"It's a day without a game, he should just sleep in…."
I knew he would come running over the instant I answered, so this was the only way I could draw the line. It had already been several months that I'd been avoiding him.
I didn't answer any of his calls or texts, and even if we happened to meet at a game, I would flee home as soon as it ended.
Anyone else would find it strange. They would probably think I'd skipped town with his money, for a player like Woo Seung-geon, who had played his whole career in the Major Leagues, to be contacting someone on a different team this obsessively.
I didn't want to go into a long-winded explanation for others, and I hated the idea of him getting caught up in gossip because of me.
Especially now, after his return to Korea, there were plenty of malicious people watching with eagle eyes, just waiting for him to slip up.
Right now, it was fine; Woo Seung-geon, who confidently said whatever he pleased, was proving everything with his skills. But the first half of the season was ending soon.
The All-Star Game, an event where popular players from each team are selected and split into two teams, was being held next week.
After this brief break, the second half of the season would begin, sparking the war among the top-ranked teams for a ticket to the postseason.
By then, the strain on Woo Seung-geon's shoulder might build up, and his performance might not be what he wants.
I didn't want to give those people—the ones who would see it as their chance to tear him down—any ammunition.
If his career was tarnished in any way because of me, I would never be able to forgive myself.
Beep.
Ignoring Woo Seung-geon's contacts, I sent a message to the pitching coach.
[Coach, hello. Are you at the ballpark by any chance? I just got to the practice facility and was wondering if you could take a look at my form.]
The reply came immediately.
[Sure.]
I had been worried he might refuse, maybe due to a coaches' meeting, but I was able to let out a sigh of relief.
This wasn't the time to be worrying about someone else.
As of now, our team had very few injured players.
That meant everyone was managing their condition well, which in turn meant there wouldn't be many games for me to enter as a backup.
That was the reason I needed to worry more about the pitching staff's condition than my own skills.
I was a mop-up reliever.
I wasn't even aiming for a starter position. It would be nice just to be part of the high-leverage bullpen, to get a save or a hold. But mine was a role where my personal stats wouldn't improve, no matter how many times I took the mound.
Coaches would try to encourage players like me with words like:
"Mop-up duty? No! You're the long relief! A baseball team has to lose well, too. That way, there's no burden for the next game!"
I knew my position better than anyone.
It was a position where I couldn't be greedy about what I had to do.
'I'm a pitcher who has to throw for the sake of the starting rotation. Rather than sending in the bullpen's key players in a lost game and straining their arms, it's right to use players like me, where it doesn't matter if we lose.'
I knew my role was to 'lose well!' but it was a sad thing to have to play a game in order to lose.
In this world, you prove your worth with your performance, but I was in a position with no performance stats left to my name.
I quickly shook my head to clear it.
"That's just spoiled whining. I'm lucky just to be playing in the first-string."
I didn't have time to be trapped in an inferiority complex and self-pity.
I was lucky just to have been called up from the second-string to the first-string bullpen. I knew it was shameless to expect a jump to the high-leverage team right away.
I just had to hope that if I did my part well this season, I could get a raise next year and contribute to the team in a role I wanted.
I pulled on the ball cap I'd packed in my bag.
I stuffed my rain-dampened hair into the cap, put on my glove, and entered the pitching practice area.
I picked up one of the practice baseballs piled in a basket.
18.44 meters.
The distance a pitched ball travels to the catcher's mitt.
In this practice area, built to replicate that distance, there was no catcher to receive my ball, nor was there a mound for people to watch from.
In front of me was only a net with a black cloth hanging from it.
I stared at that small cloth target and rolled the baseball in my left hand.
I visualized the pitch I was about to throw.
'Inside fastball.'
Feeling the seams of the ball on my fingertips, I slowly went into my windup.
The moment my raised leg touched the ground, I threw the ball with a three-quarter slot.
The ball flew and hit the right-center of the black cloth.
Clang!
The net the cloth was hanging from rattled, and the sound of the chains was incredibly satisfying.
I grabbed a second ball and threw a different pitch.
'High fastball.'
Clang!
'Outside slider.'
Clang!
'Fastball.'
Clang!
A voice, which had been watching my pitching form, spoke.
"Your ball's got a good bite today, huh?"
I turned my head. A man in his 40s, wearing a uniform, was standing by the entrance.
It was Coach Ahn Soo-hyuk, the one I had texted.
I quickly took off my cap and bowed.
"Hello, sir."
"Hey, first again today?"
"Yes, sir."
"Don't overdo it. You might have to go in tomorrow, so you can't push yourself too hard."
My having to go in meant they were preparing for the team to lose.
'This three-game series, including today's rained-out game, is against the Guardians.'
I put my cap back on and replied, "I'll manage my condition well."
The Guardians.
The professional baseball team based in northern Seoul.
They were the team with the most championships in KBB League history.
For the last three years, they hadn't even made the postseason and were sluggish in the lower ranks, but after Woo Seung-geon arrived this year, they had held the undisputed #1 spot since opening day.
People were even predicting a wire-to-wire championship, something that had never happened in the league's history, which just showed how fierce the Guardians' momentum was.
The atmosphere among the stagnant Guardians fan base had ignited.
Their attendance rates were breaking records every week.
So, any team facing the Guardians had no choice but to avoid an all-out fight.
It was more efficient to lose gracefully and focus on the games against the next team.
"Tomorrow's starter is Woo Seung-geon. You'll probably need to be ready starting from the 4th inning."
And on top of it all, the fact that tomorrow's starter was Woo Seung-geon said everything.
Our bats would be silent, so we could only hope to lose by a margin of 5 runs or less.
I knew how weak-willed it was to go into a game expecting to lose, but my opinion didn't matter.
You couldn't ask athletes who had to play 6 days a week to fight with all their strength in every single game.
To increase the team's win rate, you had to choose which games to throw away.
It was upsetting that I had to be the one to pitch in those throwaway games, but it was a necessary duty for the team.
I said brightly, "I'll try to throw two innings."
"That's good. No runs would be even better."
The coach smiled and tossed me one of the baseballs from the basket.
We immediately began correcting my form.
"Stop letting your arm drop. You're a three-quarter, almost sidearm, and it's unstable."
Starting with my arm angle.
"Put more power into your back heel. Get your release point further out in front. Rotate your hips faster! Your windup is too long! What are you going to do if a fast runner steals on you?"
He pointed out which parts to tense and which to relax.
"Grip the seams tighter! Your rotation is dying at the end! You think you can pitch two innings with that kind of velocity? You'll give up two home runs!"
The detailed correction training continued, focusing on everything down to my fingertips.
Clang, clang, clang!
As the balls I threw rattled the net, other players began to show up one by one.
The coach just nodded to the arriving players and focused on me.
"Your arm is too high! You'll get overloaded like that!"
The strict coach's special training was tough, but I didn't hate it.
When I practiced under his guidance, my performance improved as much as I struggled.
So I believed that if I just worked hard in my position, a good opportunity would come someday.
Because in my 25 years walking the single path of baseball, effort had never once betrayed me.
...Even if talent hadn't quite kept up with my expectations and effort.
"Good work. Go eat lunch, take your time. Stretch this afternoon."
The coach, who had been focused on me, left the practice facility.
It was to check on the first-string pitchers who were starting their main training at 2 PM.
I took off my sweat-soaked cap and bowed my head.
"Thank you."
Squeak, clank.
After the door opened and closed, the chains connected to the net rattled loudly for a long time.
Only after the coach was out of sight did I wipe the sweat pouring down my forehead and chin and pack my things to leave.
The seniors I was close with hadn't arrived yet, or were in other training; only the veteran seniors were visible.
I wasn't the type to strike up a friendly conversation, so I hesitated awkwardly before giving a quick bow.
The seniors barely acknowledged my greeting, lost in their own chatter.
"Want to go for pork belly and soju tonight?"
"You crazy bastard. You not playing tomorrow?"
"We're starting with 1 loss anyway, so what does it matter."
"It's been a while, I'm craving a drink. Couldn't even drink this whole week since we were on the road."
"Tell me about it. My ass is killing me from all that time on the bus."
I had to pretend not to see them cackling and relaxing.
Otherwise, I would have gotten angry, and I felt like I would have snapped at them.
'Do you know how many hours I just practiced, Seniors, just to get on the mound in that one game you're throwing away?'
I swallowed the words that had risen to my throat.
To think that my efforts, my fingertips aching from so much pitching practice, were just another passing day to those people.
I left the practice facility quickly.
I was just leaving the ballpark, planning to sigh where the seniors couldn't see me, when...
"Huh? Isn't that Woo Seung-geon?"
The voices of the people huddled in the smoking area stopped me in my tracks.
I turned my head to where all the club staff were looking.
The outdoor parking lot, dotted with a few cars.
A man who had driven up in a black SUV was staring right at me, his window rolled down.
His expression, clearly visible even through the pouring rain, was rigid.
His low voice burst through the sound of the rain.
"Shin Seong-ha, let's talk."
The staff's gazes flickered toward me.
They were staring, intrigued by this interaction with me, who seemed to have no connection to him whatsoever. Because of those stares, I couldn't even refuse.
Woo Seung-geon. The goal and dream of every pitcher.
To him, who had debuted six years before me, there was only one answer I could give.
"Yes, Senior."
Only obedience.
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