The Prodigy Who Rejected the Major League Chapter 17

Chapter 17

 

“Hahahahaha!”

Seunghye burst into loud laughter from the swing she was sitting on.

I think this was my first time back at the neighborhood playground since the very first day I regressed.

I’d been living busily again.

Maybe it’s because the routine’s already carved into my mind. Maybe that’s why it’s so hard to change.

Still, one thing was different this time. I wasn’t burying myself in it. Even in the middle of everything, I was trying my best to make room for a little breathing space.

“So there’s actually a player who wins a championship on the mound and runs away instead of celebrating? Hahaha.”

“You should’ve seen their eyes when they charged at me. Completely flipped over.”

“Well, it was a championship. Of course, they were crazy with happiness. Hehehe.”

Ah, come on.

This was going to haunt me for a long time.

Even I didn’t really understand why I ran back then. In the end, they caught me and buried me under a pile of teammates anyway.

There were already clips floating around online labeled, ‘Championship winner running away’.

Is that really that funny? Why are the views so high?

“But still, it feels good to win, right?”

“Yeah. It does.”

I can admit that much.

Heh.

“You’re drooling.”

“So what if I am?”

“Ew! Gross.”

Seunghye stretched out her index finger and wagged it left and right in front of my face.

Honestly. Does she think I’m some snot-nosed little kid?

Still… winning really does feel good.

It felt just as good as when I won the World Series.

Some people might say you can’t compare the two.

But this time, there were people here to celebrate with me.

That’s enough.

Isn’t it?

 

***

 

“It’s caused quite a stir.”

“Yes. I know.”

It was just one final pitch touching 160.

Just one.

 

◆ Song Seong-jun (Seongun High) fires a 160km/h heater in the President’s Cup National High School Baseball Championship Final! First official 160km/h record in tournament history.

 

Baseball communities, YouTube channels, broadcasts… my name kept coming up everywhere.

And here I was wondering if it was really worth all that attention.

Go down to the minor leagues, and pitchers throwing 100 miles per hour are everywhere.

You feel that most clearly at minor league spring training.

At the minor league complex, games from Rookie ball, Single-A, Double-A, and even Triple-A are all happening across four different fields at once.

Stand there and watch long enough, and you’ll see Rookie pitchers throwing 100 miles per hour. Single-A throws 100. Double-A throws 100. Triple-A throws 100.

And every single one of them?

Still minor leaguers.

“You talk like someone who’s been to the minors.”

“Oh? Did it sound that way? Talking big in front of you, Coach. How embarrassing. Hahaha.”

Coach Oh Jeongjae had spent years working as a trainer for a major league team.

“No, I don’t know that much myself,” he said with a laugh. “I was so busy learning and internalizing training methods that I barely had time to see anything else.”

I had told him several times to just speak casually to me, but he always refused. Instead, he said he’d drop the formalities once I joined a pro club.

“All right. If you’re ready, shall we begin?”

“Yes, Coach!”

Training with Coach Oh was becoming the closing routine of my daily schedule.

Honestly, when I started looking for a trainer, I had no idea someone like him was nearby.

In my previous life, he ran a major training center in Seoul. But at this point in time, he hadn’t moved up yet.

That, too, was luck on my side.

Being trained by someone who had learned directly in the major leagues… there wasn’t a more natural way to build my body.

 

***

 

One week after winning the President’s Cup, the Phoenix Flag Tournament began.

With no qualifiers, every high school team in the country, including club teams, participated. It was the final tournament of the year.

Our head coach, looking noticeably brighter after the championship, said he planned to give first- and second-year players more playing time in this tournament.

Though realistically, the third-years who still needed to appeal to universities and scouts would remain the core.

There was also the issue of players being called up to the U-18 Baseball World Cup national team midway through the tournament. Many standout players would be pulled out, so quite a few schools would be relying primarily on younger players.

“Seongjun, since you’ll be leaving for the national team in the middle, I’m thinking of moving you to the outfield. What do you think?”

He meant he wanted sophomore Choi Minsu to start wearing the catcher’s mask from the first game.

“That’s fine with me.”

I was actually glad.

Every game I could play as an outfielder worked in my favor.

It meant I could market myself not as Catcher Song Seongjun, but as Outfielder Song Seongjun.

“Really?”

“Yes. I prefer the outfield.”

For a moment, the coach’s expression turned strange.

“Well… perhaps. No, never mind.”

I knew what he’d been about to say.

I had ears.

He probably wondered if I was slacking off.

People had started whispering that my defensive skills as a catcher, blocking, especially, had become ordinary.

That I no longer looked like a first-round draft-grade catcher defensively.

And yet, at school, I was still training hard.

My form simply wasn’t improving past a certain point.

Maybe it was because I had abandoned the position for over twenty years.

Or maybe…

Maybe it was because deep down, I thought, ‘Do I really need to be a catcher?’

I had spent fifteen years in the majors as a center fielder.

When I decided to leave the United States and return to Korea, it wasn’t because my ability had declined.

I had turned down a two-year, 20-million-dollar offer at age thirty-eight.

In the majors, my nickname was ‘The Korean Iron King.’

Fifteen years as a center fielder without a single serious injury… that’s how I got it.

Sure, I’d missed a day or two from a bad cold or a stiff neck.

But hamstrings? Fractures? Shoulder? Elbow? Groin?

Not once.

There was even a time when a teammate didn’t hear my call and crashed into me in the outfield.

He suffered a broken nose and a fractured orbital bone and spent months rehabbing.

And me?

Just a little nosebleed.

That was when the nickname stuck.

It was a completely different outcome from when I converted to pitching, got injured, and failed in rehab.

It’s not like I ignored 160km/h pitchers for no reason.

If I hadn’t regretted failing just short of the big leagues as a pitcher after converting… I wouldn’t have even taken part-time jobs.

 

***

 

Our first opponent in the Phoenix Flag was Gunpo BC.

A club team founded five years ago.

Since every team in the country participated, thirty club teams were included.

There was a clear skill gap, so most third-years sat on the bench. We fielded primarily first- and second-year players.

16–3.

We won by mercy rule in seven innings.

The second game was five days later.

With so many teams, there were long breaks between games. That’s why the tournament stretched over three weeks.

Our second opponent was Jangwon High, who had advanced by default.

A team founded a little over ten years ago is generally considered weak.

Coach again built the lineup around first- and second-years.

However, the starting pitcher would be our ace, Kim Jewoo.

Everyone except Kim Hyunsoo, who was slated to start the next game, would be available out of the bullpen.

Unlike the first game, he planned to use the full strength of our pitching staff.

Even if Jangwon High was considered weak, it was still an elite baseball program.

Come to think of it… How far did we make it in the Phoenix Flag back then?

I couldn’t remember.

I really must not have cared.

It had been twenty years. Maybe it was natural not to remember.

Still… could it really be this blank?

But once the game began…

Two strikeouts in the top of the first.

Three more in the top of the second.

And that’s when it hit me.

Ah. This game.

How could I have forgotten?

We got completely steamrolled.

We lost 0–1 and were eliminated.

Their freshman pitcher struck out 18 of us.

He only left after eight innings because of the pitch count limit.

Otherwise, we might have suffered a 20-strikeout complete-game shutout.

And me?

Did I do any better?

Of course not.

Back then, I used a high leg kick.

And I was absolutely poisoned against splitters.

 

***

 

First inning: 2 strikeouts.

Second: 3 strikeouts.

Third: 3 strikeouts.

Fourth: 3 strikeouts.

Fifth: 3 strikeouts.

 

By the fifth inning, Coach Bae Seonggon stared at the scorecard in disbelief.

Fourteen strikeouts in sixteen plate appearances.

All against a freshman making his official debut.

Five innings in: one hit, one reach on a wild pitch, strikeout.

And we were down 0–1.

In the bottom of the fourth, with runners on first and third, our starter Kim Jewoo threw a wild pitch that allowed the run.

Then in the top of the sixth…

“Swing! Strikeout!”

The leadoff batter went down again.

Eight consecutive strikeouts now.

It was clear his out pitch was the splitter.

The players knew that, too.

Yet nothing changed.

“Song Seongjun!”

Coach Bae’s patience finally snapped.

“That’s enough.”

At this rate, we were about to hand a historic debut performance to a complete rookie and lose.

“Yes, Coach.”

“You’re hitting after Junho. Get ready.”

 

***

 

Yu Junho flied out on a 2–1 count.

Two outs.

“Umpire, pinch hitter. Song Seongjun.”

The coach personally informed the umpire of the substitution.

As I stepped to the plate, I felt the pitcher’s eyes change.

Does he know me?

“Didn’t think you’d play today, sunbae.”

The opposing catcher called me ‘sunbae.’ So he must have been a sophomore. Freshmen rarely wore the catcher’s mask in official tournaments.

“Were you waiting for me?”

“I watched the President’s Cup. You were amazing.”

Jangwon High hadn’t qualified for that tournament.

Just like how we had been eliminated early in the Blue Dragon Cup and waited for the President’s Cup.

“Thanks. But you need more blocking practice.”

That wasn’t a lie.

There had already been five dropped third strikes. One even led to a runner reaching first.

“Kanghan’s ball drops viciously. It’s not easy.”

The freshman pitcher’s name was Song Kanghan.

Same last name as me.

“I’ll give you that. His splitter really is nasty.”

“Right?”

“So… first pitch splitter?”

“If that’s what you want, sunbae.”

“Thanks.”

I didn’t believe him.

Age doesn’t matter. Catchers are born liars.

“Strike.”

See?

Fastball.

“Oops. A mistake. The splitter didn’t drop.”

Sure. Of course.

I smirked.

I had planned to take the first pitch anyway.

Mid-140s fastball. Perfectly manageable.

I decided to sit on the splitter.

Our lineup had been helpless against it.

Someone had to break it.

Sorry, kid.

You’re barely out of middle school.

But what can I do?

On paper, I’m a senior, too. Only two years apart.

“Strike two.”

Another fastball?

“Another splitter that didn’t drop?”

“Yes. Kanghan’s command isn’t perfect. Though it’s never failed to drop twice in a row. He must be nervous.”

Uh-huh.

“You know, I think I’ll be seeing you often in the future.”

“You think so? Thank you.”

Bold kid. Promising catcher.

Third pitch: splitter in the dirt.

“Ball.”

Fourth pitch: slider chasing outside.

“Ball.”

Fifth pitch nicked the corner.

“Foul!”

Cut it.

“Foul!”

“Foul!”

Two more in a row.

Nervous, huh?

Back then, why didn’t I notice there was someone this interesting?

Maybe I just had no room in my heart for anything.

“Foul!”

This one was off the zone. I touched it on purpose.

How will he interpret that?

My vision is exceptional.

I can catch the release point in a split second, no matter the deception.

Splitter.

The ninth pitch came.

A little higher than the previous splitters.

Meaning not bouncing this time.

I loaded.

Lowered my back knee.

If you want to hit low, your body must go low.

The moment my back knee touched the dirt…

I felt the ball settle on the bat head.

I turned through it.

CRACK!

The ball screamed on a line toward the outfield.

It slammed straight into the scoreboard.

“That one didn’t drop enough either, huh?”

The sophomore catcher’s mouth hung open.

What can you do?

There’s no mercy in competition.

He’d already had a historic debut.

There was no reason for us to be the sacrificial offering, too.