Chapter 23
23. Double-A Is Different
Early August.
Minute Maid Park, Houston, Texas.
Heavy silence filled the Houston Apollos general manager’s office.
“We’re even worse than I imagined.”
General Manager Gaff angrily crumpled dozens of game reports and threw them into the trash.
Houston’s season was miserable.
Last place in all of Major League Baseball.
Already moving comfortably toward a hundred-loss season.
The postseason was not even a dream.
Yes, the organization had declared a rebuild.
But Texas fans were losing patience with the endless weak losses.
The home stadium grew emptier.
Every morning, local media criticized the general manager’s incompetence.
Gaff frowned.
“Unbelievable. Not one usable pitcher on the Major League roster. The lineup is just as terrible. Everything is terrible.”
He pressed his temples.
Then the minor league director rushed into the office holding a fresh scouting report.
“General Manager! You need to see this report immediately!”
“Why the panic? Another prospect’s elbow acting up? Good, maybe we can cut his signing bonus in half.”
“No. It’s Seo Ji-tae’s second Single-A appearance.”
The director placed the report on the desk.
Gaff scanned the page.
Opponent, Charleston Rivercats, Bronx affiliate.
Previous game, perfect right-handed submarine performance.
This time, a 156 km/h left-handed three-quarter delivery destroying Single-A hitters.
The page was filled with the details.
“A sixteen-year-old held a Single-A lineup to two hits?”
A hopeful smile appeared on Gaff’s face.
In the middle of the terrible Major League season, he had finally found something bright.
Like the Apollos name itself, a prospect ready to launch.
“So this is why Ian threatened me until I added a personal meal manager. Fine. If he got that bonus, he should at least crush Single-A.”
Gaff picked up his fountain pen and drew a rough line through Seo Ji-tae’s assignment.
“Send him to Corpus Christi immediately.”
“General Manager, he’s only appeared in three games, and started only twice. A Double-A promotion this fast would be unprecedented…”
“What’s unprecedented is the pitching record he’s producing. If he works in Double-A too, we can even think about a Major League call-up next year. And…”
Gaff grinned.
“He’ll make us money.”
“If we negotiate well, we might lock him up cheaply for a long time.”
“First, he has to survive Double-A. Plenty of prospects collapse there.”
Now everyone wanted to see what he could do at the level many considered a wall far above Single-A.
The Apollos waited to see whether their prospect could truly launch.
Corpus Christi, Texas.
Seo Ji-tae finally arrived at the clubhouse of Houston’s Double-A affiliate, the Corpus Christi Blue Ghosts.
“I’m tired.”
Seo Ji-tae entered with a large duffel bag.
He was finally learning why travel in America was so exhausting.
Pack at all hours.
Ride old minor league buses.
Take flights.
Cross huge distances.
Promotion was great.
America’s size was the problem.
This is worse than I imagined. It feels like I’ve been on a road trip for days.
Even a carefully managed body accumulated fatigue after repeated travel.
His steps were slightly heavier.
His eyes carried tiredness.
But promotion was still good.
It meant they had recognized his ability quickly.
He entered the clubhouse and felt people looking at him.
Unlike rookie ball or Single-A, those looks held little hostility or confusion.
The locker room was quiet.
Players studied scouting tablets.
Some wore headphones and did image training.
This is where it becomes real.
Double-A was the workplace of professionals standing right before the Major League call-up.
As Seo Ji-tae quietly placed his bag near an empty locker, a tall white player approached.
“New guy? Heard you came from Single-A too. That’s unfortunate. You’ll be compared to me.”
The man proudly introduced himself as Tyler.
“I finished Single-A in two months. Poor you, coming up after me. Where are you from? Japan?”
“Korea.”
“Right. You must’ve done okay in Single-A too, but Double-A is the real foundation separating Major Leaguers from everyone else. Get nervous. Huh? Asians are supposed to be polite, right? Watch and learn from me.”
Tyler swaggered around the locker room.
He acted like a student introducing a transfer kid to school.
Seo Ji-tae looked confused.
“When did you get promoted?”
“Two weeks ago. I was destroying the league down there. The Apollos recognized me.”
Two weeks ago.
Before Seo Ji-tae had even reached Single-A.
Tyler was clearly proud of his numbers.
“Want me to teach you how to pitch? I’ll help you adjust to Double-A. Can you speak English?”
Confidence overflowed from a prospect who believed he had conquered the lower leagues.
“Hahaha, I’m trying to be nice and you’re saying nothing. Don’t be scared. I don’t eat people…”
Seo Ji-tae looked at him like he was ridiculous.
“Shut up.”
“What?”
“I can handle myself. Stop bothering me.”
Seo Ji-tae walked toward his assigned locker.
Angry at being ignored, Tyler grabbed his shoulder.
“Hey, rookie. Double-A is completely different from Single-A. Garbage pitches powered only by strength won’t work here. Keep acting arrogant and you’ll be sent back down immediately.”
“Not my problem.”
Seo Ji-tae slapped Tyler’s hand away.
“You haven’t even played a Double-A game yet, and you’re already bragging this much.”
“Fine, fine. I tried to help. Turns out you’re just an ungrateful brat.”
Tyler backed away theatrically.
“Watch carefully during live pitching later. You’ll see the difference between you and me.”
Seo Ji-tae simply looked at him once, then calmly changed into training clothes.
Confidence is good. But he hasn’t even played one game here?
Seo Ji-tae found it ridiculous.
He already knew exactly what could happen to a prospect’s confidence after facing real Double-A hitters.
2:00 PM.
Live pitching began.
Double-A hitters stepped into the box while pitchers threw at full game intensity.
Because Seo Ji-tae had joined that day, he was allowed to warm up lightly while the other pitchers threw first.
“Finally. I’m sick of only throwing to catchers. Real pitching means a hitter standing there.”
Today’s test pitcher was Tyler.
The rookie promoted two weeks earlier looked completely confident.
The eighteen-year-old entered his windup against a Double-A hitter.
“Hup!”
He threw his best pitch.
Slider.
Seo Ji-tae’s expression changed.
