How to Truly Become a Teammate (2)

"Shouldn't you be heading back by now? It's fine if you don't go in, you know."

"I have to..."

Ugh, I really don't want to go.

Seemingly too large for my tiny studio apartment, I was sprawled out on the big bed, wedged between Ye-eun on one side and Min-ah on the other, squirming around like a child throwing a tantrum. Part of it was that I didn't want to leave the two of them, but more than that—

"If it's that much of a struggle, why not just tell Seo-hee unni?"

"No. No matter what, a player meddling in team operations crosses a line."

Whatever the reason, a player who appeals to the club president to overturn a decision the manager already made is exactly the kind of story sports news feeds on.

And more importantly, Seo-hee noona has been in a slightly strange state lately. If I so much as mentioned I was struggling, she might very well terminate every foreign player's contract and bring in replacements.

The team is running smoothly right now, but if something like that actually happened, the phrase "the real power behind the throne" would stop being a joke.

"Alright. Time to go."

The minor league dorm held roll call twice in the evening—once before bedtime and once after waking up. It was just about time for the evening roll call, so my absence would be a problem. Not that it would ever actually become a problem, of course.

Leaving behind the worried eyes of the two women, I trudged back like a cow being led to the slaughterhouse.

Is there another reason I'm under this much stress? Of course there is.

"Fuck!"

CRASH! CRASH! CRASH!

Those goddamn Yankees. That's why.

The manager seems to think of the minor league dorm as some kind of dumpster, but people actually live here too. Especially since Hyeol-hyung, Daese-sunbae, and Min-jeon-sunbae—guys who were firmly unmarried and not on the first-team roster—lived at the minor league dorm...

"I mean, Bang Min-soo. Minsoo-sunbae."

"Right, Minsoo-sunbae. Anyway, isn't this going too far? When a foreign player causes trouble, either talk him down or cut him and bring in a replacement."

Kang Min-hyuk kept nitpicking my complaints over nothing. But since this guy lived in a room even closer to the foreign players' rooms than mine, he had to be under even more stress. Even now, the guy who would normally preach that bad-mouthing a teammate was wrong was sitting there in silence.

Matt Doland rampaged violently the day after every start, and even on days he wasn't starting, he'd randomly erupt out of nowhere. Every time he had one of his episodes, he'd smash the surrounding furniture to pieces, grinding everything down to powder—which is how he earned the nickname the Millstone.

Paulo Rodriguez walked around looking like a man on death's door, so depressing to look at that you'd think he'd said a final goodbye to his family. The guy does video calls with them every single day.

And above all, Walker Randle. This bastard is the biggest problem of all.

The other two at least kept their madness to themselves, but this guy was genuinely tightrope-walking the line between criminal and morally indefensible.

"What's up, rookie. So you were here. Heard from someone that there are always these sluts hanging around the training grounds. If something like this existed, you should've told me right away. What is this, hazing?"

The lunatic showed up the second his name left my mouth.

Beside me, the interpreter was fidgeting nervously, but no matter how bad I claimed my English was, that was all a Korean-style humblebrag. The TOEIC has a listening section, you know.

To be precise, I couldn't speak English, and fast speech or slang threw me off—but my ears were more or less open for business. Even right now, I couldn't catch everything he was saying, but I understood the gist of it. Which was exactly the problem.

"Mr. Interpreter. Please tell him that fans are not sluts."

Most other baseball players were hopeless at listening comprehension. They'd played nothing but baseball their whole lives, and their academic education was only slightly better than Kang Min-hyuk's—what English could they possibly speak? As a result, they all clung hardest to me, the one guy who could understand it.

The interpreter, now somewhat used to dealing with the lunatic, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠was getting proficient at it—and he rendered my intent into English with such vivid, juicy emotion that it was honestly a thing of beauty.

At that, Walker Randle focused for a moment, then threw his head back with a booming puhahaha laugh.

"That was a real funny joke, rookie. Women who follow you around claiming to be fans are mostly sluts. And Asian women too, most of them... What? Oh, that's crazy. Even this counts as racism now? Pretty soon saying black guys ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠have big dicks is gonna be racism too."

For the record, Walker Randle is white. The kind of quintessential white guy you'd picture running into in rural America. The fact that he could drop the N-word that smoothly told you everything you needed to know about what a Grade-A lunatic he was.

It's 2020, by the way. Not 1960.

The biggest problem with these sons of bitches was that those goddamn Yankees could actually play baseball. If they couldn't, we'd have cut every last one of them and brought in replacements already.

"Striiiike! Out!"

A game between the Seoul Twins and the Daegu Eagles was unfolding at home. With Gu Hyeok-sunbaenim starting for the opposition, a pretty fierce contest was expected.

But our team was holding on in what had shaped up into a tight pitching duel—and at the center of it all was Matt Doland, taking the mound as our starter.

"..."

Whatever wild antics he showed at the training grounds were nowhere to be found; on the mound, he was utterly calm and quiet. Not a word out of his mouth, just mechanically grinding through his pitches—it was genuinely impressive to watch.

His style was a bit hit-or-miss, but on a good day, Matt absolutely looked the part of a foreign ace. Even on a bad day, when he'd give up his share of runs, that machine-like demeanor let him grind out innings by hook or by crook—making him a pitcher who helped the team in all sorts of ways.

Sure, compared to the foreign starters who'd dominated last season, it fell short—but those guys were sponsored starters, while this guy was the real deal.

And so, after quietly holding the Eagles to a single run through a full seven innings, Matt returned to the dugout, where the manager greeted him.

"Good work. That'll be all for today. Any complaints?"

"No."

Before the interpreter could even do his job, Matt seemed to have gotten the gist from tone alone. He left nothing but that curt reply and walked straight into the locker room without so much as a backward glance.

As you can see, he's got a bit of an attitude—but at least he's quiet on game days, so I'll take it.

As the players watched Matt with complicated expressions, that lunatic Walker latched onto me yet again.

"Crazy Matt being this quiet. I'll never get used to it. Right?"

"Haah... Hey, you get ready to pitching, right?"

This bastard was clearly going to be the next one on the mound, so why wasn't he loosening up in the bullpen? What was he doing?

"Uh... I mean, why aren't you preparing? Whew, Korean sure is hard. Well, not as much as you, rookie, but I've got the stuff. Preparation? I'm ready right now, just like this."

With that, he went up to the mound having barely thrown a single bullpen pitch.

"Striiiike! Out!!!"

Then he came back down after throwing a genuinely perfect inning, leaving me speechless.

Did nobody check the personality of these guys when scouting foreign players?

"Yiseon-ah, has anything been hard lately? Was jumping straight into the first-team rotation too much? Should noona give the manager an earful?"

Seo-hee noona had come to the minor league dorm again today. What was it she'd said? Something about how unauthorized fans had been showing up at the minor league training grounds lately, and even though the pandemic was trending toward calming down, she couldn't let her guard down so she needed to check in person?

All excuses. She shows up saying that, and then her main activity is hanging out with me in the office and resting before she leaves.

Right now she was sitting on my lap, stroking my face.

"Your cheeks have gotten so hollow. You look like you've lost your strength. If it's hard, don't hold it in—you have to tell me, okay?"

I haven't even lost two kilograms from my preseason weight, noona. How did she even notice? Or was it just something people say?

Anyway, looking at noona's face, so full of worry, I couldn't bring myself to tell her the real reason. Seo-hee noona never used to be like this, but lately her condition has been getting stranger and stranger.

Out of nowhere she asked whether I needed a wristwatch, whether my wallet was holding up since wallets are apparently important for men—then, even after I said I was fine, she went and gifted me a watch and wallet worth millions of won, calling them "everyday items."

Then she interrogated me relentlessly about whether any coach or player was bullying me. She offered to get me a practice car if I was thinking of getting my license—and that "practice car" turned out to be a sedan from a famous overseas brand anyone would recognize just by name.

And today, she finally pressed a credit card issued in her own name into my hand, telling me to use it for daily expenses. That's past the point of awkward and into making me ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠feel like a piece of garbage man.

Anyway, with noona in this state, there was no way I could bring up this particular issue. She really might terminate all the foreign contracts on the spot and bring in replacements.

If that happened, the Twins' current upward momentum would be over. Those guys are absolute dogs, but they play damn good baseball.

Even if they didn't quite mesh with the team, or created a little dissonance, the other sunbaes just chalked it up to "that's how imports are"—so team chemistry-wise, there were no problems either.

"You know, maybe I should just move nearby. That way I could see you more often, Yiseon-ah."

"Noona, you have work to do."

"Remote work is common these days anyway. Or actually—should I relocate the whole office? That way I'd be right beside you even while working."

She's got it bad. Seriously.

After sitting quietly in my arms recharging for a good long while, Seo-hee noona suddenly sprang up, apparently finished charging.

"Alright. Time to actually do some work. Since I'm doing a walkthrough anyway, you guide me, Yiseon."

Guide her? She's been here how many times? This is just a transparent excuse to keep hanging off me—I can see right through it.

With a light sigh I stood up, and noona immediately sidled up close to me. But her expression and demeanor had shifted back to the professional Han Seo-hee. Every time I see it, her on-off switch amazes me.

And so, managing my own expression, I gave her the grand tour of the minor league facilities.

We checked the acrylic barriers for social distancing and the designated-seating markers, inspected the hand sanitizer stations and UV sterilizers, reviewed the time-slot scheduling of facility use designed to minimize contact between dorm rooms—a whole laundry list of things.

It wasn't just about checking locations, either. She heard from the staff who managed the facilities, took the players' opinions (mostly mine), looked over the quarantine facility we'd once stayed in ourselves, and even caught noona's face flushing bright red at whatever thoughts crossed her mind there. All in all, it was a pretty thorough facility inspection.

As we made our way around, a sound drifted over.

"...Fuck...!"

Oh great, here we go again.

Along with the sound of things being smashed, Matt's roars echoed faintly in the distance. Seo-hee noona, having no idea what was going on, looked bewildered.

There was no reason to explain, and it wasn't exactly a pretty sight anyway, so I made up something vague and steered us in the other direction.

"I think it's training. Some of them have a habit of shouting while they work out. Let's head the other way first."

"Really? Then maybe we should observe the training directly."

"No, they're a bit sensitive about it. You wanted to check the swimming facility too, remember?"

She doesn't act like it while wearing her professional mask, but Seo-hee noona has always been secretly wary of aggressive, violent types. Watching the way that guy behaved, I figured my own professional expression would slip too—and I deliberately avoided the area because I was genuinely afraid she might actually go and cut the imports over it.

Noona gave me a slightly suspicious look, but let it go, and we set off toward the pool.

"Hey, rookie. So the good-boy act was just an act after all. Where'd you meet a woman like that? Club staff?"

I'd run into the one guy I absolutely could not afford to meet.

Why are you out here? Isn't your daily routine scrolling dating apps after training ends or begging female fans for their contact info on social media?

Walker's eyes gleamed with outright gleeful curiosity as he looked between me and noona. Honestly, I hated it. And thinking about what was about to come out of that mouth made me hate it even more.

I could tolerate a lot of things, but talking trash about my women was not one of them. Forget the team's win streak, forget team chemistry—honestly, I felt like landing one clean punch and getting the guy cut.

Sexually harassing the club's president would surely be grounds for dismissal on its own, right? Then I wouldn't just be "the real power behind the throne"—I'd be the guy who got the franchise player fired.

So there I stood, fists clenched, waiting for the next words out of that sexual-harassment criminal's mouth.

"Hmm... You do you, man. Hey there, miss. You understand English? Watch yourself around this guy—he's bigger than he looks down there. Hahaha!"

And with that, he just walked off.

...

Walker Randle... went on his way without sexually harassing a woman? This guy, who sexually harassed the club nutritionist in her late thirties? No wait, he did say "bigger down there," so technically that counts as harassment, but still...

"So that's one of our foreign pitchers, huh? Walker Randle, was it? Pretty loose way of talking. Seems like you two are close, Yiseon-ah?"

No, noona. That guy is not the type you let slide by calling him "loose." And close? We are even further from close.

Seriously, what is going on? Why is he so tame today?

The next day, unable to contain my curiosity any longer, I did something truly exceptional: I sought out Walker Randle first.

Because that was clearly not normal, okay? The Walker Randle I'd observed over the past month since my pro debut was ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠a man who physically could not survive a single moment without sexually harassing women and being racist.

I asked the interpreter, as carefully as I could, to convey my question—while also having him hold back the details, since he hadn't been there on the scene and a misunderstanding could easily spread.

Hearing my question relayed, Walker answered breezily, as if it were nothing.

"You're asking if I knew who that woman was yesterday? Isn't she your girlfriend?"

Well, yes, that's true.

Watching him, it seemed he had no idea Seo-hee noona was the president. My very first suspicion had been whether he'd recognized her as the president and was deliberately minding his manners.

Granted, even if he'd known she was the president, making comments to her face about the size of the player standing next to her would be insane—but by Walker Randle's standards, that would count as extremely gentlemanly conversation.

Right. How often does a president and a player actually talk face to face? Usually it'd be the general manager or the head of business operations speaking with agents. It made sense he wouldn't know her face—and in fact, he didn't. So then, what was with yesterday?

As I mulled over what my next question should be, Walker said something with an air of utter incredulity.

"Hmm... If she wasn't your girlfriend, was she your wife? In that case, I get why you're puzzled. Listen here, rookie. I'm no Negro. I may be a lot of things, but I'm not so far gone that I'd make a play for a teammate's woman, no matter how hot she is."

Uh... Should I be moved by how sensible that answer was, or should I be dumbfounded that he still managed to weave racism into it?

While I stood there confused, Walker leaned in close and whispered in my ear.

"...But seriously, where the hell did you meet a woman like that? Ah, she's not really my type. I prefer a mature lady. Still—to think even in this backwater there's a way to meet women. Don't keep it to yourself, rookie. Share the method with me too."

The idiot here was me, for being even slightly touched.

From that day on, Walker came at me even more aggressively, asking about "ways to meet hot Korean women." Where the hell would I have something like that?

Even when I told him I didn't know, he kept pressing—come on, what kind of teammate doesn't share? It was a serious source of stress. I can broadly understand English, but I'm not fluent enough for free-flowing conversation.

More to the point, what kind of man as sexually tame as me gets asked about that kind of debauchery in the first place?

"Ah, so that's why you added Seo-hee unni as another girlfriend recently?"

"No, Min-ah, that's..."

One devastating counter from Min-ah, right in the middle of my venting.

Flustered, I cleared my throat loudly to collect myself, and Min-ah—apparently satisfied just seeing me embarrassed, whether or not it had been a joke—let it slide.

Wait. For the record, I do intend to take responsibility for all of them. That lunatic only thinks about responsibility-free pleasure, doesn't he? And setting the women aside, the racism is a whole other problem.

As I grumbled and moped on like that, Min-ah gently stroked my hair and whispered into my ear.

"So, this whole situation included—is he really someone you can't stand? Bad enough that cutting him outright would be better?"

"No, it's not quite that bad."

The sexual harassment and the racism were both undeniably serious, but surprisingly, he didn't cause any real harm to his teammates. Since they couldn't understand him anyway, they mostly just steered clear—and for me, who understood at least a little, his remarks had a certain dark humor to them. The problem was that the humor wasn't exactly the kind you could laugh at.

So if I had to put it into words: he's fine as a teammate, but a bad person. That kind of case.

"Then instead of just avoiding him and getting angry, why not try talking to him directly? Honestly, I mean."

"Hmm, you think that'd work?"

It comes out of him like breathing. Can that even be fixed?

"If it doesn't, then it doesn't. But these are guys you'll be playing alongside for at least a year. Try extending your hand first, oppa—and if it still doesn't work, it won't be too late to give up then."