Chapter 80, Thin Air
The air in the final felt strangely thin.
Breathing made the inside of my throat sting.
Noah.
One of the greatest hitters in Major League history.
His season numbers flashed across the scoreboard.
166 km/h.
Noah swung and missed.
Ninth inning.
Two outs.
Yoon Jae-jun quickly mixed his signs.
I shook my head.
Straight at him.
That was the only baseball I wanted to play today.
First pitch, four-seam, foul.
Second pitch, slider, foul.
Third pitch, screwball, even deeper inside.
Noah’s bat came around half a beat early.
The ball went toward the outfield.
Center fielder Kwon Geon-woo cut through the wind and jumped.
The edge of his glove swallowed the ball.
“Caught it!”
The stadium exploded.
Noah pointed his bat toward me and raised his thumb.
I still did not smile.
The game was not over.
We entered extra innings.
1-1.
A perfectly balanced score.
Korea’s eighth and ninth hitters went down far too easily.
But we understood.
Everyone was exhausted.
With the bases empty, Kwon Geon-woo stepped into the box.
“If we don’t score here, we go to the tiebreaker. That favors them.”
The international tiebreaker started with runners on first and second and no outs.
But Korea had almost no pitcher left who could properly handle that situation except me.
America, meanwhile, still had elite closers waiting.
“Don’t worry. I’ll score.”
Kwon Geon-woo looked exhausted.
But the fighting spirit had not disappeared from his eyes.
The pitcher was Rodri, known in Major League Baseball as an impossible wall.
A monster who threw 170 km/h fastballs and sliders in the 150s.
First pitch, fastball, strike.
Second pitch, fastball, ball.
Third pitch, fastball, foul.
Fourth pitch, slider, ball.
Fifth pitch, fastball, ball.
Full count.
Kwon Geon-woo pushed a fastball coming straight through the middle without being late.
Crack!
The ball split the gap between first and second.
The second hitter was Go Gyeong-tae, suddenly moved into the top of the order.
He had one hit in four at-bats today and had also stolen a base.
He showed bunt, then switched to a full swing.
First pitch, 170 km/h fastball.
Go Gyeong-tae could not make contact.
Second pitch, 150 km/h slider.
He focused and got the bat on it, but the pitch completely overpowered him.
Foul.
Third pitch, 168 km/h fastball.
The well-controlled pitch came slightly high.
Go Gyeong-tae simply tapped the bat forward.
But he kept his wrists strong.
The ball drew a sharp line into shallow right-center.
The center fielder rushed forward.
He came up a hand short.
The ball bounced on the grass.
In an instant, we had runners on first and second with two outs.
The air in the stadium changed.
Hot, yet cold.
Now the third hitter.
Me.
I adjusted my grip with my fingers, checking the feel of the bat.
Tapped my helmet.
Then stepped into the box.
165 km/h fastball.
Foul.
One beat late.
152 km/h slider.
Thin foul.
Third pitch, 166 km/h high ball.
Two strikes, one ball.
America did not run away.
They insisted on challenging me directly.
I tapped the line once with my toe.
Then stood again.
Fourth pitch, ball.
Fifth, foul.
Sixth, foul.
Seventh, foul.
Eighth, foul.
Ninth, foul.
Tenth, foul.
Eleventh, ball.
Full count.
Rodri shook his head as if he were sick of me.
Rodri, the impossible wall.
A closer in his absolute prime.
In my previous life, near the end of my career, I had even studied his pitching mechanics.
Twelfth pitch, foul.
Thirteenth pitch, slider.
Finally.
My chance.
Crack!
But the ball barely caught the end of the bat with a sharp sound and rolled toward the third-base foul line.
“...Damn it.”
The crowd’s screams rose like a wave, then suddenly stopped.
Fourteenth pitch.
I held my breath.
All I could see were the two spinning seams.
I swung.
CRACK!
The ball cleanly split the left-center gap.
By the time Kwon Geon-woo rounded third, I had already reached first.
Both outfielders chased the ball rolling through left-center.
Too late.
Home.
Slide.
Safe!
The scoreboard flashed and changed.
Walk-off hit.
2-1.
My teammates rushed me.
My helmet disappeared somewhere.
Hands hit my back, shoulders, and head all at once.
I laughed so hard I could barely breathe.
The entire stadium shook.
I closed my eyes amid the smell of grass, dirt, and sweat.
Those two spinning seams were still floating in front of my eyes.
The award ceremony passed like a dream.
Olympic MVP.
When Choi Seong held the trophy, the first face that appeared in his mind was not his own.
A microphone was placed in front of him.
“Please tell us how you feel.”
Choi Seong looked down at the trophy.
Then raised his head.
“This award isn’t mine.”
He had to honor Cho Seung-hun, who had given everything.
The man who had lit a fire inside his chest.
Cho Seung-hun deserved to share in Choi Seong’s praise.
“It belongs to Cho Seung-hun.”
Silence fell as if everyone had stopped breathing.
The broadcast showed Cho Seung-hun sitting in a hospital bed and watching the game.
Foreign reporters happened to be interviewing him at that moment.
All day, Choi Seong had been thinking about the news that Cho Seung-hun had suffered an orbital fracture, was out for the season, and still needed more tests.
“His smile brought us this far. His courage stayed with us. Today, I threw his pitches and swung his bat. The real MVP is Cho Seung-hun.”
Without realizing it, Choi Seong’s throat tightened.
That bastard had gone and done something reckless on his own...
“And... this team. Everyone who refused to give up until the end. Our coaches, our staff, everyone who loves Korean baseball, thank you.”
Applause started somewhere in the stands and spread like a wave.
“Republic of Korea! Republic of Korea!”
The chant covered the stadium.
The trophy did not feel heavy.
When you shared it with someone, the weight turned into joy.
The next morning, the world went crazy reporting about Korea.
[KOREA SHOCKS USA]
[CHOI SEONG’S IMMORTAL FINAL]
[THE MAN WHO BEAT NOAH]
[KOREA REDEFINES ITSELF AS A BASEBALL POWER]
Japanese television was serious.
Cuban newspapers were passionate.
“We respect Korea.”
On an American morning show, Noah smiled.
“I was the one who asked him to challenge me directly. He kept that promise. And on the final pitch, he was faster than me.”
The world’s attention pointed toward Korea.
Yesterday, people called it an underdog miracle.
Today, they described it as skill that defeated opponents head-on.
The comments had no nationality.
Highlight views exploded.
We stood there watching the moment baseball became a global language.
The streets of Korea were bright.
Airport screens changed to welcome messages.
Even televisions inside neighborhood snack shops endlessly replayed the game.
“Mom, that’s our country.”
A child pointed at the screen.
The woman smiled.
“I know. I’ve watched it about twelve times since yesterday.”
Hearing conversations like that from behind me made me smile.
It sounded like an entire country becoming stronger through baseball.
Around lunchtime the next day, Choi Seong’s phone nearly exploded.
Unknown numbers.
Known numbers.
American numbers.
Japanese numbers.
The Busan Oceans front office email inbox was overflowing.
The subject lines alone said enough.
“Urgent: Two-way Contract Proposal”
“Ownership Meeting Tonight”
“Top Priority Target: CHOI”
Scouting reports piled like mountains on owners’ desks.
New York:
Four-seam velocity in the top five percent. Elite spin efficiency. Excellent slider whiff rate. Bat combines contact and power. Two-way usage creates extreme roster flexibility. Highest acquisition priority.
LA:
Medical evaluation and workload management required. However, big-game mentality, strike-zone approach, and concentration shown during the fourteen-pitch plate appearance are elite. Different kind of stability from Ohtani.
Boston:
Value exceeds ten billion won. Irreplaceable asset. Strong synergy with East Coast media market.
San Francisco:
Begin as pitcher with Plan B transition to hitter, or reverse. Fanbase strength comparable to a data center.
Choi Seong’s footage played in meeting rooms everywhere.
The fourteen-pitch walk-off sequence repeated endlessly with slow motion, four-seam spin numbers, and release-point analysis added on top.
One assistant scout described him like this.
“His timing on the final swing was insane.”
Another organization’s performance team analyzed my lower-body usage and stable core angle frame by frame.
Someone laughed.
“Nationality? Talent doesn’t know nationality.”
Another simply wrote,
“Korea is a baseball power. So acquire the ace of a baseball power.”
Choi Seong himself had become sensational.
Hoshino Yuki bit his lip while reading those reactions.
Once again, the player he needed to surpass had risen in front of him like a mountain.
Rodri, who gave up the walk-off hit, closed his beloved social media account after receiving an enormous flood of hate.
For about a month, he would need to move carefully around America.
That evening, Noah sent me a message.
, Get a good contract. Next time, let’s challenge each other directly again in our league. See you in seven years.
I replied briefly.
, Of course. Next time, straight at you again.
After the gold faded, I returned to Busan with two suitcases.
The clouds were low.
The sea felt heavy.
The stadium still smelled the same.
Rosin.
Grass.
Metal fencing.
Old speakers.
“You’re here, Master, sir!”
Kim Byeong-hee ran over and hugged me.
Manager Rodriguez and the players instantly surrounded me, Kwon Geon-woo, and Yoon Jae-jun.
Then they threw us into the air.
“Let’s work hard in the second half and make the Oceans champions.”
Manager Rodriguez spoke excitedly.
The first game of the second half.
After the national ceremony ended, I held a baseball.
The stadium was sold out.
Someone stretched my name into a long shout.
I raised my head.
Cho Seung-hun.
His name clearly appeared in my mind.
Someone I would soon register at Choi Seong School.
I swung the bat.
After winning with the national team, I had received new stats and potential abilities.
Energy flowed through my entire body.
Thankfully, Korean baseball gave every team a one-week break to celebrate the gold medal.
It was meant to protect national team players from injuries.
After resting properly, my body felt even better.
Still, because my injury risk had risen, I did not start the first game on the mound.
Crack!
The shine of the gold medal moved farther away.
Today’s dirt settled near my nose.
I smiled.
No matter what the world said, baseball always began with one pitch and ended with one pitch.
And today, once again, I would go straight at them.
Until the end.
The second-half race for another championship began.
