Countryside Ace

Chapter 12 : Coaching (2)

Coaching (2)

"Hey."

Hearing a voice from behind, exhausted as I was, I simply raised my right hand in response.

I'm fairly comfortable talking with the foreign players.

Seems they also appreciate having someone to converse with freely in this camp, where people they can really talk to are few and far between.

I hadn't had many conversations with Harold Bradshaw, who always practiced hard with a weary expression...

"Ah, senior."

But the one who spoke to me wasn't one of the foreign players—it was Terry, who had won over Father's approval.

As I tried to stand up, Terry patted my shoulder and plopped down beside me.

"It's fine. I'm not some stick-in-the-mud old man."

Terry was grinning widely, dripping with sweat. His Korean accent was a bit awkward.

"Can I speak in English?"

Since he asked in English, I naturally said yes.

Before returning to the past, I'd hardly had any connection with this pitcher.

"Damn. Feels like I'm finally alive again."

When he muttered something inexplicable, I just handed him a drink.

Byeong-ju visits me from time to time, trying to learn even a little bit of English, and he'd mentioned this guy a few times.

He had said Terry just couldn't adapt to the Korean senior-junior hierarchy.

"What kind of hell did you live in that your feet swelled up to be as big as Shaquille O'Neal's (400mm), and you're saying things are bearable now?"

Terry burst out laughing at my joke, almost falling over. He was covered in sweat and dirt, but he still looked happy.

"The previous coaches never even paid attention to me."

Now, father and the training coach, and even Timothy Goldberg, were hounding this guy like they were tormenting him in training.

Yet, it seemed to make him happy.

I roughly knew why no one used to bother with Terry.

The former second-team pitching coach had tried to teach him the slider, but Terry said he didn't have a knack for sliders, and thought it would be better to learn a different pitch.

Terry considered that a discussion, but the second-team coach seemed to have taken it as insubordination.

Just guessing here, but if Father hadn't come and instead Kim Jun-ho the pitching coach had, Terry wouldn't even have gotten a chance.

After all, Kim Jun-ho is a slider fanatic.

"The past is the past. You're learning the two-seam, right?"

"Yeah. Sir. Tyson's two-seam. Never thought I'd get a chance to learn it. Good thing I didn't quit."

Sir Tyson was Father's Major Leagues nickname.

The pronunciation was similar, and whenever a bench-clearing brawl broke out, father would clock the opponent's jaw with his fist.

I should ask if he ever formally learned boxing.

"I told Coach that I didn't think I had a feel for breaking balls. Pretty funny, huh? A pitcher who can only throw fastballs."

I didn't respond at all.

Shall I be honest?

I used to think I might be able to dominate the KBO with just a four-seam fastball.

It wasn't really confidence... Yeah, chalk it up to stupidity.

"The previous coach said he'd only let me on the mound if I came back with a slider, but Mr. Seo was different."

Listening to compliments about Father genuinely gave me goosebumps.

Not because it was flattery, but because it was sincere.

After babbling for a while, Terry stood up, stretching.

"Time to go work out, bro. You coming?"

These days, the battery coach was suspiciously extending his influence even into the training department.

Not every player, of course, but after consulting with the training coach, he selected a few to push nearly to the breaking point.

"... We're going to Timothy, right?"

"... Yeah."

We exchanged a short, heavy conversation and headed to the fitness room.

"Perfect day for lifting heavy stuff."

"Guess so."

We kept up our odd conversation as we walked toward the room of truth, where Timothy waited.

There, I could simultaneously hear Terry's English curse-laden screams, Timothy's delighted shouts, and the slight discomfort of those around.

"Fuck! Fuck! This chunk of iron is going to kill me!"

"Ha ha! That iron's what'll keep you alive! You little bastard!"

Hmm.

"... Don't you get a bit uncomfortable listening to him go 'fuck, fuck' like that?"

"It is a little much, with the coach and the seniors around."

"But it seems like the coach enjoys it, no?"

"Should I try cursing 'fuck fuck' too?"

"Sounds good. Go on, give it a try."

"..."

"You're not going?"

"C'mon, hyung. I was kidding."

* * *

Head coach Song Moon-jung sat with an inscrutable expression, as usual.

That was just his style—he'd watch games with a sullen look, then charge in like fire if something made him angry.

When he was young, he was infamous for his temper. He'd poke umpires in the eye, flip 130kg foreign players over with Judo moves.

He has plenty of negative traits, but thanks to his brilliant record as head coach of the national team, a lot of those have been overlooked.

"Assistant Park."

"Yes, coach."

"Relax your face. Why do you look like you'll kill someone at a practice game?"

"I was just trying to copy your expression, coach."

"Don't talk nonsense."

Just before a practice match between the Gangwon Miners and a Minor Leaguers combined team.

While the head coach and assistant had a trivial chat, the pitching coach and starting pitcher held a conversation of a different mood.

"We'll look at you for just two or three innings. The other team isn't a pushover, so do your best."

Jo Sung-gyu, once the ace and strikeout king for the Daegu Dragons, didn't appreciate being spoken to like a rookie by the pitching coach.

But what could he do?

When he was first called up to the national team around his third pro year, Seo Tae-seung was already one of the Major Leagues' top starters.

Jo Sung-gyu had pestered Seo Tae-seung to teach him the slider, and with it, he won the KBO's strikeout title.

No matter how the pitching coach talked, Jo Sung-gyu wasn't in a position to argue.

Jo Sung-gyu had guessed it would be a tough season after watching Bang Min-soo, his peer, get forced back to Korea.

This practice game meant more pressure than a team scrimmage.

He wasn't confident in his stuff—once his pitch count rose, his effectiveness dropped, and he gave up extra-base hits with ease since last season.

He'd prepared as best he could, but wasn't sure if things had improved.

When game time arrived, Jo Sung-gyu was the first to take the mound for the top of the first.

* * *

From my memory, Jo Sung-gyu senior had back issues.

Not at a critical level, but enough that pain made it hard for him to use his lower body effectively.

That led him to pitch mostly with his upper body, and as his pitch count went up, his effectiveness dropped dramatically.

Father had heard this and wanted to use him as a closer.

When asked if it was a waste to use a pitcher you'd paid big money for as a closer, father replied,

'I'm not the one paying his salary, am I?'

He was right.

Normally, that sort of thing couldn't be ignored, but Father truly didn't pay it any mind.

"Nice pitches!"

"Sung-gyu hyung! That's perfect!"

Jo Sung-gyu pitched a perfect first inning. Despite the Minor Leaguers' aggressive swings, none of them even nicked his splitter.

He was still fine with two outs in the second.

Three strikeouts over 1.2 innings and a perfect game so far.

But suddenly, with two outs and nobody on, his splitter was hammered for a home run.

After that came hit, hit, hit, and a walk.

Jo Sung-gyu suddenly looked like a completely different pitcher, and in the end, he couldn't even complete the two innings promised to the starting rotation candidates.

"Out!"

With the bases loaded and two outs, the reliever's dropping curveball drew a helpless swing from the opponent, ending the threat.

* * *

"If you don't want to be here, just go home!"

Head coach Song Moon-jung, visibly upset after the team lost the first seven-inning game 11–3, didn't hide his feelings before the players.

"Tsk, assistant."

"Yes."

"Looks like we did all that training, but where'd those trained guys all go?"

"I'm sorry."

"Fine. Get ready for game two."

"Yes, sir."

He'd heard from Seo Tae-seung, who arranged the opponent team.

Word was the Minor Leaguers' combined team included a few real ringers.

Seo Tae-seung's face came to mind, saying the team would probably lose and this was a good chance for some shock therapy.

Still, a loss is a loss, whether practice, exhibition, or the regular season.

Losing is natural in baseball. But you should at least lose well.

The man who coached the shell-shocked pitchers didn't look very bright either.

"The second game will be different."

"Different, my ass. It's just the same bunch again."

"You saw Porter's pitches, right?"

"Are you kidding me."

Graham Donald Porter's stuff was certainly good.

Thanks to that pitcher, the thought came to me that maybe, just maybe, my blood pressure wouldn't land me in the hospital.

The head coach snorted.

"How come you're not bragging about your son for once?"

"Have you seen me bragging lately?"

"I can see it in your eyes."

"Well, we'll see. Anyway, both of them will do fine."

"If they don't, I'll kill you myself."

"Long life and good health to you, coach."

"What?"

"I'm not dying by your hand—let's hold hands and go to a retirement village together later. So you have to live long."

The head coach grimaced and rubbed the back of his neck, while the pitching coach whistled.

Squinting at Seo Tae-seung, the head coach then swung a fist.

"You little shit, the old man grabs his neck and nearly collapses, and you don't even pretend to be surprised?"

Seo Tae-seung dodged lightly and replied.

"For an old man, your punches are wicked fast, coach."

"Don't just dodge and mouth off like that!"

"My reflexes messed up, I guess—I dodged that punch out of pure instinct."

"Pfft, you smart mouth."

* * *

Graham Donald Porter struck out three and gave up just one hit in two innings, inducing a double play with a perfectly placed changeup for a clean finish.

"Weren't you going to pitch three innings if things went well?"

He asked at the change, but Seo Tae-seung just clapped him on the shoulder and said,

"If things are borderline, it's three innings. If you pitch well, there's no need."

Porter's face brightened.

It was only a practice game, but earning recognition in his first live game from his idol made him glow.

"Your four-seam was good, and your changeup was solid too. Now that I know, there's no need to see more. Want to throw a bit more in the bullpen, go ahead."

"Yes, sir!"

The 205cm pitcher managed to suppress his glee as he snapped off a salute.

Seo Tae-seung grinned as well.

A pitcher he'd had a hard time recruiting. With a deadly four-seam–changeup combo, one good breaking ball would make him a fine Major Leagues pitcher.

That was the decisive reason he chose Korea—Seo Tae-seung personally promised to help him develop breaking stuff so he could return to the MLB.

Now it was Seo Ye-sung's turn to take the mound.

Seo Tae-seung believed Seo Ye-sung would take the team's ace role.

Of course, no one else agreed—after all, despite having good stuff in training, he was just a high school rookie.

But Seo Tae-seung thought differently.

A regressor always possesses something special.

* * *

The lineups for the first and second games weren't too different. No big changes—anyway, we were all strangers to each other.

My opponent was a big-bodied left-handed hitter batting seventh.

Yoon Bong-wan sunbae was behind the plate. The other fielders were a mix of starters and reserves.

The infield mood was a bit unsettled.

It was our first live game, and after the bad results earlier, the atmosphere was a bit strange.

Regardless, the opposing batters were swinging just as aggressively as in game one.

We had no data on each other at all.

In such circumstances, the advantage typically lies with the pitcher.

Yoon Bong-wan senior called for a low and outside four-seam. I nodded right away.

Not a bad first pitch against a totally unknown opponent.

I couldn't help but smile a little.

I had no idea just how much I'd wanted to pitch again.

I didn't even know why. Losing the chance just made me want it more.

I'd never thought I liked baseball that much.

I'd figured my persistence, playing until my body fell apart, was mere stubbornness.

Thinking back now, I really must have loved the game.

Finishing that thought, I began my pitching motion.

Smooth as flowing water.

Every motion concealed an intent to deceive the batter.

My right leg hung in the air for a moment, messing up the hitter's timing; my twisted upper body, wound for rotational power, hid the ball.

Unlike the slow, rhythmic movement of my arm hidden behind my body, once my arm extended forward, I sped up the swing.

As I released the ball, it shot out.

When I was a kid, before returning to the past, my cap sometimes flew off after a pitch.

It meant I'd thrown with all my might and lost my balance.

But now, my head hardly bobbled, and my feet touched down lightly.

At the end I even had a small, but forceful, finishing move in front of the plate.

Paak!

A sharp crack as the ball thudded into the catcher's mitt.

The batter didn't even swing.

The pitch wasn't low and outside, but almost right down the middle—a missed location.

"Strike!"

With a flat face, I caught the ball Yoon Bong-wan tossed back.

A pitcher must be brazen. Even if it's a bad pitch, if the result is good, you should act like it all went according to plan.

... Maybe geniuses like Father, who always get good results, wouldn't know, but I was no genius—I just pretended to be one.

Sometimes, that sort of thing matters.