Why the Hell Would You Bunt There?!
Was she actually going to pull this off?
I sized the situation up soon enough. Ah. This woman was trying to hit on me.
So… now what?
My immunity to women had gone up a little, sure, but dealing with them was still the hard part. I'd gotten used to Choi Yeram, more or less — that was fine. A connection that dropped out of the sky like this, though, was custom-built to fluster me.
"No, thank you. I'm fine."
I turned her down as politely as I could.
She did not back off.
"I'll take a really cool shot of you. I'm good at photos."
"I'll just ask my companion to take it."
"Ah! So you came with someone. Just the two of you? We're two as well — want to watch the game together?"
I was thoroughly rattled. I had already said no, and she still would not yield. I kept my voice as even as I could and pressed on.
"I came with a woman."
"Ah, a woman. Not your girlfriend, though?"
"He is my boyfriend, actually."
That answer had not come from me.
The voice came from behind. I turned my head and found Kim Sehee standing there with a chicken box and a cup carrier in her arms.
"That's my seat. Would you mind moving?"
"Ah — yes. Sorry."
At some point the pickup artist had parked herself in the seat beside mine. When had she even sat down? It had been so natural I hadn't noticed at all.
One sharp line from Kim Sehee and the woman tucked her neck in and retreated. She had dug in and refused to leave when I turned her down, and then vanished on a single word from Sehee. The way she scurried off, she must have been embarrassed.
Kim Sehee set the food on the table and sat down.
"There's clearly stuff on the seat, and they still just go for it if it's a guy. I swear."
She grumbled as she opened the chicken box. The smell of freshly fried chicken rose up and went straight for my nose.
"Ah. Oppa."
"Hm?"
"What I said just now — calling you my boyfriend — that was just to get rid of her fast. If you don't say girlfriend, some people will keep coming at you whether you've got company or not."
"Yeah. I got it."
She didn't even have to explain. If Sehee hadn't driven her off like that, I might have been harassed for the rest of the day.
"Let's just eat the chicken."
"Yes, sir."
The second inning started, and we each picked up a piece. Kim Sehee took a drumstick. I took the breast.
"Thanks for the food."
"It's Yeram unnie's card, so you don't have to thank me."
"You're the one who went and got it."
"Hehe. Then please enjoy."
"Yeah."
The crisp batter cracked between my teeth. That rich, greasy crunch of a proper fry. It was good. Genuinely good. No wonder people got fat.
"Oppa, drink something too."
"Ah — yeah."
Kim Sehee held out a clear plastic cup, and the liquid inside was black.
Cola…?
She was handing me cola? This lump of sugar?
I looked at her. She smiled.
"It's zero."
"Oh. Thanks."
Her instincts were unreal. I relaxed and drank the zero cola. For today, at least, no thinking about calories.
We sat there in the stands, watching baseball live, and enjoyed fried chicken and soda like ordinary people.
The caster called the game, and the people watching that broadcast — Eagles fans and Bears fans alike — hammered the chat in real time.
Through the jeers and the cheers, Bears batter Han Hyun-joo swung.
Crack!
The ball jumped off the sweet spot of the bat and carried deep. The impatient fans were already on their feet, screaming home run.
It was an out — but there was more than enough time for the runner at third to tag and come home. Through Advanced Baseball, the Bears took a one-run lead.
The broadcast ran the scoring play again and again — the catch, the runner tagging, the crowd exploding. And in among those shots was a man in an Eagles uniform wearing a thoroughly sour face, and beside him a woman in a Bears uniform bouncing up and down like her feet had forgotten the ground.
The caster, sharing that shot with the nation, kept going.
While the caster and the color commentator tossed the bit back and forth, the chat window lost its mind.
The shot of Park Beomjun scowling at the Eagles as they gave up the run was clipped, titled Long-Suffering Eagles Male God, and sent wandering through community after community. Streaming forums were among them.
Within seconds, the viewer count in the Eagles–Bears game broadcast jumped by two thousand.
Bottom of the eighth.
A razor-thin 1–0 game was still hanging on. Three outs left. The Eagles' last chance to hit.
The Bears' closer stepped onto the mound, and the scoreboard lit up with her numbers.
ERA 1.08
Saves: 28 | Blown Saves: 1
A lock-down closer so reliable Kim Sehee could snipe at me from the next seat without a shred of fear. The moment she appeared, the game was as good as over.
I did not let go of hope. I believed — stubbornly, completely — that our Eagles were going to win this.
"It's not over yet."
"It's obviously over, though~."
I was angry. I was genuinely angry. That little tilde was going to be the death of me.
Please, Eagles. Just this once. Score two runs. You're clinging to a one-run lead like it's a fortress — wipe that smug look right off Kim Sehee's face!
Maybe someone up there heard me.
Crack!
The leadoff batter slapped a single and settled in at first.
"NICE!!"
I shot up out of my seat and clapped. A clean single, first pitch off the new arm.
"It's just one hit. Whatever."
Kim Sehee needled me from right beside my elbow. I ignored her.
The next batter stepped in. The three-hole. The heart of the order. Nobody on earth asks the middle of the lineup to bunt. One big swing. Everyone in the building was waiting for a go-ahead two-run shot.
And then—
Tok—
The ball glanced off the top of the bat and dribbled straight back at the pitcher. She stabbed at it, dropped it, snatched it up again, and fired to second, then first.
"Hah—!"
The curse tore out of my mouth, and beside me Kim Sehee sucked in a sharp breath. I could feel her jump at the sudden roughness, but I did not have a scrap of attention left to spare for her.
A terrible decision that erased a precious runner. It wasn't even a called play. A squeeze bunt — no, a surprise bunt on the batter's own judgment, that much was obvious. You're the three-hole hitter. You're supposed to think about driving the runner home with extra bases, not laying one down. If it had worked, fine. It had failed spectacularly.
One out left. The cleanup hitter stepped in, and I expected nothing. A batting average barely over .100 across her last five games. You could just call it dead and be done.
I dropped back into my seat.
Why… why couldn't the Eagles ever be happy? Why?
I hung my head and stared blankly at the concrete under my feet.
And then—
Thud!
A dull, vivid sound carried all the way to the stands.
"Aagh!"
"Hit by pitch!"
A dead ball. The cleanup hitter clutched her side and went down in the dirt. She was pulled immediately; a pinch runner took first, and the five-hole hitter walked in.
"No way……"
I hadn't expected anything, and that was exactly why expectation came flooding back. I hadn't thought it would keep going, which was the only reason I had decided it was over.
The five-hole hitter. Season average .264 — ordinary in a pitching-dominated year — but a slugging percentage over .700. More pop than the cleanup hitter. One swing in her.
This…
"It's not over."
The instant the failed bunt was ruled a double play, the broadcast cut to a slow-motion replay of one particular fan's howl of despair.
That, too, was clipped and sent spreading through the communities.
And just like that, Park Beomjun started putting a face to a name — not only in the streaming communities, but among baseball fans as well.