Chapter 17
17. Rookie League
Inside a car heading from Texas toward Tennessee in the southeastern United States.
Seo Ji-tae stared through the window at the endless empty highway.
Ian Kim spoke politely.
“Seo Ji-tae, from now on, you’ll begin in rookie ball. Also, did you check your bank account?”
“Yes. The money came in. Hahaha, I’m already having fun.”
It was a childish answer that matched his age.
Ian Kim smiled faintly and opened his briefcase.
“That is only a one-time bonus celebrating the contract. Starting tomorrow, your real salary from the organization will be barely around one thousand dollars per month. And you won’t receive even that during the offseason.”
Ian Kim calmly explained the reality of the minor leagues.
“Unlike Major Leaguers who travel by private plane and stay at luxury hotels, minor leaguers survive on peanut butter sandwiches while being packed into old buses for more than ten hours. Teams hold players inside a seven-year minor league reserve system and exploit them completely.”
“If I planned to stay in the minors for seven years, I wouldn’t have come here.”
Seo Ji-tae nodded without showing any surprise.
He already knew.
That was why he had fought so hard to include detailed clauses about strict pitching schedules, a dedicated interpreter, and guaranteed meals.
“We wanted a team with a weak roster or a ruined season so I could get called up quickly. Houston fit our conditions perfectly, right? Tampa Bay’s pitching staff is much stronger.”
“I’m certain you will establish yourself in Major League Baseball. Remember, what I’m telling you now concerns what happens after that.”
This cold man had already evaluated Seo Ji-tae’s talent and prepared plans far into the future.
“General Manager Gaff may not be as extreme as Tampa Bay Signal, but he likes to pressure players using service time.”
“Service time means I need to spend 172 days in the Major Leagues for one full year to count, right?”
A player became eligible for salary arbitration after three years, free agency after six.
But there was a trap.
A player needed 172 days in the Major Leagues for the season to count fully.
“The worst possibility would be deliberately sending you back to the minors before 172 days, just to delay your options.”
“Exactly.”
A cold light flashed behind Ian Kim’s glasses.
“My goal is to make you the youngest free agent in history, then create a contract worth hundreds of millions of dollars by making every team compete.”
“You have a plan? Gaff is the kind of man who pressures players over things like that.”
“We use the team’s own impatience. Once you reach the Major Leagues and start dominating the league, Houston will fear the coming arbitration costs and offer a long-term extension first.”
Ian Kim lightly tapped the plan documents he had prepared.
The pages listed the contracts Gaff had given to rookies and players moving between the minors and majors since becoming general manager.
“Seven years, six years. He locks low-service-time players into long contracts. Yeah, that sounds exactly like Gaff.”
“Right. Pitchers tend to sign shorter long-term deals than hitters. Since you’re so young, they might offer around eight years. We’ll put an opt-out clause after year five. With one more service year, that places you perfectly at six years and free agency.”
Seo Ji-tae knew very well how difficult a fight over an opt-out clause could become.
In extreme cases, players accept terrible salaries in exchange for an opt-out. But why should I be the one losing money?
Seo Ji-tae was greedy.
He wanted both a high salary and an opt-out clause.
Naturally, Gaff would never accept that easily.
But Seo Ji-tae knew Houston had an enormous weakness.
A major future scandal.
I can use it as much as I want. General Manager Gaff, it will even help your future and Major League Baseball.
Seo Ji-tae organized his thoughts and smiled.
“I trust you, hyung. But if I ever discover a ‘weakness,’ I’ll tell you.”
“Please do. It’ll be useful during negotiations.”
Even while saying that, Seo Ji-tae admired Ian Kim.
In reality, Gaff was the kind of Wall Street type who easily did unethical things as long as they did not technically break the rules.
He even pressured prospects and rookies to lower salaries.
Ian Kim had already thought that far ahead.
“Depending on how the team acts, negotiations may change. Leave the contract to me. Seo Ji-tae only needs to dominate on the mound.”
“I like that. That’s why you’re my agent.”
“The most important thing is still developing enough skill to earn the call-up. Pioneer is one of the stronger rookie leagues, but you should crush this level easily.”
“Don’t worry, Ian hyung. I trust you in negotiations, and you can trust me in games.”
At the bold boy’s words, Ian Kim smiled very slightly.
Pioneer Park in Greenville, Tennessee.
It was the home stadium of Houston’s upper-level rookie affiliate, and Seo Ji-tae’s first assignment.
“Usually, eight to ten players share one clubhouse room.”
Seo Ji-tae listened to the staff member as they walked through an old concrete hallway and opened the clubhouse door.
The smell of sweat and old leather immediately hit his nose.
Now this feels like rookie ball.
Remembering old memories, Seo Ji-tae walked inside.
The room was noisy like a marketplace.
Most of the players filling the space were not American.
“There are a lot of Latin American players.”
There were some white players, but they were actually the minority.
Most came from poor areas in the Dominican Republic, Venezuela, and other Latin American countries.
They were desperate prospects in their late teens and early twenties, hoping baseball could completely change their lives.
“Your locker is number eleven.”
“Thank you. I can handle the rest from here.”
Seo Ji-tae started walking.
Then a harsh shout came from the corner.
“You’re released as of today. Empty your locker, pack your things, and go home immediately.”
The rookie league coordinator handed over a release notice without emotion.
In front of him, a young Latin American pitcher was kneeling on the floor and crying.
Seo Ji-tae did not know the exact reason.
But in rookie ball, releasing players without enough talent was common.
“Coach, please! Just one more chance! My family back home…”
“I saw you pitch yesterday. You were terrible. You’re getting no more chances. This isn’t a charity. Pack your things now.”
The coordinator coldly pushed away the player clinging to him and walked off without looking back.
No teammate comforted the player while he cried and packed.
Someone else had to lose his spot for another player to move upward.
This was a world of pure survival.
This is what this place is.
One bad game could cut off your career immediately.
This was the true bottom of the minor league system Seo Ji-tae remembered.
The released player wiped away his tears and left the clubhouse.
The atmosphere immediately returned to normal.
As if everyone had already seen it countless times.
Then all eyes turned toward Seo Ji-tae standing at the entrance.
“Asian?”
“I saw the news. They said he signed for 1.5 million.”
“1.5 million? For that guy?”
Hostility and jealousy appeared in their eyes.
A seventeen-year-old Asian pitcher from Korea had arrived with a 1.5 million dollar bonus.
Rookie leaguers barely earned around two thousand dollars per month.
To players living packed together like human bean sprouts, Seo Ji-tae could never look pleasant.
A normal teenager might have shrunk under their stares.
Seo Ji-tae smiled leisurely instead.
“Something you want from me?”
A large Dominican player blocked his way and sneered.
“Oh yeah, amigo. Are you the 1.5 million dollar young master?”
It was not English.
Fast, rough Spanish with a strong rhythm.
The interpreter started to approach nervously, but Seo Ji-tae raised one hand.
“Leave it.”
“Whether you got 1.5 million or not, we’re playing baseball because we don’t want to die. Don’t ruin us with garbage pitching. Unless you want to end up like the guy who just got released.”
The group behind him laughed.
They assumed Seo Ji-tae could not understand Spanish, so they planned to mock him freely.
But Seo Ji-tae understood.
Dominican northern dialect. His pronunciation is heavily slurred. He probably didn’t receive much formal education.
Seo Ji-tae knew that accent.
Antonio, the former Major Leaguer who had become Seo Ji-tae’s light while he wandered miserably around the world, was from the Dominican Republic.
Seo Ji-tae could understand baseball slang and insults spoken in a clubhouse without an interpreter.
Another benefit of regression.
He could still use the foreign languages he had learned.
“You’re impatient, amigo.”
Seo Ji-tae adjusted the bag on his shoulder and looked directly at the infielder blocking him.
Then he answered in Spanish.
His pronunciation was not perfect, but his words were heavy.
“Move, rezagado.”
Loser.
“!”
Seo Ji-tae had understood them and answered back.
The laughter filling the clubhouse stopped instantly.
The large infielder’s face turned red.
He started moving angrily toward Seo Ji-tae.
