The Prodigy Who Rejected the Major League Chapter 29

Chapter 29

 

All six teams advancing to the Super Round had been decided.

From Group A, Korea, the United States, and Puerto Rico moved on in first, second, and third place.

From Group B, Japan (5–0), Taiwan (4–1), and Panama (3–2) advanced.

In the Super Round, teams carry over their head-to-head results from the group stage (Opening Round).

Korea, having defeated both the United States and Puerto Rico, began with two wins. Puerto Rico, having lost to both Korea and the United States, started with two losses.

Korea would face Japan on the 11th, Panama on the 12th, and Taiwan on the 13th to determine the final standings.

 

***

 

“If we made it through the group stage in first place, doesn’t that mean we’ve got a real shot at the final this time?”

“Isn’t that a bit too optimistic?”

“It’s not impossible. Think about it. The teams coming up from Group B are already decided, right? Japan and Taiwan will take first and second. Let’s just say whoever’s third.”

“‘Whoever’s third’ is a little lazy, don’t you think? Hahaha.”

“Close enough. Even if that third-place team makes the Super Round, they’re starting with two losses anyway. The point is, if we beat just one of Japan or Taiwan, we’ll be 4–1. That gets us to the final. Right? I’m not wrong.”

Because the tournament rules carried over group-stage results into the Super Round, a third-place team couldn’t reach the final. Even second-place teams started 1–1, so unless they won all three Super Round games, advancing to the championship game would be difficult.

Only if the first-place team from the group stage completely collapsed would the scenarios become complicated.

“So we’re assuming we take care of the third-place team, and we just need to beat one of Japan or Taiwan?”

“Exactly.”

“But will it be easy? Japan won’t be. And Taiwan hasn’t been easy lately either.”

There was even talk of ‘Taiwan shock.’

That was how difficult Taiwan had become… no one could confidently promise a win against them.

“If we can’t even beat Taiwan, then we should just give up on the final. Losing and still making the final would be downright shameless.”

 

***

 

After the Korean national team defeated the United States at the U-18 Baseball World Cup, practically securing first place in Group A, many organizations, including the Korea Baseball Association, welcomed the result.

The sports network broadcasting the U-18 tournament, cable TV stations, and internet portals all reacted the same way.

To be honest, part of the broadcast had been done almost as a public service.

No one had expected strong ratings.

Professional baseball was incredibly popular. But that popularity didn’t trickle down to college or high school baseball.

Even though it was an international tournament, it was still high school baseball… and Korea’s past results hadn’t been particularly impressive.

Just last year, Korea lost to Taiwan in the third-place game and finished fourth.

But this time was different.

“This is the first time we’ve advanced as group winners, right?”

“They’re saying the odds of reaching the final are higher than in any previous tournament.”

Whatever it is, you need results.

And this time, the results were coming.

“Isn’t the Japan game the day after Chuseok?”

The Korean team’s first Super Round game fell on the day after Chuseok, against Japan.

Few would care about the second game against Panama.

But the third game was against Taiwan.

Saturday the 13th… the day before the Chuseok holiday ended.

And if, by some chance, Korea made it to the final…

That game would take place on the final Sunday of the holiday.

It was almost unbelievably perfect. The Super Round of this U-18 tournament coincided exactly with the Chuseok holiday period.

If the team’s performance held up, the ratings would naturally follow.

“A Korea–Japan game. Then Taiwan.”

The Super Round opened with a Korea–Japan matchup.

The schedule itself was bound to attract viewers’ interest.

“This time, the Korea–Japan matchup looks winnable. We even took down the powerhouse USA.”

At the senior national team level, Korea often fell behind Japan. But this U-18 team had defeated the United States, considered to have the strongest prospect pool in the tournament.

“Even if we lose to Japan, beating Taiwan gets us to the final.”

Beat just one of the two.

“We beat the mighty USA! We’re not going to lose to both Japan and Taiwan, are we?”

“Right! We won’t… right?”

If you keep losing, it can’t be fun.

Even the most diehard baseball fan, if their team finishes last every single year, ends up just checking the score and muttering, “These guys lost again. Disband the team. Why even play baseball?”

But when you start thinking, *This might actually be possible*. Interest appears out of nowhere.

As long as the results were good, there was no need to overthink it. Broadcasting the U-18 tournament would be far better than rerunning some other show.

“A Korea–Japan match on a Chuseok holiday morning!”

If they promoted it properly in advance, wouldn’t it attract plenty of attention?

While the adults happily spun their hopeful scenarios about a Chuseok ratings boost…

The 11th, the opening day of the Super Round, dawned.

 

***

 

Seongjun’s parents had gone down to their hometown the day before Chuseok.

At the gathering at his eldest brother’s house, the main topic of conversation was, of course, Song Seongjun.

“So he’s staying in Korea?”

“Shouldn’t you at least consider sending him to the majors?”

“What majors? Staying domestic is best. They say it’s tough in America.”

“Brother, then is Seongjun heading to the Baysuns?”

Since the person in question wasn’t present, the conversation didn’t stretch too long.

The next day, they held the memorial rites and visited the family graves. Then everyone was prepared to head back.

When the grandparents were alive, they used to linger until the next morning and leave slowly. Back then, the children were young. Now there were daughters-in-law in the family, and many things had changed.

Seongjun’s parents also left when everyone else did and returned home.

Until last year, they had gone together with their son. This year, going down as just the two of them felt different.

“You’re up?”

The morning after Chuseok.

After tidying the house and brewing morning coffee, the phone rang. It was Seunghye.

“Been up for a while. Should we come over?”

They had made plans in advance to gather at Seunghye’s parents’ house.

“Mom said not to bring anything.”

“How can we show up empty-handed? Tell her we’ll bring just a little.”

“Yes! I will.”

From Seunghye’s tone, it was clear she knew there had never been an option not to bring something.

“Are you done washing up?”

She called toward the bathroom. Her husband’s voice came through the partially open door.

“Almost. Just need to shave. Was that a call?”

“Yes. They said to come over.”

“I’ll get ready.”

The couple planned to gather at Seunghye’s house to watch the national team game featuring their son.

The game would start in about thirty minutes.

8 a.m. in Korea—7 p.m. local time in the United States, if they remembered correctly.

They couldn’t be more relieved that the games fell during the Chuseok holiday.

The group-stage games had required waking at dawn on weekdays.

Compared to that, 8 a.m. was a comfortable viewing time.

 

***

 

The first Super Round game was between Group A’s third-place Puerto Rico and Group B’s third-place Panama.

Puerto Rico won 4–1, marking the opening of the Super Round.

The second game featured the United States and Taiwan, the second-place teams from Groups A and B.

The United States defeated Taiwan 9–1 in a blowout.

American left-handed starter Trey Langley overwhelmed Taiwanese hitters with a 155 km/h fastball.

 

Trey Langley, LHP, 155 km/h.

Matthew Wetcher, RHP, 154 km/h.

James Clark, RHP, 158 km/h.

Gio Shumaker, LHP, 158 km/h.

 

America’s terrifying four-man starting rotation.

“How did Korea beat a team like that?”

 

***

 

“We bring you live coverage of the U-18 Baseball World Cup Super Round matchup between Korea and Japan.”

The third and final game of the Super Round’s first day… and, for both teams, a game that would shape the path ahead.

“Commentator Heo, isn’t this a showdown between the first-place teams of Groups A and B?”

“Whoever wins today is practically favored to reach the Super Round final!”

“The losing team will fall to 2–1, tied with the United States.”

“In earlier games, Puerto Rico and the United States both won.”

“Japan still has to face the U.S. in its second Super Round game.”

“For Japan, today’s game against Korea is a must-win. But we’re just as desperate for a victory.”

The third game would be against tricky Taiwan. A win today would make the remaining schedule much easier.

Panama, having lost earlier, now sat at three Super Round losses, practically locked into sixth place. Facing them would certainly be easier than facing the others.

“Today’s starting pitcher for Korea is Seong Jinseong of Myeongji High.”

“He showed excellent pitching against the United States in the group stage. We expect another strong outing today.”

 

***

 

“We beat the powerhouse United States to reach this Super Round. Take pride in that! Understood?”

Before taking the field, the coaches gathered the players and demanded intensity.

But honestly, from where I stood…

“This Japanese team… there’s really nobody.”

When I looked at Team USA, I recognized about half the names from the major leagues.

On Japan’s roster, I didn’t see any I knew.

“What do you mean, nobody?”

“You’re saying there’s no one in Japan? What are you talking about?”

They looked puzzled, so I answered.

“I mean, guys who’ll become major leaguers. Or at least look like they could.”

I corrected myself midway.

They stared at me as if I were crazy.

Fair enough. A mere high school student casually judging who would or wouldn’t make the majors was bound to sound ridiculous.

“Not sure what you’re talking about, but Song Seongjun’s confidence is insane as always!”

“I’ve never seen him look nervous.”

They treated it as typical behavior.

Maybe I could push it a little further.

“I’m serious. There’s none. Not a single one.”

“Yeah, sure. We’re all high schoolers. There probably aren’t.”

“Song Seongjun, you lie every time you open your mouth. How would you even know Japanese high schoolers? Hahaha.”

Logically, they weren’t wrong.

I wasn’t saying I knew them all.

Though there was one player I’d seen in the major leagues.

Fujimori Shogo.

His name was listed in the second spot in Japan’s lineup on the scoreboard.

Shogo was someone who had half-overcome the curse of Japanese infielders struggling in the majors.

He hadn’t secured a spot as a shortstop, but he had found success as a third baseman in MLB.

Anyway, saying “Japan has nobody” seemed to work.

It hadn’t quite gone as originally intended, but everyone’s expressions had lightened.

That was good enough.

 

***

 

“Play ball!”

Top of the first. The game began.

Korea, as the away team, batted first.

Japan’s starting pitcher was Yamada Sho.

His top velocity was 153 km/h, averaging high-140s. He featured a slider, a curveball, and, like any Japanese pitcher… a splitter.

They said he was the ace of the Summer Koshien championship team.

I didn’t recognize the name.

The manager placed Heo Juwon, who had hit well in the group stage, in the leadoff spot.

But in his first at-bat, he struck out swinging at a slider on a 1–2 count.

“He’s got good command.”

Heo Juwon returned to the dugout, sat next to me, and clicked his tongue.

“Did you have to sit right next to me to say that?”

He just nodded.

Against the second batter, Park Geonhee, the Japanese starter continued pitching aggressively.

Heo was right. His command was excellent.

e got ahead easily again. Another 1–2 count.

The same slider in a pitcher’s count.

Park pulled it and made contact… but it turned into a routine grounder to second.

“Out!”

Two outs.

Then Woo Leejun stepped up as the third batter.

Today’s lineup had been reshuffled. Woo and I had swapped spots… he moved to third, and I to cleanup. The manager wanted more runners on base ahead of me.

So far, though, the changes at the top had failed.

“Strike.”

Yamada Sho opened against Woo Leejun with a slow curve for a strike.

The second pitch was a 144 km/h fastball.

The third pitch was another fastball, 146 km/h. Woo swung and fouled it off.

“Hey, another 1–2 count?”

Heo Juwon shook his head against the dugout rail.

“So what? You’ve never seen a 1–2 count before?”

The pitcher clearly knew how to work in favorable counts.

But so what?

It’s not like we’re being forced to choose between a 100-mile-per-hour fastball and a ridiculous breaking ball.

On the fourth pitch, an inside breaking ball, Woo laid off well.

“That’s how you do it.”

I glanced at Heo as I spoke.

On the fifth pitch, a tempting splitter. Woo didn’t bite, bringing the count full.

Then he pulled an outside pitch through the gap between short and third for a single.

“Woo Leejun with a hit! The shortstop dives but can’t reach it!”

“Nice one, Woo Leejun!”

Manager Jung Juchan nodded and clapped.

This was exactly what he had wanted.

Set the table for Song Seongjun, who was in the best form on the team.

With two outs and a runner on first, Song Seongjun stepped to the plate… the hottest hitter of the tournament.

“In this tournament, with runners on base, Song Seongjun is hitting 1.000.”

“That means whenever there’s a runner on, he gets a hit.”

“Since there are already two outs, I hope he goes big. Swing hard and free.”

“Hahaha, isn’t that a risky thing to say?”

“He’s a home run hitter! What’s wrong with telling a home run hitter to swing big? A home run hitter can’t take half-swings. He has to take his own swing every time.”

“Well… when you put it that way.”

“He can’t be afraid of strikeouts. Look at that—! Oh? Oh? Ohhh! Whoaaa!”

Commentator Heo, known for his bold commentary, suddenly trailed off mid-sentence, stammered, and then shouted.

Over the Florida sky, well past 7 p.m., the home run ball launched by Song Seongjun soared far into the distance.