The End of the Third Year (Part 2)

"Hyung, just pump it right down the middle. You know they've only been getting lucky so far, right? These guys are nothing."

That was Jin Gyeongwan, our starting catcher. I'd repeated a year — and repeating was common enough in high school baseball — but he still called me hyung. He was a good kid.

"Don't worry about it. I'm feeling pretty good today."

Gyeongwan headed back behind the plate, and we exchanged signs. Fastball, of course.

Bases loaded, nobody out — the most suffocating situation a pitcher can walk into off the bench. I was overflowing with confidence anyway. I settled into my delivery and let it fly. My body hadn't fully loosened up in the bullpen, but the feel was unlike anything I'd ever had. The best of my life.

Pop!

"Strike!"

The old me might have grooved one. Not anymore. I had no intention of serving it up down the middle. My fastball drilled into the tight inside corner, right on the batter's hands.

Pop!

A high fastball, a little up from the hands — and the batter swung through it completely. Now I had breathing room. I used to throw my mid-to-upper 140s fastball with my heart in my throat. Now I could put it wherever I wanted.

Pop!

"Strikeout!"

Gyeongwan did the celebrating for me. Bases loaded, nobody out had become bases loaded, one away. Not that it meant much. From the moment I stepped on that mound, I was certain I could turn any batter around.

The next hitter stepped in. Another lefty. Someone announced his name. I didn't care. But for this one, I figured I'd show him something different.

147 km/h. 148 km/h. He swung through both fastballs in a row. Bases loaded, so of course he was thinking he'd put something in play no matter what. Not a chance. I shook off Gyeongwan's sign and went to the curveball. Time to pitch to my own rhythm.

"Strikeout!"

My curve filled up the outside corner, and the batter who'd been hunting for any kind of contact froze solid in the box.

"Strikeout!"

Lee Junseong struck out three batters on ten pitches and pulled the team out of a bases-loaded, nobody-out disaster.

"Incredible! See? I told you! Junseong's clearly different now — no, he's awakened."

"Well. We got through the jam, at least."

Kim Jinho turned to the head coach, practically buzzing, and Park Jiman answered with his usual indifference.

"If this was only meant to be a short stint, shouldn't we get the bullpen going?"

"Leave him in for now. His stuff is legit today, so let's ride it. With that kind of velocity, we can wait until he allows a baserunner before we start warming anyone up."

Park Jiman answered the pitching coach with cold, clean calculation. Even from where he sat, Junseong's stuff today was genuinely extraordinary. With that kind of life on the ball, he could hold even if the velocity dipped a little.

Junseong, you did it. You look like you were born to hit, too, but… it can't be helped.

Telling a pitcher with that kind of stuff to become a hitter was absurd. In his heart, Coach Kim Jinho quietly erased one hitting prospect from the board.

Tsk. I could've opened with a nine-pitch, three-strikeout perfect inning if that idiot umpire hadn't called my perfect outside fastball a ball. Took a little wind out of my sails, but this should be more than enough to keep the coach from pulling me. If anything, getting jobbed all game is why we're losing — which means I get a longer outing.

And if I can pick up the win on top of it…

I'll keep them off the board. Earn your keep, you hitters.

Crack!

The wooden bat rang with an unusually clean, bright sound. The umpire signaled home run. Our leadoff man had smashed a massive shot over the right-field wall.

Top of the sixth. The deficit was down to three.

"Looks like your pitching gave everyone some confidence, hyung."

"Yeah, right."

I answered Gyeongwan curtly, but I was in a pretty good mood. Being the ace who commanded the team's absolute trust — that was something I'd dreamed about since I was a kid.

"Out!"

The sides changed. No more runs, unfortunately. But you could tell the tension had eased, just a little, all the way down the bench.

"Let's go."

"Yes!"

I headed back to the mound. If they didn't pull me, I'd be hitting next inning too. From up here, I could see the batter's expression with startling clarity. My eyesight felt sharper than before, somehow. Not that it mattered. Whatever face they made, whatever name walked into the box — none of it had anything to do with me today.

I retired the side in order. The last batter made a ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠half-hearted pass at my first pitch and grounded out, so the strikeout parade stopped at five.

Top of the seventh, I stepped into the on-deck circle. Because Gu Gyeongjin, the original starter, could hit a little too, I'd slid into the cleanup spot.

Crack!

A clean double from Jin Gyeongwan — our catcher, and the three-hole hitter.

"Hoo…"

I'm not a bad hitter. But somewhere along the way I'd become a one-inning guy even in high school, so I'd barely seen an at-bat in years. I trusted my team, but it was the top of the seventh. We needed something that actually counted.

The pitcher was a righty. Did he know? I was especially dangerous against right-handers.

"Ball!"

An outside fastball missed. Power was surging through my body. I felt like I could crush anything they threw. So what was the second pitch going to be?

Crack!

Tsk. It was a well-struck ball, but the launch angle was too low, and it was headed right where the second baseman could glove it with an outstretched arm. Inside curveball. I'd been timed up for a fastball — and I'd timed the curve anyway.

"Ah—!"

I heard the opposing second baseman's startled cry. My hard-hit liner just ticked off the edge of his glove. Whether you're throwing or hitting, power is what matters.

Nobody out, runners on the corners. Gyeongwan isn't particularly fast to begin with, and the ball was hit too hard for him to score. All right. Chance for more.

Crack!

The instant I saw the ball leave the bat, I ran without looking back. I rounded third and stepped on home. The outfielder didn't even think about throwing to the plate.

A two-RBI stand-up triple. The score was within one, nobody out, runner on third. This game was going to end as our win. I high-fived Gyeongwan, who was waiting at the plate, and headed back to rest.

"Hey. Lee Junseong."

"Yes?"

Coach Park Jiman had called my name.

"Can you go the rest of ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the way?"

"…Of course."

"Hahaha."

Park Jiman had the look of a man already sure of the result.

"All right — forget the current score and let's demolish them. We need at least ten runs to save face, don't we?"

Coach Kim Jinho was rallying the bench.

"Yes!"

The players answered with a roar. The whole atmosphere had flipped. This was a scene I wanted to keep seeing.

End of the top of the ninth. Seongsan High 9, Jaeul High 5.

I got one more at-bat and ripped a double. High school farewell game as a hitter: two-for-two. Not bad. Of course, who knew when I'd get another at-bat…

I climbed the mound one last time. Their dugout already looked resigned. The talent gap had been pretty wide to begin with. Over four innings I'd racked up ten strikeouts without allowing a single hit or walk. This game was already slipping out of my interest. I wanted to get to the pros already — to pitch, to grow, to become something even bigger.

With the heart of a lion hunting a frightened deer, I erased the bottom of the ninth.

— Out! —

"Waaaaah!!!!"

The last batter made contact. Result: fly out to first. I took the championship more calmly than I expected, but I could see Gyeongwan and the others charging me from every direction.

"What the hell happened to you?"

"Did you meet the god of baseball or something?"

The guys wrapping me up in a hug were talking over each other. Not a god. But I had met an immortal.

From the dugout, Coach Kim Jinho gave me a thumbs-up. The head coach, like me, wore a composed expression. I guess that's what years on the job look like.

I'd had a lot of complaints. I still thought they were justified. But I silently thanked him for at least giving me five innings. On this championship game's starting roster, the only name drawing any draft attention had been Gu Gyeongjin. His injury might even be a bigger headline than my strikeout show. Still — I'd done everything I was supposed to do. The rest was up to the heavens.

The next day, after some rest, I went through the news.

There was more mention of me than I'd expected. Daejeon Phoenix fans — whose signing of Gu Gyeongjin had been all but locked in — were blasting the coach over the back injury. A few people wondered out loud whether Gu Gyeongjin had been faking it, but they were a minority. I didn't know the truth either.

Hmm. This wasn't enough. I pulled up a major baseball forum and searched my own name.

Let's see. Lee Junseong… as far as I know there aren't any other active players with the same name.

About the reactions I'd expected. Even in the majors, a pitcher who can barely hold a rotation spot will throw a shutout now and then — a no-hitter, even a perfect game, once in a while. That's baseball. People talk about the importance of a single big performance, but that only applies to guys who've already proven they can do it consistently.

Still, like that last comment said, I believed there would be a team willing to scratch me as a late-round lottery ticket. And if that didn't happen, I'd eat the lost money and time and go the developmental-player route. It would sting a little, sure. But I already knew what I could do.

The draft wasn't far off. Might as well set out a prayer bowl and wait.

Hm?

My phone was ringing. Oh — the detective I'd spoken to last time. Had they finally closed it?

"This is Lee Junseong."

"I appreciate all the work. What kind of person was he?"

"What?"

Jesus. I really got mixed up with a psycho. Good riddance, you piece of shit.

"Jeong Gijun?"

Jeong Gijun? That lunatic who took my pitch, retired, and disappeared — that Jeong Gijun?