An Opponent You Can't Afford to Lose, Even at Rock-Paper-Scissors (1)
The Premier12 is a tournament contested by twelve nations — an awkward, imprecise number — and that quirk, combined with the peculiar nature of baseball itself, gives the competition a rather unusual structure.
First, the twelve teams are split into two groups of six for round-robin group play. The top two nations from each group then advance to the next stage: the Super Round.
The four nations gathered in the Super Round play one another once more (with any matchup between teams from the same group carrying over the result from the group stage), after which first and second place face off in the Final, while third and fourth play a bronze-medal game.
In other words: five group-stage games with no days off, then a single rest day, then two Super Round games, another day of rest, and finally the championship — a punishingly tight schedule.
All of which makes roster management — pitching management above all — critically important. Which pitcher do you deploy against which country? What choice actually maximizes your overall chance of winning, not just one game?
While every manager in the tournament was wrestling with exactly that dilemma, one man cut straight through it.
"What's there to overthink? We go with what we settled on from the start. Hyuk starts against Taiwan, Si-hwan against Japan."
Manager Ban Il-soo of the Korean national team had reached his conclusion with breathtaking simplicity.
Well — because he could afford to be confident.
[Korean National Baseball Team Sweeps Group Stage at Premier12!]
[National Team Advances to Super Round as Group Winners]
[Fateful Korea-Japan Showdown Looms — Our Squad Preparing in Peak Condition]
The group stage was already a clean sweep, and thanks to starters who had thrown so brilliantly, the bullpen had enjoyed ample rest. Not a single pitcher had been worked on consecutive days, and everyone looked sharp.
Overthinking things in a situation like this was more likely to produce a bad move than a good one. Having settled on a simple, clean conclusion, Manager Ban Il-soo was about to bring the meeting to a close when—
"Coach. Wouldn't Dong-min be the better call against Japan rather than Si-hwan? Historically speaking, and by the Player Development Committee's own analysis, the Japanese national team struggles against left-handed splitters across the board."
One man was pushing back on the decision — the pitching coach who had recently repented after watching Kim Yi-seon's heroics, but who still hadn't fully abandoned his doubts about Manager Ban.
Uncharacteristically, Manager Ban Il-soo answered the coach's shortsighted question with a benevolent smile.
"That's because if the Final turns out to be against Japan, Dong-min has to pitch in the Final. There's only one rest day between the Super Round Japan game and the championship, isn't there?"
"Well, yes, but there's also the possibility Japan doesn't make the Final at all — and if we lose to Japan in the Super Round and our championship hopes are dashed..."
The former scenario only became possible if the US or Taiwan swept the Super Round; the latter would require Korea — already holding a win over the US — to lose to both Japan and Taiwan coming out of the other group.
Either way, it was worry wasted on nothing.
"What, are you saying Japan might get hit by an earthquake and have to withdraw due to player injuries?"
Tossing aside his benevolent facade, Ban Il-soo's face settled back into its usual brusque expression as he dismissed the objection outright.
Coach Jung Eon-young had no choice but to let it go, chalking it up to his own excessive worrying.
And yet, even afterward, a strange unease refused to leave him. The manager's judgment was rational. It was correct. If they lost to Japan in the Super Round, the odds of beating Taiwan remained high, the Final opponent would be Japan, and conventional wisdom said you save your best card for the championship.
It all made perfect sense — so why couldn't he shake the eerie feeling that something was being overlooked?
And come to think of it, something was a little odd. The thought in his own head hadn't been "send Park Dong-min out against Japan." It had been "Lee Si-hwan has to pitch in the Final."
Why? Why would he want to use Park Dong-min in a game other than the Final, unable to even articulate a logical reason, resorting to some strange excuse instead?
National team lodging. After three or four hours of light team practice, I was currently sprawled out on my bed, rolling around doing absolutely nothing.
I'd briefly considered doing some sightseeing — it wasn't every day I got to come to Japan — but every scrap of free time capable of supporting such ambitions had already been devoured by the whole business of meeting up with Ye-eun. Going out was no longer an option.
The online communities, meanwhile, were as dull as dishwater — probably because the national team was playing, so everyone was on their best behavior and only squeaky-clean comments made it through. There were trolls, sure, but none of the genuinely spicy fan-vs-fan debates that make the internet worth reading.
So there I was, bored out of my mind, scrolling for a manga to binge-read from cover to cover, when I heard a knock at the door.
I hauled myself up and opened it to find Si-hwan standing there, still in his training gear.
"What do you want?"
"Training. Let's go."
If he meant training, I'd already gotten up this morning and knocked out an hour of interval running, two hours of weights, an hour of yoga, and three hours of team practice.
Piling on more volume from here would only invite injury risk and fatigue problems — that's what the clinic director told me. Si-hwan looked bursting with enthusiasm, but sadly for him, I showed him my refusal and moved to shut the door.
"Training. Now."
But Si-hwan wedged his foot into the doorway, blocking it.
"I've completed my quota for the day. It's rest time now, so go do it by yourself."
"Then at least come along and observe."
The instant I moved to shove off this clingy menace for good, he played his final card.
"Your girlfriend's plane ticket and hotel room—"
"FINE! I'll come, I'll come!"
An utterly despicable blackmail I had no power to refuse. Resigned, I opened the door, swapped into my training shoes, and only then did the man finally go quiet.
Letting out a short sigh, I trudged obediently after Si-hwan. Outside, dinner had already passed and dusk was creeping in.
By the time we left the lodging and reached the makeshift training facility set up in a gymnasium nearby, a handful of players were already at work under the lights despite the late hour. Among them, seated off in one corner quietly observing the others, was senior Sung Yeon-joon.
He greeted Si-hwan first the moment he spotted him.
"Oh, Si-hwan. You made it."
"Yes, sir."
"The national team ace really is a different breed, isn't he? Extra training every single day like this. And this time you've even dragged a junior along with you? Planning to take the captaincy next?"
A warm, friendly voice completely unlike his usual brusque, businesslike tone. I blinked in genuine surprise — so this man had a side like this in him.
Si-hwan gave a vague nod and started stretching, then shot me a pointed glance that clearly meant you too.
What is with this guy today?
After we'd both loosely loosened up, he turned to me with instructions.
"We start with catch play."
"I am serious — catch play only. After that, you're on your own."
Si-hwan gave a careless nod at my terms, then briefly stepped away to grab his glove.
That was when Sung Yeon-joon glided up silently behind me and leaned in close, voice barely above a whisper.
"...Don't talk about this outside. Keep it to yourself. The starter for the Japan game in the Super Round — that's him."
Senior Sung Yeon-joon's voice had snapped back to its cold, flat register. Hearing that, a few puzzle pieces clicked into place.
"Now that you mention it..."
"Right. That's what he looks like when a start is coming. With two full days still left before the game, acting like that — the pressure must be getting to him."
Only now did I begin to understand why the man was being so weird. His start was still a ways off, but it was the Korea-Japan game, so of course he'd be feeling the weight of it.
More importantly, experiencing this firsthand was a massive hassle. Was he really so deep into this whole "behold, I who never slack on my training" performance that he was acting like this? And the reason he'd dragged me along was so he could bask in a few "wow, hyung, you're amazing~" compliments, wasn't it?
"Anyway, just catch for him a reasonable amount and throw some praise at him — tell him his stuff looks good. Once he's satisfied enough, he'll let you go, and I'll take over from there."
Is this man a catcher or a social worker? Somehow my eyes kept drifting to the wrinkles on Sung Yeon-joon's forehead today. Apparently genuinely sane pitchers like me are a rare breed.
I nodded and thumped my chest twice — leave it all to me. I do happen to have excellent people-reading instincts, after all.
Before I knew it, Si-hwan was back with his glove — and, because of course he'd managed it somehow, he'd properly fetched my spare two-handed glove as well.
I pulled the glove onto my left hand and settled in to receive his pitches. And with every ball that came flying, I made sure to holler loud enough for the whole facility to hear.
"WOW, great ball!"
"Was that a sinker just now? It's breaking like a curveball — what kind of movement is that?"
"Whoa, hyung, did you put something on the ball? This thing is unreal!"
"Hyung! It breaks so hard I can barely catch it! Take it easy on me!"
With each serving of my customer-service commentary, Si-hwan's expression visibly loosened. See? I may have only taken a sip of the corporate-life Kool-Aid, but I'm remarkably good at this sort of thing.
Apparently satisfied, Si-hwan stopped the catch play and called Sung Yeon-joon over. The two exchanged a few quiet words, and then the senior walked back toward me.
"Mm... Si-hwan says you're free to go. Good work."
"...Sorry, what?"
Kim Yi-seon, who — no one was even teasing him, it was just a friendly game of catch — had been pouring out flattery like some third-rate treacherous court retainer. Having watched long enough to get annoyed, Sung Yeon-joon had simply sent him on his way.
"He probably thought you'd enjoy it, in his own warped way."
Still, the sight of the man forcibly turning a slider that sat a good fifteen centimeters off the plate into a sliding backhand catch had been, in a word, absurd. Why did this guy have no middle gear whatsoever?
Yeon-joon hyung, now catching the balls himself, offered his assessment in that placid drawl of his.
"Well, he's not as good as he was hyping himself up to be, but from the catch play alone, his condition looks fine. The splitter especially had real bite to it — planning to actually lean on it against Japan?"
It was true. The splitter he normally lacked confidence in — the fourth pitch in his arsenal — was feeling unusually crisp today. If he could hold onto this sensation, bumping up its usage in a real game might well be worth considering.
Having relaxed a little, he kept playing catch as the next question came.
"So. Confident for the Japan game?"
"There has never been a national team game I wasn't confident in."
A career 2.23 ERA in national team play — Lee Si-hwan had always performed for Korea at a level beyond even what he showed in the league. If he wasn't confident, who on earth would be?
Apparently satisfied with the answer, Yeon-joon hyung let out a big laugh.
"Right, stupid question on my part. You're the national team ace, Lee Si-hwan, aren't you?"
That's right — the national team ace. The pillar of the nation, shouldering everyone's expectations and burdens, standing alone on a lonely mound.
So thoroughly intoxicated by this image of himself, Lee Si-hwan played catch for another full hour before finally releasing Sung Yeon-joon from his duties.
While Lee Si-hwan prepared for his start through his own personal ritual on one side of the facility, on the other, Park Dong-min was continuing his bullpen session as quietly as he possibly could.
The reigning left-handed ace of the national team — the only left-handed starter on the entire squad. But the other nickname trailing him was harder to shake: the weakest national team lefty in history.
He was thirty-two. For a pitcher, that was squarely the heart of his prime, and you could argue his national team career was only truly beginning now — yet the label followed him everywhere: a player who exists only to be replaced.
A genuinely homegrown lefty was rare enough that his club team valued him, but held up against the aces of other organizations, his stat sheet was undeniably lacking. Measured against the legendary left-handed seniors of the previous generation, or the young juniors surging up from below, his ceiling simply looked short.
The reason he'd first set foot on the national team in the first place was the unavoidable tide of generational change as the older pitchers aged out. Even his call-up to this squad had only happened because two highly touted young left-handed starters had gone down — one to injury, one to a slump.
THWACK—!!
"Nice pitching!"
But that, too, was only ever said in comparison to other ace-level pitchers. Park Dong-min believed, firmly, that he still had more than enough ability to wear the national team uniform. And so he had absolutely no intention of handing his spot to the juniors just yet.
THWACK—!!!
"Great ball!"
Park Dong-min had no ability to hold triple-plus velocity deep into a game the way Si-hwan did, no pinpoint command like Hyuk hyung, no deep arsenal of pitches like Dong-ho.
So what? Among left-handed pitchers, he was still the best in the Republic of Korea.
THWACK—!!!!
"Yes! That's it!"
He poured every ounce of that pride into the pitch, and it cracked off his fingers with a crisp, satisfying sound that drew a burst of admiration from the bullpen catcher.
But Park Dong-min's face was anything but bright. It matched his personal best in velocity, and it was the sharpest-breaking pitch he'd thrown all day — yet his expression stayed knotted, refusing to smooth out. The cause was the faint, stinging sensation running through his elbow.
"It's not at the level where you'd need surgery right away. With rehab and sufficient rest, it can improve to a degree. I'm sorry — you want to keep playing? The national team... I'd strongly recommend avoiding that if at all possible, but as long as you don't overdo it, a game or two should be manageable."
The conversation he'd had with his doctor after the season ended, before the national team call-up. The state of his left elbow right now was hanging by a thread. But he gritted his teeth and said nothing. If word got out that it hurt, the manager or the pitching coach — knowing their personalities — would scrap his pitching plan entirely.
And Park Dong-min, already assigned to the Final against Japan — the single most important game of the tournament — could absolutely not allow that to happen.
Then his mind drifted back to Kim Yi-seon's performance against Canada.
A fastball that touched a full 100 miles per hour. A changeup sitting in the mid-150s. A power curve that peaked at 140.
Park Dong-min had believed himself, until that very moment, to be the best lefty in the country — but until that very moment was the key phrase. Kim Yi-seon that day had been shocking enough to force the thought out of him.
He'd seen plenty of young left-handed pitchers with good velocity before, but every last one of them was raw — all arm, no polish. Most had failed even in the bullpen, let alone as reliable starters.
Kim Yi-seon was different. There were plenty of rough edges still visible, but his strengths alone were already enough to overwhelm professional hitters outright. Give it a little more time, and he might find himself surrendering even the mantle of the national team's left-handed starter.
That sense of crisis. The pride of representing the national team. His stubborn belief in his own ability. The weight of the Final against Japan, the grandest stage of all. And perhaps, too, the quiet knowledge that this might be the last national team where he could truly shine.
Carrying all of it, Park Dong-min practiced alone again today.
THWACK—!!
"Hey — good one!"
Clutching an elbow that could still, for now, hold on.
[National Team Ace Lee Si-hwan Throws 5 Perfect, Scoreless Innings in Premier12 Korea-Japan Game! Could This Pave the Way for an MLB Posting?]
[Korea Avenges Past Heartbreak with Win Over Japan — National Team Defeats Rival 2-0 at Tokyo Dome, But Can They Do It Again in the Final?]
[Premier12: Korea Sweeps Super Round to Reach the Final! The Fated Opponent — Japan... Time to Repay the Humiliation of Jamsil at the Tokyo Dome?]
"You saw that, right? THAT'S what pitching from the national team ace looks like."
"Yes, it was very impressive."
"Yi-seon, there is no soul in your words whatsoever?"
The chatter of the national team players filled the bus ride back to the lodging. Having closed out the day's game in victory, the players were buzzing, the mood absolutely electric.
Korea had beaten Taiwan in the Super Round, then taken down their old nemesis Japan 2-0, clinching a spot in the Final with a perfect record.
The bullpen had been leaned on a bit along the way, but with a rest day ahead, nobody looked worried. If anything, the heavy bullpen usage was itself a source of good vibes — it meant that many more players had contributed to the wins.
They'd have to face Japan yet again in the Final, but buoyed by today's victory, the squad's confidence was soaring.
And at the center of it all was the man of the hour — today's MVP, Si-hwan hyung, the most excited of anyone, currently subjecting me to a full-scale bragging campaign.
"Huh? You played one round-robin game and now you get to take home a gold medal thanks to your hyung?"
"I threw five innings, you know. That's a full start's worth of work in one outing."
"I started TWICE this tournament?"
This man is genuinely, unbelievably childish. The more I get to know him, the more I realize Lee Si-hwan is spectacularly ill-suited to the title of national team ace. No gravitas whatsoever.
Once, sick of him latching onto me, I tried to offload him onto Kang Min-hyuk, and that bastard just said, "Si-hwan hyung seems a lot like you, actually. You two get along great." Excuse me — in what universe do I resemble this man?
Anyway, unable to keep absorbing this brat's endless self-congratulation, I cut the conversation off at the knees. The prince treatment ends the moment your start is over. The game's done — starters get no special privileges.
"Hyung, quit talking nonsense and leave me alone. Your tournament's over, but I might be pitching tomorrow."
"You? Pitching?"
Si-hwan hyung declared it with a grin full of mischief, as if the very idea were impossible.
"C'mon. The manager has his own plans — you think he'd put YOU in the Final against Japan? He'd only even consider it if the starter and every other senior arm ahead of you all fell apart."
