Pitcher’S End, Batter’S Start [EN]: Chapter 196

Pitcher done, batter up – 195

Home Run Cycle.

In Korea, it’s a record also called a Cycling Homer, adapted from the Cycling Hit.

As news spread that such a great record might be set, viewership ratings for broadcasts in various countries soared instantly.

Especially in Korea, due to the time difference, many office workers on their way to work were watching on their phones.

As the name ‘Korean Night’ suggests, American viewers, for whom it was a night game anyway, could watch without any such minor inconveniences.

[Well… an unprecedented record might be achieved today.]

[There are still huge hurdles like a grand slam and a bases-loaded home run, but it’s possible in today’s game. Lee Jung-woo is in great form, and the other batters are getting on base frequently, too, right?]

The commentators, caught up in the excitement, shifted their focus from the game itself to the possibility of a grand slam and a home run cycle, further amplifying the anticipation.

American commentators mirrored this sentiment, with everyone’s attention laser-focused on Lee Jung-woo’s bat.

“The atmosphere is strange… Mark, is something going on?”

The surrounding crowd seemed unusually animated. Even though they couldn’t understand English, they sensed the importance of the moment. Lee Jung-woo’s parents, watching the game with Mark, asked him cautiously. Mark, usually so relaxed and confident, chuckled with a hint of embarrassment.

“It seems like Lee is really about to do something special. I should have brought you two here sooner. I knew he was hitting a lot of home runs… but he’s really about to make history.”

His slightly awkward Korean pronunciation, picked up from working with Lee Jung-woo, was a little rough around the edges, but Lee Jung-woo’s parents, understanding the meaning through the interpreter, widened their eyes in surprise. Unlike his mother, who still seemed unsure, Lee Jung-woo’s father appeared to grasp the situation, his gaze shifting between the ground and his son with a newfound understanding.

“What’s wrong?”

“No, it’s just that your son and my son are on the verge of achieving something incredible.”

“Is there some kind of record at stake? Like, a perfect game or something?”

His mother’s question, drawing on her limited baseball knowledge from Lee Jung-woo’s pitching days, was met with a dismissive shake of his father’s head.

“A perfect game? For a batter, this is even bigger. This is…”

“It’s almost unheard of. If he pulls it off, that is. Only one minor league player, in Double-A as far as I know, has ever done it. It’s far rarer than a perfect game.”

The first record in Major League history.

A record of legendary difficulty.

He even needed to hit a grand slam, a rare feat in itself, to complete it. Yet, strangely, Mark felt it was within reach. Lee Jung-woo had a knack for achieving the improbable.

“Is it even possible? No matter how good Jung-woo is, if the opposing team doesn’t cooperate or the runners don’t get on base…”

“Yes, the odds are definitely stacked against him, but when Lee hit four consecutive home runs last year, there was a similar feeling in the air. It felt like this.”

In Mark’s estimation, hitting one more home run didn’t seem like an insurmountable challenge for Lee Jung-woo at this point. Despite the game progressing into the later innings, he appeared to have plenty of energy. Perhaps the Braves’ extended offensive innings were giving him more rest than usual.

‘He’s just in crazy mode.’

Lee Jung-woo himself was completely locked in.

The presence of his parents and the fact that he was the center of attention fueled him, but beyond that, he was genuinely inspired by the home runs he had already hit.

To put it bluntly, he was riding a wave of confident self-belief.

‘Normally, a little self-confidence in a game isn’t a bad thing.’

Mark was practically holding his breath.

He hadn’t felt this much tension since Lee Jung-woo announced his switch to batting, a decision that prompted an immediate phone call where Lee Jung-woo laid out his reasoning and convinced him.

‘The rewards for being the first to achieve something like this are immeasurable. He’ll be remembered forever, even if he retires tomorrow, and it will generate opportunities for years to come. But…’

Incalculable benefits. A record that defied prediction, even in financial terms. Mark, mentally tallying the calls, faxes, and emails that would soon flood his inbox, chuckled softly.

‘I want to watch him not just as Lee’s agent, but as a baseball fan, cheering him on.’

Lee Jung-woo had filled everyone, including Mark, with a mix of shock, awe, and exhilarating anticipation. But in Mark’s eyes, Lee Jung-woo, fidgeting in the distance, was still the same old Jung-woo.

Even as the world around him erupted in excitement, the fact that he was scratching the back of his head with his usual nonchalant expression was strangely reassuring.

####

‘Why are they making such a big deal out of it? It’s not like a grand slam is impossible.’

Lee Jung-woo couldn’t help but scoff at his teammates, who seemed to be giving him a wide berth.

“Ugh, stay away from me! I don’t want to be the reason you don’t get the record!”

“Why would you say that out loud! You’re jinxing it! Ah! I’m doomed! If Lee doesn’t hit a grand slam, it’s all Peterson’s fault!”

Lee Jung-woo was speechless as he watched his teammates recoil in mock horror, putting on a theatrical display. He was so taken aback that he almost forgot how to breathe.

“Why are you guys freaking out? It’s not like it’s a perfect game or anything. Seriously, isn’t that right, Cap…tain.”

“Lee, it’s best to be careful about these things. There’s a reason for unwritten rules, right? It’s better not to tempt fate.”

Lee Jung-woo shook his head at Derek, his trusted captain, who was now looking at him with awkward caution. He glanced around, and when his eyes met others’, not only the players but also the coaching staff avoided his gaze. Even the head coach and Mancini.

He understood that they were trying to avoid jinxing him, a common superstition in baseball.

‘Isn’t this a bit much? I mean, I still have to hit a grand slam.’

Home run cycle – he had met all the other requirements, but the final hurdle, a grand slam, was incredibly difficult. To compare it to a perfect game, it was like pitching flawlessly until the 8th inning, only to face a lineup of all Vincent Hardings [a fictional player known for being a difficult out] when you’re exhausted and need your teammates’ support.

It’s just damn hard.

That’s why Lee Jung-woo couldn’t understand why everyone was celebrating prematurely. But paradoxically, he could also see their point.

‘The first record in Major League history – it’s a huge deal. It’s not impossible, but if it falls apart, the backlash will be intense…’

But Lee Jung-woo shook his head. Dwelling on that would only add pressure and wouldn’t help.

“Wouldn’t it be better for me to step up to the plate with a clear head instead of being nervous for no reason? It’s not like I can create a bases-loaded situation by myself.”

“That’s true…”

“I don’t know who’s supposed to be the veteran here. Lee’s the one saying all the right things.”

“I’m ashamed as the captain. I don’t deserve to be the captain. That’s why I’m saying, why don’t you take over the captaincy from me, who doesn’t deserve it, and sign a 20-year extension contract to match-”

Lee Jung-woo, ignoring Derek’s attempt to lighten the mood with nonsense, scanned the field, focusing on the Mariners players. They had to know what was at stake. How could they not, after giving up the home runs themselves?

‘It’s a record, but at this point, it’s out of my hands. A grand slam depends more on the performance of other players than on my own.’

If a bases-loaded situation doesn’t arise during his at-bat, that’s it. And even if it does, the Mariners could simply issue an intentional walk.

So there was nothing Lee Jung-woo could actively do in this situation.

‘But if I get a chance after overcoming all those obstacles… I know I can do it.’

He clenched his fists, determined not to let the fleeting opportunity slip through his fingers.

####

If the Braves were filled with anticipation, the Mariners were filled with dread. Why was this happening to them? What had they done to deserve this?

They had played along with the pre-game festivities and family pitches. It wasn’t fair for the Braves to put them in this position.

Those thoughts swirled through the Mariners’ dugout.

“I’m glad we only play them once every three years…”

“I always wondered why Hunter [likely referring to a star player] wasn’t the best in the NL, but now I get it.”

“In some ways, he’s even worse than Hunter. What’s with that? We’re just side characters in his story.”

“The game’s probably lost anyway, so I’m going to do everything I can to ruin the record.”

The Mariners, gritting their teeth at Lee Jung-woo, who seemed to be repaying their kindness with hostility, were initially determined to spoil his attempt, but their resolve quickly faded, replaced by a growing sense of fear.

‘Is it even possible to stop him?’

‘Three home runs today alone. 22 in the first half of the season. What is that…’

‘I don’t want to face him on the mound… please get him out before it’s my turn.’

The pressure emanating from Lee Jung-woo throughout the game permeated the stadium like a suffocating fog.

####

Bottom of the 7th inning.

In his fifth at-bat, Lee Jung-woo grounded out, much to the relief of the Mariners. Although they didn’t voice it, they were ecstatic. A grand slam was now impossible due to runners on first and third, but they were simply happy to see the back of the batter they feared.

“Let’s go! Let’s go!”

“Even if we get crushed, I can’t watch him set a record in front of my eyes!”

“You should be satisfied with hitting three! You’ve already got 7 RBIs!”

Buoyed by this renewed energy, the Mariners scored 2 runs in the top of the 8th, narrowing the score to 18-2. They carried that momentum into the bottom of the 8th inning, which was practically their last chance to defend.

The batting order started with the 7th batter.

A sense of unease lingered, but they tried to stay positive, though their voices lacked conviction.

What followed was a disaster fueled by impatience. Batters 7 through 1 all reached base. The only out the pitcher recorded was against the 9th batter, who was also a pitcher.

[The moment of destiny has arrived. Bottom of the 8th, 1 out, bases loaded. 2nd batter Lee Jung-woo is stepping up for his sixth at-bat of the game. This is… almost a gift from the heavens.]

[No, it’s a self-fulfilling prophecy created by the pitcher. Perhaps fearing being linked to Lee Jung-woo, he was too nervous against the lower batting order. The hits that led to this situation were all slightly off.]

The stadium fell silent.

Normally, the crowd would be roaring with familiar war chants, but no one dared to make a sound. Their hearts pounded in their chests. They felt like they would be mobbed if they dared to break the silence.

So they simply watched Lee Jung-woo approach the plate with rapt attention. The pitcher on the mound, equally anxious, looked towards the bench for guidance, but received none.

[Yes, it doesn’t look like there will be a pitching change.]

[The game is already likely lost, so there’s no point in wasting valuable bullpen arms. They’re saving them for the next game.]

Behind him, the bases were loaded. In front of him, a fearsome hitter awaited. The pitcher was uneasy, but Lee Jung-woo was just as apprehensive.

‘The game’s already been decided… so they might just give up easily.’

From the Mariners’ perspective, issuing an intentional walk, even with the potential for criticism, might be the most sensible option. Lee Jung-woo, having experienced a bases-loaded intentional walk before, knew how easily it could happen.

That’s why he was so nervous.

This was an opportunity that might never come again, a moment he would regret for the rest of his life if he let it pass.

So Lee Jung-woo looked at the pitcher with a desperate plea in his eyes, but the pitcher’s decision was clear.

‘It’s a walk.’

The ball sailed far outside the strike zone. So far that the catcher almost had to stand up to catch it, making the intention obvious.

‘An intentional walk is too blatant, so they’re going to make it look accidental.’

Each ball was thrown with careful control, designed to minimize criticism. Lee Jung-woo felt a pang of disappointment with each pitch.

After three balls, he swung twice, just to show he wasn’t giving up.

“You sons of bitches!”

“Do you think you’ll get away with this! You can’t go back to Seattle! Why? Because I’m going to blow up the plane!”

“You chicken shits! Are you even men? Cut off your dicks!”

When an improbable full count was reached, the stadium erupted in fury, with fans making threats that would have the FBI on high alert. Amidst the chaos, Lee Jung-woo sighed as he watched the pitcher maintain a poker face.

“What are you thinking? This is the first time we’ve spoken all game. Say something.”

“…I’m sorry, but you have to understand. Wouldn’t you be upset if someone challenged a record against the Braves or you?”

“I’d be upset. But if someone tried to pitch a perfect game with 27 consecutive strikeouts against me, I wouldn’t bunt; I’d give it my all at the plate.”

“Yeah, you would. We’re not you.”

That’s how the conversation ended. But Lee Jung-woo refused to abandon hope.

‘I can hit it. It’ll be hard to get it over the fence, but if I can hit it far enough, I can make it with my speed.’

An inside-the-park home run. He had done it before. He was confident he could do it again. His legs had never let him down.

Determined to force the issue, Lee Jung-woo gripped the bat tightly. Sensing his unwavering resolve, the pitcher, who had been avoiding eye contact, finally called the pitching coach and catcher to the mound.

A heated discussion ensued. Finally, the pitching coach walked back to the dugout with a frustrated expression.

Lee Jung-woo sensed it.

‘This is it.’

The opportunity had arrived, and he would have no one to blame but himself if he failed.

A moment of silence. Then, back to the game. The pitcher wound up and delivered the pitch.

The pitcher’s choice was…

“Foul!”

It was sportsmanship.

A four-seam fastball, perfectly placed. The ball, thrown with maximum effort for the first time in the at-bat, curved just outside the foul line. The next pitch was also a foul, but a long one that landed in the right field stands.

The right fielder, who chased it to the end, returned to a chorus of boos. The count remained at two balls and three strikes.

If the pitcher had thrown with this intensity from the beginning, without being nervous or hesitant, they wouldn’t have reached this point.

‘It doesn’t matter now.’

To the pitcher, and to himself.

As the foul balls continued to fly, the sharp crack of the bat echoed through the stadium, punctuated by the jeers that had subsided when the pitcher decided to compete. Finally, the 8th ball became a towering foul ball that sailed just outside the foul pole.

Everyone knew.

That this was the end.

[It’s a decisive moment.]

[Regardless of the outcome, I want to commend pitcher Frank Harris’s sportsmanship and camaraderie for choosing to compete.]

[Yes, he’s essentially ignoring the bench’s orders, but it’s not an easy decision, even for a major leaguer. Especially since if a record is set, he’ll forever be remembered as the victim.]

The two players looked at each other.

Lee Jung-woo bowed his head slightly, and the pitcher simply nodded in acknowledgment.

And then, the 10th ball.

The ball, released with a long windup, traveled the 18.44 meters from the mound to home plate like a white streak.

‘This is…’

It’s dropping. Gradually.

The ball, which started high, was now descending rapidly, almost touching the ground. It wasn’t the previous walk; it was a breaking ball designed to deceive the batter.

It was an unexpected move, given the pitcher’s aggressive approach since changing his mind. Lee Jung-woo was caught off guard. He adjusted his stance as best he could.

‘Splitter.’

Split-finger fastball.

A pitch commonly called a splitter. Along with the curveball, it was a pitch Lee Jung-woo struggled to read. Because pitchers rarely threw it well. He wasn’t very familiar with it, and its trajectory, slightly different from a curveball, was a little awkward. But it didn’t matter.

Because he had been hitting so well that he was seriously unprepared in the first place.

That’s why pitchers avoided throwing it to him.

“Wow!”

Bang-

Lee Jung-woo, lunging forward, connected with the ball in a violent, upward swing reminiscent of his style from the previous year.

The runners on base sprinted towards home plate, raising their arms in triumph. But Lee Jung-woo, out of respect for the pitcher, refrained from a bat flip or any excessive celebration, and simply ran around the bases as fast as he could. The pitcher sighed and then clapped softly.

[Lee Jung-woo! Grand Slam! He did it! He did it! Cycling Home Run! The first ever!]

As if prepared for this moment, the stadium’s electronic display flashed the record announcement in a dazzling display. A few modest fireworks lit up the night sky.

The 40,000 spectators erupted in cheers, illuminating Truist Park with a sea of cell phone lights.

“Catch him! Catch him!”

“No! Don’t catch him! Don’t catch him! It’ll be a disaster if you drop him! He’s too valuable!”

“What are you talking about! This is a must-have! If you’re scared, get out of the way! I’m going for his leg!”

The third of the three words that people love so much – best, strongest, and first – was now etched into the history of Lee Jung-woo.