Spring Camp (2)
The catcher for our White Team, Jang Gitae, was a player staring down forty. His bat was an embarrassment by professional standards, and his defense wasn't anything to write home about either. Then again, he was a backup catcher to begin with, and Korean baseball had never expected much offense from the position.
Not that it mattered. I'd put the ball wherever his mitt was waiting.
I'd drawn the one-two-three hitters. All of them were veterans known more for their contact skills than their power, but I wasn't particularly concerned. If anything, I was disappointed I wouldn't get a crack at Kim Junsu in the cleanup spot.
We went through a meaningless exchange of signs. This was a test, so I'd be throwing whatever the manager wanted. Fastball, obviously.
There were fans watching me live right now. Tuning into an intra-squad scrimmage that wasn't even an exhibition game — that meant they were true diehards.
To the fans who'll be with me from here on out — let me burn my presence into your minds first.
I drove a fastball at the batter's knees, inside and low. The mitt popped.
"Ball!"
That was in, wasn't it?
It had looked like a strike to me, but the umpire called it a ball. Sure, the zone was at the umpire's discretion — but if this happened in the regular season, it was going to be a problem. I collected myself and kept pitching.
The batter got a piece of my outside fastball, a sharp crack off the barrel — foul. He could make contact, all right. But a hitter who's just trying to put the bat on the ball isn't scary.
Another outside fastball, then a high heater in on the hands. He swung through it.
"Strikeout!"
All four pitches, fastballs. Always a sweet moment. A punchout was still just one out — but there wasn't a pitcher alive who didn't know the taste of a strikeout.
The second hitter nicked my first pitch and lifted an infield fly. The third went down swinging on three straight fastballs. Eight pitches, all heaters. The bench never asked for anything else.
"That's actually incredible."
"Yes, sir?"
Jang Gitae had something to say.
"I'm not kidding around. Among the lefties I've caught, there have barely been any on your level. I just checked the gun — you touched 151 km/h."
"Haha. You're too kind."
"I'm not. I can't even remember the last time I caught a fastball with that kind of weight. You could tell me it was coming and I still couldn't hit it."
"I'll keep working hard."
I kept it humble for a senior with nearly twenty years on me. It was too early to be impressed. I was only going to keep getting better.
The man running the scrimmage broadcast hadn't sounded this excited in a long time.
"Don't pull Lee Junseong yet. Tell them to leave him in."
"Sir? Then—"
"Let him face Junsu once."
Park Duseong was talking to the pitching coach. While Junseong and half the organization were already turning over how to use him, the manager just wanted to see more of that fastball.
"The stuff is clearly there. But I want to see how much of it he can show against a hitter of Junsu's caliber. Tell Gitae the battery can call it themselves this time."
"Yes, sir."
It didn't mean much, but our White Team failed to score in the top of the fourth. What did mean something was that I hadn't been taken out.
"Junseong. They say you're done after you face Junsu. Let's cook that kid properly."
"Understood."
A good opportunity had just fallen in my lap. If I looked the part against the best hitter on the club — the same Kim Junsu who'd already driven in six runs today — I'd stamp my name on this camp for good.
Baseball is a pitcher's sport, overwhelmingly so. That edge only grows when neither side has a book on the other. Just getting him out wouldn't be enough. It had to be a strikeout.
I took the mound. Kim Junsu stepped into the right-hand batter's box.
Jang Gitae put down a sign and shifted the mitt. Outside? Not a bad first pitch. This was my last battle of the day, and if a strikeout was the goal, I needed every pitch of the count.
I threw a fastball I meant to miss off the outside edge. The mitt popped.
"Ball!"
I'd wondered if he might bite. He didn't even flinch.
This time I put the fastball on the outside black.
"Strike!"
Junsu wasn't going to hack early. He was a lighthearted guy most of the time, but in the box he was a different animal — and today, by every measure, he was in the best shape of anyone on the field.
"Ball!"
Jang Gitae cocked his head. I felt about the same. That fastball had been in on the hands, and it had been a strike. Intra-squad game or not, this at-bat mattered to me. I would have liked the umpire to actually watch.
High fastball, up and in — a pitch in the zone but almost impossible to square. Kim Junsu fouled it off anyway. The crack of the bat was ugly and stubborn.
Two-and-two. This one I was going to finish.
Gitae put down curveball and set the mitt in the dirt. A curve tumbling out of the zone…
The manager had said it himself, hadn't he? You had to be able to throw the curve as a chase pitch if you wanted to survive. Survival wasn't what I was after — but if it meant better numbers, I'd follow the script for now.
"Whoa there!"
Kim Junsu started the bat forward, then held up, the sound coming out of him easy and theatrical. Full count. I really hated walking hitters — but now what? No matter how fine you tried to be, you could never put a strike exactly where you wanted it a hundred percent of the time.
Gitae put a sign down. High fastball in on the hands again. Good choice. Unless I left it over the heart of the plate, it wouldn't be a hit — and at three-and-two, it was the kind of pitch a hitter couldn't lay off.
Another foul. The bat found it again.
Damn, he's stubborn.
I was the one being hunted now. Should I just jam a fastball down his throat? Even Kim Junsu couldn't keep putting the barrel on it forever.
Gitae called for the curve, then set the mitt on the outside corner. A curveball in the zone, here? If he didn't bite, I was giving up extra bases.
I let out a breath.
Fine. Nothing in this world is a sure thing. Sometimes you just have to pull the trigger.
The ball popped into the mitt, painted on the outside black.
"Strikeout!"
Kim Junsu froze. He couldn't even speak. Jang Gitae was shouting like we'd just won a pennant. Come on — was this the postseason? I was happy too, of course. But still.
"Pitching change!"
The coach flashed the sign. I drew one more breath and came down off the mound.
"Nice pitch! I knew you'd throw it. It's not just the fastball — that curve is a finished pitch."
"Thank you. You called a great game."
Gitae was talking to me like a man who'd just had the best afternoon of his spring. Even I had to admit the at-bat had been a good one.
"Hey. You're throwing a curveball there?"
Kim Junsu had found his voice.
"Go at him like a man with the heater! A guy who throws 150 playing like some crafty veteran?"
"Hahaha…"
"Junsu, it's cold. Just go sit down."
Gitae cut him off. There was enough mischief in Junsu's voice that I couldn't take it personally — and I already knew that whether he was behind me on defense or standing in against me, there was no one on this club I'd rather have.
I was a talent-over-character guy anyway. It wasn't as if my own character was anything to brag about.
"Lee Junseong!"
"Skip?"
Park Duseong had called my name.
"…Thank you."
Was I allowed to take that as confirmation I'd made the first team? The opening day roster was still a long way off — but if it wasn't me, who else was going to pitch up there? Even the first- and second-round kids didn't look all that impressive.
If anything, the two first-rounders from other clubs who'd gone to the same school as me until recently — Baek Jaeseong and Gu Gyeongmin — looked more polished to my eye. Moments like this really drove home just how brutal the baseball program I'd come from had been.
But that didn't matter anymore. The pros would be different.
"Thank you for your hard work!"
The younger players bowed out to the veterans in one voice.
The six-inning scrimmage ended White 3, Red 8. The score hadn't moved much from where it sat when I was on the mound, though both sides had swapped in their regulars after I came out — something I hadn't even noticed at the time.
I hadn't been paying attention, but Bae Junmin, the one I'd run into at the department store, hadn't made the spring camp roster at all. Strange thing, that. A first-rounder in his second year, still being handled like this? Did the fans not have anything to say?
We weren't close, and he'd take a roster spot eventually if they just left him alone, so it wasn't my problem. Still — he'd be a real asset if they brought him up to the first team.
Damn it. Watching how they handled Bae Junmin made me afraid they'd use me just as strangely. At this rate, when was I ever going to get to play as a two-way player? It wasn't a quest. I had to break into the rotation and get at-bats. Neither was going to be easy.
In the manager's office at the Seoul Dragons' Arizona camp, Park Duseong and his coaches were in a meeting.
"Tell Baek Juseong and Park Yeongjin they're starting in the minors. Albert, Josh, and Kim Junhyeok are locked in through the three-spot. Four and five stay open until spring."
"We're deciding this before the exhibition games have even started?"
"There's nothing more to see. Junhyeok might lose his head now and then, but he knows how to pitch to a scoreboard, so he stays locked in this year too. And I don't see a starter among the rookies, no matter how I look at it."
"What about Lee Junseong?"
"The talent is tremendous, but it's too early to use him as a starter. That said, he looks big-league ready as a high-leverage reliever, so let's put him on the opening day roster."
"…Understood."
They called it a meeting, but they were all Park Duseong's people, and it ran about as one-sided as that would suggest.
"Skip — what about Bae Junmin? He won the batting title in the minors last year."
The coach who'd been watching Bae Junmin closest was the one who asked.
"I already told you. If he doesn't change that bizarre swing, he doesn't get a chance. And it's not like he played every game — what's a batting title even worth?"
"He didn't look like he had any intention of changing. I don't think there's a compromise coming…"
"A kid who talks back only poisons the clubhouse. Gang Daeho and Kim Junsu don't talk back to me — who does he think he is? And our outfield is already packed. Giving an opportunity to a guy who can't even play defense would take a serious leap of faith."
"…Understood."
"Good. If Junyong holds his stuff this season and Lee Junseong delivers what we expect once the games count, that's Lee Junseong–Han Yongjun–Go Junyong. Strongest bullpen in the league."
Go Junyong, the Dragons' right-handed closer, had taken the saves title two years running. Han Yongjun contended for the holds crown every season.
"I've got a really good feeling about this year. The lineup's even stronger, and a golden goose just rolled into the pitching staff. All that's left is to keep the clubhouse in line and run the team."
The Seoul Dragons coaching meeting ended in the same autocratic, one-sided optimism it had begun with.
A brief visit wouldn't mean much anyway.
What was she going to take care of on her own? And just you wait — was that what I thought it was?
Whether it was because I felt I had nothing more to show, or because I couldn't see Yu Suhyeon as much as I wanted, I found myself just waiting for opening day. The days in between felt tedious.
But that didn't mean I could slack on training. The blessing I'd been given offered possibilities that bordered on infinite.
Whatever role they handed me, I was confident. The first goal was Rookie of the Year. Once I'd made myself indispensable to this team, I'd demand more opportunities.