. Well, obviously. These were members of the first Grand Slam in high school history — of course universities wanted them. And so, unlike last year, our farewell to the third-years was warm, tearful, and full of hope.

As for the new arrivals—

"Hello! I'm Kim Taek-gi, transferring in from Seoul Munhwa High!"

Transfer students.

Wirye Jeil High's baseball team had always been small fry — despite sitting in the densely populated capital region, the club couldn't even fill its roster. The first-years were three short of quota, and the second-years, even after I'd used my original-story cheat codes to recruit from outside, were still two players down.

But open spots at the school that pulled off a Grand Slam? With its core players sticking around through next year's weekend league? When simply riding the bench next to those aces gave you a realistic shot at nationals? Nobody was going to sit quietly through that.

Sure enough, players who'd lost the starting-job battles at their own schools, along with students from smaller programs angling to transfer into a tournament-qualified school, flooded Wirye Jeil High with transfer applications.

"Well, Yi-seon? Pretty solid haul, wouldn't you say?"

"Coach, did you pick them based on looks again?"

Though when it came to deciding who actually made the cut, the coach had, once again, judged them purely by their faces.

This might work for next year's incoming freshmen, but what's the plan after that?

Anyway, with veterans leaving and newcomers arriving, Coach decided against jumping straight into team drills and opted for individualized training instead. The starting second-years in particular were all given leave — either free time or outright vacation — to train on their own or rest up for the season ahead.

So I threw myself into off-season body maintenance with Dr. Jo, preparing for next season. Which is when he dropped this on me:

"The way I see it, your biggest problem isn't injury. It's bulk. Let's put some mass on you first."

"I'm sorry, what?"

"Open up."

"Ahh..."

I was doing my best to choke down the food Min-ah kept packing into my mouth. It genuinely felt like my throat was backed up with food all the way to my tonsils.

I knew exactly why Dr. Jo had said what he said.

"Anything unusual in your results? Well, you've got some mild muscle inflammation and fatigue markers, but every baseball kid has those — a good winter's rest fixes it. The problem is your body composition. Nine percent body fat on a baseball player? Are you serious?"

This body of mine is infuriatingly resistant to gaining weight, and the moment I stop paying attention, it melts right off. Muscle at least seems to respond to effort, but body fat especially refuses to stick around.

Dr. Jo's recommended weight for me was a minimum of 95 kilos, topping out at 110. But never mind the ceiling — I'd never even held the floor. He also wanted me sitting at 15 to 20 percent body fat; at 9 percent, I was basically a competition bodybuilder, mid-season cut.

"All finished? Want me to grab you a snack too?"

"No, please... I'll stop here for now."

Min-ah had laid out a spread big enough for a full-grown adult man's dinner, and I'd somehow polished off the whole thing. So when she offered to bring out snacks on top of it, I begged in complete sincerity.

Some might ask: why would an athlete need to pack on fat?

But for a baseball player — a pitcher above all — fat matters just as much as muscle. Pitching and hitting both come down to weight transfer: moving your body mass and throwing it into the ball. The heavier your moving weight, the faster the ball and the bat travel, plain and simple.

On top of that, a pitcher's velocity depends not just on raw strength but on flexibility — on how much range of motion the body can harness. Pile on muscle carelessly and your body stiffens up, and the results get worse, not better.

That's why so many home-run hitters and power pitchers are built like refrigerators.

Which is exactly why Min-ah and Ye-eun have tagged-teamed me and are shoveling food into my mouth like this.

"Kim Yi-seon, I made you a snack! Mix protein powder into pancake batter and it tastes about the same while still getting your protein in!"

Except they really are force-feeding me, literally. There isn't a second's rest.

"Ye-eun... I finished lunch ten minutes ago."

"Which is why it's snack time. Isn't a snack something you eat after a meal?"

You two already feed me six meals a day, and now snacks get counted on top of that?

This is foie gras. I am human foie gras. I'm a migrating goose being force-fattened in the dead of winter, all to survive the scorching summer season ahead.

I did my best to plead with them using the most pitiful eyes I could muster.

"Can't we maybe cut back a little? Six meals a day is too many. It's not like the portions are small, either. Couldn't we compromise at, say, four?"

"No."

"Then five—"

"Yeah, no."

No matter how much I begged, the two of them showed zero sign of relenting.

No, wait. Looking closer, past the sheer coldness of it — there was something distinctly dangerous in Min-ah's eyes.

"Honestly, Oppa, this is exactly what happens whenever I take my eyes off you. The second I let go because it's the season, the weight melts right off. The moment I stop paying attention, you forget your sunscreen. There's just nothing to be done about it."

I had no idea what precisely there was nothing to be done about, but she seemed to have convinced herself, and she went right back to pushing Ye-eun's fresh-baked pancakes into my mouth.

Butter — loaded with fat, since apparently I needed to fatten up — was in everything, and she'd even drowned my food in the sugar-alternative syrup she always used for me. Thoroughly done.

I barely managed to keep my trembling eyes fixed forward and forced my mouth open.

Kim Yi-seon may have wailed about becoming human foie gras, but in truth, very little about his life had changed.

His social circle had always begun and ended with the baseball club. He rarely needed to meet anyone else, and whether in his past life or this one, he'd never been much for active hobbies or going out. Living the way he did now — shuttling between home and Dr. Jo's institute — suited him just fine.

There was even Kang Min-hyuk, stuck in the exact same predicament — not with two heroines, but three, all cramming food down his throat.

Watching a guy like that, you can at least console yourself with relative happiness: well, I've got it better than he does. So it's not exactly a major source of stress. Probably.

As it turned out, the ones who couldn't handle this lifestyle weren't Kim Yi-seon and Kang Min-hyuk at all — it was Kim Yi-seon's fans.

At first, it was a minor enough affair — Kim Yi-seon stopped showing up to training and vanished as soon as classes ended, leaving fans with no channel of communication, and they started climbing the walls.

Athletes, baseball players included, have always lived this way. But idols, even in the off-season with no active promotions, at least keep in touch with their fans. For Kim Yi-seon's fans — a fandom with distinctly idol-fan sensibilities — this was enough to stir unease alongside the mild frustration.

The real problem was that this anxiety, fused with the long-simmering rumors about Kim Yi-seon being overworked, gave birth to a brand-new conspiracy theory: Kim Yi-seon is secretly wasting away.

Yes, his weight had dropped. But the framing was maliciously exaggerated. Most of the "early days" photos people were citing were taken before he pitched in a game, while the "recent" photos were all taken after a start. Same day, before versus after an outing — of course there's that much of a difference.

But what mattered to the fans wasn't cold, rational analysis. It was: our boy is skin and bones right now, and you want to talk technicalities?

And then someone showed up and tossed a lit match onto the whole powder keg.

It was well known that Kim Yi-seon managed his own diet — the guy turned down every snack his fans sent him. But by now, the fans had become Kim Yi-seon experts (otherwise known as stalkers). Every food he avoided, every allergy he had — all of it, fully documented.

Hence the idea: fine, we'll make his nutrition plan for him. Honestly, products like this already lined store shelves. But doesn't the fact that it's handmade count for everything?

It started with the hardcore fans, then the casual ones joined in too — less a serious project than the warm, giddy feeling of sending a birthday present — and the participant count kept climbing until the total volume ballooned into something monstrous.

The love these fans had been forced to stockpile in their lonely off-season corners came pouring in at once, with interest.

It was a struggle, but I forced the energy bars and shakes down anyway.

Min-ah watched me with a flicker of concern and gently tried to slow me down.

"Oppa, if it's too much, you can stop eating. Okay?"

"How could I possibly... but no, I have to at least take a bite of everything."

When the presents from my fans first arrived — stacked literally to the ceiling — I'd been a little stunned, and honestly planned to leave it at a polite thank-you note. I was already stuffed half to death by the meals those two fed me; how was I supposed to get through all of this as well?

Then I read the handwritten letters ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠tucked into a few of the boxes, and my resolve changed.

How was I supposed to not eat this?

I could already hear the phantom chorus of "booo, you trash." These handwritten letters were, without question, a dirty foul. I just know whoever packed the boxes hand-picked the most emotionally devastating ones they could find.

And as I sat there grimly choking down another energy bar, there came a knock at my door.

"So... Yi-seon? I've only ever seen you in photos, but I have to say, you really do look like you've gotten thinner... so I brought some snacks over."

It was Seo-hee.

Kang Min-hyuk, you insufferable average joe. While you were stuck at three, I had already achieved three-plus-one.

Winter gave way, and on the first day of March, spring's first stirrings crept into the air.

As it did every year, the March First holiday arrived hand in hand with the opening of the high school weekend league.

All winter long, nobody — not the baseball world, not social media — had caught so much as a glimpse of Kim Yi-seon. Aside from a few thank-you posts, he'd been a complete ghost.

And then, out of nowhere, the news dropped: Kim Yi-seon, starting pitcher, opening day.

For fans who'd spent roughly four months in the full throes of Kim Yi-seon withdrawal, it was joyous tidings of the highest order. They screamed themselves hoarse, cheering his very entrance.

And when Kim Yi-seon — so long awaited their necks might as well have snapped — finally strode out and took the mound, an unexpected commotion rippled through the stands.

"Huh? Isn't he taller?"

"It's not the height, it's the size, right? He's bigger?"

"Were his shoulders always that wide?"

A low murmur ran through the crowd.

In truth, he hadn't grown taller, nor had his back expanded dramatically. His height was unchanged, and even at his thinnest, his shoulders had carried a certain width thanks to muscle. It was ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠nothing more than an optical illusion — mass added to the same frame.

Kim Yi-seon had always drawn fans with the long, lean, sharp-edged look of his build. But the man standing on the mound now radiated something wilder than sharp — something that hinted at sheer, untamed ferocity.

"...Huh. Turns out I like this look better."

The reactions from the female fans were glowing. This was still Kim Yi-seon at his core — add a little weight, cut a little weight, and who was going to complain?

Just as everyone stood entranced, shutters clicking away, savoring the new Kim Yi-seon, the umpire's call rang out.

Only then did the crowd remember there was an actual ballgame happening, and turned their attention to the batter's box.

Today's opponent was Gwangnam High. A small-school program, and their leadoff hitter was nothing to write home about either. Not that the kid lacked heart — it was more that you could see, plain as day, how thoroughly terrified he was of Kim Yi-seon, gritting out nothing but short, defensive swings.

Kim Yi-seon couldn't have cared less. As if the batter across from him simply didn't exist, he readied his first pitch.

No windup — just a compact settle into the set position, befitting a pitcher who skipped the flourish entirely. A short pause, then his delivery flowed out like water.

And in that instant, the longtime fans — the ones with sharp eyes — felt it. Something was different.

His stride was unmistakably longer than before. His throwing arm coiled back with less movement, then came through further ahead on release...

Those subtle changes flashed by in a heartbeat, and the ball left his hand.

It tore through the air at a monstrous velocity and slammed home into Nam Kang-min's catcher's mitt.

"S-s-striiiiike!!"

Everyone who looked up at the scoreboard froze for about three seconds — and then the stadium erupted.