The End of Senior Year (1)
Something unpleasant had happened — no, more than a little unpleasant — but I made it home anyway. There were worse things waiting for me, after all.
The moment I walked through the door, I filed a police report. The detective told me not to worry too much. It had been a major accident, he said, so they'd have the guy in custody soon enough.
It was attempted murder, more or less. Since I'd somehow come back alive, the bastard probably wouldn't catch the full weight of the law. Still beat being dead. I wanted news as fast as possible — but I couldn't just sit still until then. I didn't have that kind of time.
Tomorrow I'd be back with the baseball team. Not that I'd ever actually missed practice, so "back" wasn't quite the right word. But I had changed. Without anyone to catch for me, I hadn't even been able to confirm how much. Just picturing the kind of power Babe Ruth's blessing might unleash was enough to send a thrill through me.
"The Vermilion Flag finals aren't far off, so don't any of you dare let your guard down. Three years of hard work are about to come to an end."
Before practice, the head coach gathered the whole team for a speech. Three years of hard work. From where he was standing, was I not even a player? I'd never liked the man, but now that a Baseball Immortal had said it out loud — that I'd simply never been given a chance — the irritation cut deeper.
Was I supposed to swallow that as providence and move on? Sure, I wasn't the only ballplayer in the world with pro-level stuff and no opportunity to show it. History was littered with guys like that. But that was history, and this was my mood, and my mood was foul.
Fine. I'd show them what I could do. Give me even a single inning and I'd forget every grudge I'd been carrying. As for a chance at the plate — the head coach had shut that down every time. Probably not happening.
"Junseong."
"Yes, Coach."
Kim Jinho, our batting coach, had called me over.
"How are you feeling today?"
"Never better."
Asking how I was feeling was just Kim Jinho's habit.
"You seem a little different."
"Do I? I don't know. I just feel like I've got energy to burn today."
"Haha. Must be nice being young. Hey — you got a minute?"
"Yes, sir."
It was practice time, but if a coach wanted to talk, that was fine. Whatever it was seemed important enough that he brought me inside and sat me down.
"Junseong. Have you thought about what comes next?"
I didn't answer. I already knew where this was going. The whole conversation started from the premise that I wasn't going pro.
"Don't worry about college. A player at your level will get in just fine, and we'll write you a recommendation."
College.
"There are plenty of left-handers in the pros who throw slower than I do."
"Still can't let it go, huh. I thought we'd agreed that at the high school level, you have to be able to groove one right down the middle and still get away with it."
He said it like that, but nobody in this program looked out for me the way Kim Jinho did. He'd had a decent run as a pro himself. People said that if he'd had any appetite for politics, he wouldn't be coaching a high school team — he'd be on a big-league staff. He was the one who'd gone to the head coach and argued for converting me to a hitter, then poured himself into coaching me up. That wasn't something you did out of casual kindness.
"I haven't let it go. I don't have a reason to."
"So you're aiming for a developmental contract?"
"No. I intend to get drafted."
"Hah..."
He let out a breath that said I was exhausting him. I didn't particularly want to give the man a headache, even for a minute. Time to show him what I could actually do.
"Coach. I think my pitching has changed recently. Would you take a look?"
"Your pitching? That's the pitching coach's job."
"I figured it only counts if the change is obvious enough that anyone can see it."
It was a half-baked argument, and I wasn't sure how he'd take it. Even if I really had changed overnight, it wouldn't mean a thing unless the person watching was someone who could actually help me. One thing I'd learned in this program was that most people did not bend. Baseball, as far as I was concerned, was the most conservative sport in the world when it came to the men in charge.
"All right. You look confident enough. Let's see how much you've changed."
"Thank you."
Kim Jinho and I stood up and headed for the pitching cages. I got loose as fast as I could and came back with my glove.
"Go ahead. Throw."
"Yes, sir. Fastball first."
It was my first real throw in front of anyone. I probably should have gotten some work in on my own beforehand. But I was sure enough of myself that I wanted someone — anyone — to see it as soon as possible.
The fastball smashed into the cage target with a heavy crack. I was a pitcher, so command mattered as much as velocity, and I put something extra into locating it. The gun read 148 km/h. Unofficial, but it was a new personal best.
"That was a strike, right?"
Not that it meant much without a batter in the box.
"It was. The velocity's one thing, but there's more weight on it than before."
It was only a cage session, so his reaction stayed pretty measured.
"You know, you're the first kid I've met who can sit 145 to 150 and still lose sleep over the draft. If you played the outfield, you'd have a cannon for an arm..."
"Ahem."
I hadn't come out here to hear that. Hitting could wait. Establishing myself as a pitcher came first.
"Haha. There I go again. Throw a few more."
I showed him two more fastballs.
"147, and 148 again! Command's perfect too. What, you been eating some kind of miracle tonic?"
"I don't know. Starting a little while ago, the ball just started coming out of my hand with real life on it."
If a tonic like that actually existed, you couldn't put a price on it.
"So that's where the confidence was coming from. All right — breaking balls."
"Yes, sir."
I settled into my curveball grip. The way it came off my fingers felt incredible. With the jump in grip strength and wrist power, I could throw the curve as hard and as clean as the fastball. It snapped down and hammered the target.
"That's a sharp break. You can see the stuff on it from here. If you can land a curve like that in the zone consistently..."
"I didn't expect to change this much either."
The truth was I could barely keep the excitement down. If I was already this good, I couldn't even imagine what I'd look like once I put on real muscle in a weight program.
Next up was my third pitch, the slider? No. I already had more than enough to eat hitters alive with the fastball and the curve. I'd keep building the slider on the side. Ruth had said that my talent and his blessing together could make me the best — could, not would. I still had to grow this the right way, step by step.
"Fastball and curve. You throw those two the way you just did and you'll get people out right now."
Kim Jinho was thinking the same thing I was.
"Yes, sir. I'm sure of it."
He threw his head back and laughed.
"I'm going to go tell the head coach right now. You live long enough, you really do see everything."
He left the cages practically buzzing. I hadn't even had to ask. He was already moving the pieces for me. Showing him first had been the right call.
It was the finals, but our roster was far stronger on paper. The game would be decided by the fifth, more or less, and I'd get at least an inning. Show them something then and I had a real shot. I wasn't asking for an early round. Last pick of the draft, sneaking in before they shut the door — that would be enough.
"Coach. It's Kim Jinho."
"Come in."
Park Jiman, head coach of Seongsan High School, was sitting in his office.
"What's all the fuss about?"
Kim Jinho wasn't a man who put on airs, but he wasn't the type to get worked up over nothing either.
"I just came from watching Junseong throw."
"Junseong? Lee Junseong?"
"That's right. He said something had changed recently, so I took a look. He's a completely different pitcher. That fastball of his has real weight on it now — you can see it with the naked eye — and the command looks like it's clicked too."
"You're telling me you ran a scrimmage while I wasn't around?"
"No. I stood next to him in the cages and watched him throw."
"Hah..."
Park Jiman let out a long breath.
"Listen, Coach Kim. I'm not saying you'd make something up. But everybody has a day when they feel unusually good. You come running to me with every one of those and we'll be here all year. You know that."
"If you'd seen it yourself, I think you'd feel differently."
"Fine. Let's say that's true. What is it you actually want? You want me to use him in the finals?"
Park Jiman had cut straight to it. Of course he had. There was no other reason to bring up a player who wasn't in the plans.
"...Yes."
"All right. We'll do it your way."
"Sorry?"
The easy agreement caught Kim Jinho completely off guard.
"From the sixth inning on, and only if we're up by seven or more. No exceptions."
Kim Jinho turned it over. The fact that Park Jiman was even talking about using him was already more consideration than expected. But the conditions were a joke. Seongsan High School had the far stronger roster, yes — but this was baseball. Nobody could guarantee a lead like that.
As far as Kim Jinho could tell, the head coach had no real intention of watching Lee Junseong pitch. And even if he did, he'd write it off as a lucky day.
"We'll go with that for now. Of course, if you see him yourself, I think you'll change your mind."
"Who I put on the mound is my call. Remember that. If that's everything, you can go."
Kim Jinho left the office under a thin film of tension.
I kept practicing. If things went according to plan and I made it to the pros, a real training program would be waiting for me. Until then, I had to do what I could with what I had. I'd already run dozens of laps, and unlike before, I wasn't getting tired. Durability might be another story, though. I needed to be careful.
"Junseong."
"Coach."
Kim Jinho was back from his meeting with the head coach. His face didn't look good. Had it fallen through? Was I not even going to get a chance to throw?
"He said he'll put you in during the finals — after the fifth inning, if we're up by seven or more."
"...I see."
I'd figured that even if I got a look, it would only be once the game was already in hand. I just hadn't expected him to put actual conditions on it.
"I'm sorry. If he'd actually seen you throw, I think he would have felt differently."
"I understand."
I was pissed, honestly. But I was in no position to show it. There was nothing a guy at the bottom of the ladder could do by making a scene.
"I'm in the middle of a run. Mind if I do a few more laps?"
"Huh? Yeah. Go ahead."
I went back to running, trying to clear my head. For planning purposes, an appearance in the finals was off the table. If it depended on luck, it didn't belong in the plan. So what now?
"We'll be in your care!"
The players, myself included, lined up and bowed. The Vermilion Flag finals had arrived. Our opponent was Jeul High — a team that had clawed its way here the hard way, unlike us, who'd steamrolled through the semis.
Today's starter was Gu Gyeongmin, who was all but locked in as the first overall pick in this year's draft. We had another top-round arm in Baek Jaeseong, but he'd been complaining of fatigue and wasn't going tonight. Jeul High wasn't going to solve Gu Gyeongmin. The only question was how many runs our lineup would put up.
Out!
End of the top of the fifth. Our at-bats had gone nowhere.
"Ah, goddamn it!"
Park Jiman's voice cracked through the dugout loud enough to make every guy on the bench jump. The score at the bottom of the fifth: Seongsan High School 1, Jeul High 5.
Gu Gyeongmin had come off the mound in the first inning complaining of back pain. His draft slot was already secure. There was no justification for pushing him. The arms that came on unprepared got picked apart. They weren't the kind of soft tossers who'd just hand over five runs, but every ball the other team hit found a hole and trickled through. Our hitters, meanwhile, squared everything up right at a fielder. Anytime somebody reached, the clutch hit refused to come.
This is how it all unravels?
Even from the bench, I could feel the game tightening around my throat.
"Hey. After the leadoff guy it's five lefties, right?"
"Yes, that's right."
Park Jiman was asking the pitching coach.
"Gye Junsik! Get to the bullpen."
"Yes, sir."
Our left-hander Gye Junsik grabbed his glove and headed for the pen. If that guy hadn't been on the roster this year, I might have gotten a decent number of looks. Of course, I'd also blown the few chances I'd had last year...
"Coach. Give Lee Junseong a chance."
Kim Jinho said it to the head coach, at least keeping his voice down enough that the whole bench didn't hear.
"We're in an all-hands situation and you're bringing that up?"
Fuck.
This involved me, sure — but did Kim Jinho look like the kind of man who'd ask for a favor without thinking it through? He was asking because he believed I'd do a better job of keeping them off the board. There had been time before the finals. They could have at least run a scrimmage. Instead the head coach was twisting himself in knots trying not to look bad. Lose the game and it's a humiliation. Ride Gu Gyeongmin too hard and the back injury becomes a scandal. No wonder his head hurt.
Ball!
It got worse. Whatever Gye Junsik had eaten this morning, he walked the first two hitters he faced on balls.
The head coach's face was a fuse burned down to the powder.
"Lee Junseong! Get to the bullpen."
I stared at him, stunned.
"Coach!"
Kim Jinho looked even happier than I felt.
"If Gye Junsik lets one more man on, you're going in. Lee Junseong! Go after strikeouts however you can. Pound it right down the middle."
"Yes, sir."
I answered and headed for the pen. I didn't thank him.
Walk!
Bases loaded, nobody out. If the lead stretched any further from here, even if this bizarre run of bad luck suddenly vanished, we weren't coming back.
Pitching change!
My last chance to take a high school mound. A crisis for the team, and an opportunity for me, arriving as the same thing. I hadn't gotten nearly enough throws in the pen, which was a shame — but nothing about my situation was going to be perfect anytime soon.
I stepped onto the mound. All right. Time to shock everyone here.