The Twins Circus Troupe
The Busan Giants dugout buzzed with rowdy chatter, and Manager Lee Bong-joon bellowed over the noise.
"You all showed up half-prepared and couldn't even get loosened up properly, and now you want to half-ass the game too?"
But his rebuke was met with nothing more than a round of hearty, wave-it-off laughter. Truth be told, the manager wasn't genuinely angry either.
I'm not sure if you'd call it the Busan Giants' team identity, but they have a well-known habit of being weak during the spring season — that is, during spring camp and exhibition play.
On that point, there are plenty of interpretations: the veteran core of the team is managing their conditioning for the long season ahead, or the club only fields the guys they plan to use, prioritizing proven track records over whoever happens to be hot at the moment. All of them are true, to a degree.
But the biggest reason of all is simple — everyone, from the manager down to the last man on the roster, couldn't care less.
"Manager, did a camera crew from Giants TV come by or something?"
"What, you only work hard when there's a camera rolling?"
"Well, who's gonna try hard when nobody's watching?"
By the time real exhibition games roll around, official broadcasts attach themselves and the stands fill up, but to this roster, even those games mean nothing once the season starts — so they don't bother getting motivated. A friendly scrimmage with no spectators, where the media only reports the final score, is something you play for a laugh and nothing more.
And what could he possibly say to the players, when the manager pretending to be angry right now is the least motivated man of all?
"Still, try to focus a little today. I hear those famous fellas from the Twins are coming up."
But just for today, he hoped they might come away with something. Forget this season — long-term, they'd be seeing that terrifying pitcher on the mound again and again.
"Ye-eun! Min-ah!"
A friendly scrimmage between the Seoul Twins and the Busan Giants. Kang Min-hyuk had taken the mound as the starter, thrown three innings, and come down.
From here on, it was my turn to take the mound. Unlike the big stadiums, this compact ballpark meant I could see Ye-eun and Min-ah watching from close by. When I gave an energetic wave, Min-ah responded awkwardly while Ye-eun beamed back at me.
In an excellent mood at the thought of the two of them watching, Kim Yi-seon loosened up the atmosphere with his usual sunny smile (so he claims. Everyone else says it's insufferably smug.)
Okinawa's weather really was something. The sky was crystal clear, and being February, it wasn't too hot either.
Once this friendly was done, there would be no more appearances during the first camp — which made this, for all practical purposes, the close of camp one. Which meant that until the second camp began, I had two whole days of sightseeing around Okinawa ahead of me with Ye-eun and Min-ah.
Ye-eun especially had been looking forward to this trip like crazy. We'd filed the marriage registration, but honeymoon aside, we hadn't even had the wedding yet.
And so, wouldn't wrapping up camp on a good note make for an even better trip?
Behind the plate crouched a catcher I'd barely exchanged a word with. What was his name again? Min-cheol? Min-hyung? Anyway, some senior catcher with an incredibly common name sat there. Considering I'd never even seen him on TV, he was probably a lower-round pick or later.
It's not that I judge people by their ability or standing, but since the other side wasn't exactly radiating an eagerness to get to know me, we'd just exchanged faces and a polite hello.
You might be fooled into thinking I'm remarkably socially adept, but at my core I'm a shut-in Manboong-i. Approaching older seniors first to get friendly is a hurdle far too high for me.
Besides, Kang Hyun-seok had told me that getting too attached to the second-team guys would come back to bite me later. The phrasing was a little odd, but I get what he means. A healthy distance is important.
As I waited, letting these stray thoughts drift by, the opposing hitter stepped into the box. His side seemed loosened up by the sunny weather too — he looked thoroughly relaxed.
Actually, I'd heard this name before. Noh Jun-hak. A starting outfielder for the Giants and a cleanup-caliber three-hole hitter even by league standards.
He's a senior established enough that I'd know his name, but even at a glance, today he showed none of that burning competitive fire or careful preparation. He was worlds apart from Min-sang hyung, who sat glowering behind the plate.
His entire body broadcast the message: it's a friendly, let's take it easy. But for the sake of a comfortable trip, I couldn't exactly let him off easy.
Not that I was doing him any favors — it's just that honoring the purpose of a practice game, I could at least get some work in. I readied the thing I'd been pouring the most effort into lately.
I shook my head at the sign Min-jun hyung flashed. After a few shakes, I nodded at the one I wanted.
A few days of moving my body since the start of spring camp had already pushed my condition past ninety percent. So my mechanics could be as light and effortless as in a real game.
Only after I settled into the set position did Noh Jun-hak summon a modicum of tension. Watching him, I prepared my first pitch.
The leg drives far out, the firmly anchored hips rotate through in sequence, and finally the coiled waist, shoulders, and arm come whipping around, carrying the power all the way to my fingertips.
"Striiike!"
Hm... yeah, still not quite to my liking.
"Damn, that ball dies. Was that a sinker?"
Having stepped in with a light heart, Noh Jun-hak showed no frustration at failing to hit it — only pure, honest admiration. He grinned as he asked the catcher crouched behind the plate.
"No, sir. That was a changeup."
At those words, Noh Jun-hak found himself at a loss.
"A changeup?"
"Yes. A changeup."
Bewilderment crept across his face.
"You're telling me a ball over 150 is a changeup? 164, they said 164, but seeing it in person is a different animal. Huh? Our Young-seok can't even throw a sinker — and this kid throws a changeup at a velocity he couldn't reach with a fastball?"
He'd seen a lot of wonders today already.
The previous pitcher, Kang Min-hyuk, had toyed with every underhand pitcher he'd ever faced, unleashing balls with monstrous movement that scrambled his brain; and now Kim Yi-seon on the mound was switching smoothly between left and right with a glove on both hands.
But it was this last pitch that made the least sense to Noh Jun-hak. Sure, throwing a circle changeup as a lefty to him, a left-handed batter, was one thing — but it was the velocity that truly broke his brain.
The arm swung like a fastball and the ball came in at fastball speed, so he'd figured he'd just sit back and enjoy the show — watch a fastball for once. Then at the very end, it drifted slightly in on his body.
He glanced at the radar gun: 151. Ah, must've thrown a sinker, he'd thought casually — and now they're telling him it was a changeup.
"Why on earth did that kid come to Korea instead of going to the majors?"
"Uh... I honestly don't know."
"You're on the same team and you don't know that?"
The opposing catcher floundered. But the conversation had dragged on long enough that the umpire shot them a pointed look. Friendly or not, that was excessive.
He stepped back into the box. Every year, the young kids got scarier. Back in his day, touching 150 in high school made you a can't-miss super prospect in line for the first overall pick — now there were kids out there throwing not 150 from the left side, but 160.
Thinking these old-man thoughts, Noh Jun-hak gripped his bat. Even if it's a practice game against a rookie, a man has his pride — he ought to at least put wood on the ball.
He'd never faced anything over 160 in the box himself, but Noh Jun-hak was still a player who'd made something of a name in the pros. Go ahead, kid, show me what you've got — with that thought, he timed his swing. He'd seen upper-150s before, so just a hair faster — maybe a sixteenth of a beat early?
The pitch came. The delivery really was clean and beautiful — maybe too clean, that was the flaw. Even having seen it only twice now, he'd already gotten a feel for when the ball would leave the hand.
He carried his swing to meet the incoming ball.
Crack!
"Foul!"
But he'd fouled it off. The ball came in a little lower and further in on his body than he'd expected, forcing him to wrench the bat around at the last second. On a better day, maybe — but right now, that was his best.
Even the scoreboard showed a vicious number. Speaking as someone who'd just faced it — the kid could bulldoze entire lineups with that fastball alone. Given time to adjust to the timing, a hitter of his caliber might scratch out a hit or two. But that would be the ceiling.
Riding the fresh feeling of having gotten a decent experience out of it, he asked the catcher again.
"Man, that fastball is no joke. Doesn't your hand sting catching stuff like that?"
"... That wasn't a fastball."
"What did you say?"
"Not a fastball. That was a changeup."
At first he'd assumed the kid was bluffing. But the catcher had gone stiff and formal in front of a reasonably famous player — a nervous type like that couldn't lie if he tried. So the words had to be true.
Really? There's a kid out there throwing a 154 km/h changeup?
I took it seriously, friendly or not. Granted, I'd been practicing my changeup, so I'd cut my fastball usage way down and thrown them roughly fifty-fifty — but I still gave every pitch my absolute best.
And yet I wasn't exactly satisfied with my stuff. Everyone else was making a fuss over the velocity, but honestly, that was the problem.
"Wow, our rookie's stuff is unreal."
"So glad you came to our team. How is anyone supposed to hit that? Listen, don't you ever go through FA or anything — when the time comes, you go to the States through the posting system, you hear me?"
The team mood was good, though, and there was no reason to sit there like a corpse at the dinner table. So I just answered with an appropriate mix of humility and thanks, wrapped an ice sleeve around my arm, and sat quietly in my seat. The changeup could be improved slowly, over the long haul.
The game was already in the seventh, 5–0. Min-hyuk and I had each thrown three scoreless innings and come down, and our hitters had put up the runs. Of course, being a friendly, the position players were rotating in and out constantly as everyone checked each other's tools — nothing worth reading too much into.
And yet one man climbed the mound through all that laxity looking wound tight as a drum.
It was Ho-yeol hyung.
Since I'd said that one thing to him that day, neither I nor Min-hyuk had gone to see him, and he'd spent the whole day practicing something. What on earth was he trying to pull this time?
The pitching coach and the battery coach, too — unlike when Min-hyuk and I took the hill — wore expressions of vague unease. Honestly, it wasn't just the coaches. Kang Hyun-seok and I were both watching with visibly anxious faces.
What exactly was taking shape inside those pitiful-looking eyes?
Ma Ho-yeol climbed the mound, steadying his pounding heart, and focused on the batter before him.
Hae Chang-sik.
Drafted in the same class as him. Not yet good enough to call a starter, but a player who'd carved out a spot on the first-team roster and, unlike him, had stayed with the Busan Giants.
For Ma Ho-yeol, whose mental game wavered at the best of times, every one of those facts hit hard, which made this a psychologically punishing opponent. Facing the heart of the Giants' lineup might actually have been easier on his nerves.
But today, of all days, Ma Ho-yeol felt genuinely full of confidence. He gritted through the tremor running from his chest down to his fingertips.
Objectively speaking, Ma Ho-yeol's ability wasn't bad. A fastball averaging 140 km/h and topping out at 147 would draw inevitable "slow for a righty" reviews — except he was a lefty, which made those numbers perfectly respectable.
He commanded that fastball to a fairly good standard and could paint the corners. True to his Busan Giants pedigree, he threw a solid splitter, and all told he could throw eight pitches — slider, curve, changeup, sinker, the works. Though "can throw" was doing a lot of work there.
On top of that, he had stamina that, while not overwhelming, was more than enough to eat starts. If he could simply steady his mentality the way everyone always hoped he would, there'd be nothing lacking about him holding down a spot in the first team.
Ma Ho-yeol recited these objective facts to himself, steadying his own nerves.
Hae Chang-sik gripped his bat and settled into the box. The pitching motion came together naturally.
Ma Ho-yeol remembered. That unusual delivery of his that started from the set position even with nobody on base. Recalling that image — the complete absence of any pause afterward — he chained the movements together, one by one.
The leg kick that didn't lift high, but swung up almost straight-legged. Complete.
The stride that spread wide not because of the angle of the driving leg but because of his long limbs. He couldn't match the reach, but the leg angle was identical. Complete.
The moment of landing, when the separated and anchored hips unlocked first, then the waist, then the shoulders — the whole body unspooling in sequence. Complete.
A true over-the-top arm slot, though not pitched from as extreme an angle as Kang Hyun-seok's — swinging through at a moderate angle. Complete.
And last, that signature long-armed release point, dragging the ball as far forward as possible. His arm was shorter, so the position wasn't the same — but the shape of the arm was identical. Complete.
The ball left his hand and buried itself dead center in the strike zone, utterly natural.
"Striiike!"
Even buried down the middle, the pitch came in so fast and with zero hesitation in the windup that Hae Chang-sik couldn't react in time. He tilted his head, wondering if the guy's delivery had always looked like that.
Chang-sik sneaked a glance toward the dugout where Kim Yi-seon was watching the game — who looked distinctly unimpressed.
Fair enough. The current form was, unmistakably, a secondhand copy — it couldn't summon even half the original's true power. He could understand why the original's owner hadn't liked it.
In truth, the old Ma Ho-yeol would have thrown it once in a real game, felt that deficiency with brutal clarity, and sunk straight into a funk.
That was always his pattern: borrow someone else's delivery, brim with confidence for exactly that one moment, then shrivel as the game went on, until by the end he felt a desperate urge to scrap the whole motion and start over.
At his worst, sweat would pour down him mid-game from a gut instinct that if he kept throwing with this form, he was going to get lit up. But that past? Goodbye and good riddance.
With a light heart, Ma Ho-yeol prepared his second pitch.
"What are those Twins guys, a circus troupe? Not a single one of them throws the ball straight."
Ninth inning. Giants at bat. But the score sat frozen at 7–0, and the offense wasn't going anywhere.
It was Noh Jun-hak's grumbling as he trudged back from the plate. You could write it off as the ugly excuse of a man who couldn't hit — but most of the Giants roster wholeheartedly agreed.
Every Twins pitcher who'd taken the mound today had been a genuine weirdo.
First, the starter, Kang Min-hyuk. The underhand delivery itself, rising from down near the ground, was unusual enough — and yet he still generated real velocity, while the ball's movement wasn't snake-level, it was eel-level. The thing practically bounced around the zone.
Then, after battling that untrackable freak pitch, the next pitcher was Kim Yi-seon.
Switching hands mid-game was headache enough and made him a nightmare to game-plan against — and on top of that, this beanpole of a kid released the ball way out in front. Paired with Min-hyuk throwing from practically the dirt, they were a half-basement and a rooftop room taking turns.
And yet even those two were complete gentlemen compared to the guy on the mound right now.
"What in the world is that."
"Looks like retired Coach Baek So-yo's old form, doesn't it?"
This time, the man was twisting his whole body almost all the way toward second base. It brought back the delivery of a former second-team pitching coach he'd only ever seen on TV. Absolutely maddening.
Ma Ho-yeol. He'd been with the Giants before joining the Twins, so they knew him to some degree. But even then, he'd been strictly a second-team spare part, a mash-notes mop-up arm — no notes on him beyond the fact that he changed his delivery a little too often.
"Strike three! You're out!"
"God, this is insane. How are you supposed to hit that?"
"Was that actually a splitter?"
"It was. Guys with low arm slots throw it with a two-seam grip, and that's what comes out."
It wasn't even a sinker — the ball dove hard down and across, carving diagonally instead of dropping straight down. A pitch built around lateral movement more than vertical.
Of course, it wasn't the first time he'd seen that kind of pitch. It's a style low-slot pitchers sometimes use as a stand-in for a circle changeup. The problem was that Ma Ho-yeol's splitter, up until literally one pitch ago, had been nothing of the sort.
"He throws from way up top. Then he throws totally ordinary but blazing fast. Then out of nowhere he twists his body until the plate's barely visible and throws. Then he kicks his leg high, freezes for a beat, and throws. Then he fakes the high leg kick, cuts it off halfway, and throws. How many deliveries does this guy HAVE?"
The form changed with every single pitch. And it wasn't just the form — the tempo of the delivery and the arm angle changed too. With every element in flux, naturally even the "same" breaking pitch came out with a completely different shape.
The four-seamer sometimes flew in dead straight depending on the arm angle, sometimes ran in like a two-seamer. The splitter dropped like the sinker it had just been — or sometimes plummeted in near-perfect vertical.
There was no getting your bearings against him. Taken pitch by pitch in isolation, none of it was all that special — but the scariest pitcher in the world is the one you're seeing for the first time. And Ma Ho-yeol, right now, was effectively a first-time pitcher on every single throw.
And the most astonishing fact of all:
"He can actually throw strikes doing that?"
"Going by where the catcher's setting up, seems like he's doing just fine."
The fact that he was mixing all those wildly different deliveries while maintaining both his balance and a consistent level of command. No — was that even possible?
The Giants players, motivation-dead as they were thanks to a scrimmage that meant nothing to the season, felt a chill run through them the moment the thought crossed their minds: we're going to have to face these lunatics once the games start counting.