Game two of the championship series ended in a Quakes win too. The series finished 2–0.

The Quakes had won the title.

“Woooo!”

Cheers filled the ballpark.

It wasn’t the kind of deafening roar you’d hear at the World Series in the majors, of course. The stands were empty. The only applause came from the few who’d stayed in their seats—scouts, players’ families and a handful of San Jose’s local baseball fans—and it was modest. No big parade, no championship rings studded with diamonds, no TV cameras beaming it around the world.

That was the reality of the minors.

The trophy a league official handed over was smaller and plainer than they’d expected. It was an ordinary trophy with a thin coat of gold plating, the kind you could find anywhere. But the players passed it around carefully and marveled at it as if it were the Holy Grail.

“Wow… so this is a trophy.”

“It’s heavier than I thought.”

“This is the first time I’ve ever held one of these, my whole life playing ball…”

They might have torn it up back home as amateurs, and they might have made it into the pro game on the strength of it. Even so, very few of them had ever touched a championship trophy.

The reason was simple. This was America.

There were tens of thousands of amateur teams in the country and hundreds of thousands of registered players. Surviving all the way to the end among that many stars and taking the title of number one was, quite literally, as hard as plucking a star out of the night sky.

So even if this was a shabby league at the very lowest level, only now, after winning it, did they realize how much weight that proof of being number one really carried.

“Okay, okay! Everybody get together for a picture!”

A guy from the club’s PR staff was shouting, holding up an old DSLR camera.

The players crowded in around the trophy. They threw their arms over each other’s shoulders, fixed their caps and put on their brightest smiles.

Just then, Suho tried to slip off to the edge of the back row. He’d done what he came to do. He’d changed the team and he’d won. That was enough. He figured the spotlight belonged to the players who’d been on this team from the start, since he’d only joined late.

But—

“Hey! Where do you think you’re going?”

Mark grabbed him by the scruff of the neck.

“Huh? No, I’m just back here…”

“Cut the crap and get over here.”

It wasn’t only Mark. The other players did it too, and even Cash, of all people, dragged Suho along with them. As if they’d planned it, the players parted and shoved Suho into the front row—right in the middle.

“This is your spot.”

“That’s right. We wouldn’t even be here without you.”

Somebody pushed the championship trophy into Suho’s arms. He felt the cold metal.

When Suho looked around, flustered, his teammates were smiling at him, and they meant it.

“You’re the star of the show, aren’t you?”

Mark grinned and threw an arm over Suho’s shoulder.

Suho’s eyes went round, then curved into a smile. It was recognition he couldn’t turn down—no, recognition he didn’t want to turn down. Unlike before, everyone wanted him now.

Suho steadied himself.

Glad I didn’t give up.

And he hadn’t been wrong. He’d worked really hard, and people saw it. He still had a long way to go, but for now, this was enough.

He shifted the trophy in his arms. It was heavy. It wasn’t just the weight of the metal. It held the sweat he’d shed getting back on his feet after his old failure, and the hearts of his teammates, pulled together into one.

“Here we go! One, two, three!”

Click.

The flash went off.

Under the night sky over San Jose, every one of the Quakes was beaming. And in the middle of them all, Suho held the trophy high.

With that, the long, long Low-A season came to a perfect happy ending. But Suho knew it wasn’t the end. It was only a new beginning, the start of the road to a much bigger stage.

The players all climbed onto the bus to head home.

But even with the engine running, ten minutes went by and the bus showed no sign of pulling out.

“Why aren’t we moving?”

“Taylor’s not on yet.”

Looking out the window, they could see Taylor standing in a corner, well away from the bus. He was on the phone with someone, and his usual easygoing air was nowhere to be found. He was chewing his nails, on edge.

The phone rang and rang. After a long wait, the other end picked up.

—Hello?

“Yeah. It’s me. Kevin.”

Kevin, the Los Angeles Dodgers’ farm director. The man who ran the whole minor league system and decided who got promoted and who got released. He held every minor leaguer’s life in his hands.

—Oh, Taylor. What’s up, this late?

“You see the result?”

—What result?

“Hah… I sent you an email. Check it first.”

Through the phone came the sound of typing. A moment later, Kevin sounded a lot more cheerful.

—Oh. You won, huh? Congratulations. But you send it ten minutes ago and ask if I’ve checked it? Isn’t that a bit much? I got off work ages ago. Not that I don’t mean the congratulations, though. You had a great season.

“Let’s skip the small talk.”

—Why? You got something else to ask for? What, you want a bonus?

Kevin said it like a joke, but Taylor’s voice was serious.

“Give me one more ticket to Arizona.”

Silence came over the line.

—What? I told you, I already signed off on your guy Suho.

“Not him. Mark Williams. Get one more for him, too.”

—Hey, Taylor. Are you serious? You want to send three kids from Low-A to Arizona? Isn’t that getting greedy?

Kevin’s voice turned sharp. It had to. The Arizona Fall League was an elite track: every club picked only six or seven of its top prospects to send. Most of them were Double-A or Triple-A players, and it was hard to send even one from Low-A.

But Cash Meyer was already set, and on Taylor’s strong recommendation they’d put Suho on the list too. Now Mark as well? Sending three from Low-A, the lowest level of all, had never been done.

The bigger problem was what came after.

—You of all people know what going to Arizona means. If they show well there, next season’s plan changes on the spot.

“…”

—Cash is getting promoted as it is, and if your guy Suho plays well too, that’s two moving up to High-A. But what if one more goes up on top of that? The High-A roster blows up. It’ll be over capacity.

Baseball only has so many spots. If three players come charging up from below, three players above them have to be released or lose their place. For the club, it meant a messy logjam of prospects to sort out. What Taylor was asking for was unreasonable, and it shook up the club’s whole operating plan.

—Sorry, but no. With Mark, it won’t be too late to decide after we see him at spring training next year…

Taylor cut him off.

“Just watch the video I sent first. If you still think I’m being greedy after that, I’ll drop it.”

Taylor was sure of himself. The magic Suho had made—and the change in Mark, who’d been won over by that magic, thrown away a number-four hitter’s pride and chosen to hit for the team. A guy like Kevin, who’d been in baseball as long as he had, wouldn’t be able to say no once he saw it. Taylor was certain of it.

“Call me after you watch it. I’ll be waiting.”

Taylor hung up on him, then let out a long sigh.

Mark has to go.

He knew it was an unreasonable ask. Three players from a Low-A team—championship roster or not—

Let’s be honest. They’re nothing but rough stones, and sending kids like that to Arizona has never been done.

But Taylor had no intention of backing down. This wasn’t just about giving a prospect named Mark a chance.

It’s all for Suho.

Taylor looked at Suho’s silhouette in the bus window.

Over the last few days, Taylor had been forced to size Suho up all over again. He wasn’t just a hard-working player or an unselfish one.

He’s a conductor.

A maestro who stood over the orchestra of a ballfield, tuning instruments that were playing out of key until they made a single symphony.

But a conductor can’t make a sound by himself. His worth is proven only when there are players who understand where he’s leading and follow him.

The Arizona Fall League is a showcase for monsters.

It was a stage where individuals showed off what they could do, nothing more. Pitchers who threw over 100 miles an hour, hitters who drove the ball 492 feet. Among monsters like that, Suho’s selflessness and his game plans could easily come to nothing.

They could get written off as some no-talent kid flailing around, or ignored completely.

Not that Suho lacked the talent.

No, he doesn’t. He’s kept getting better in no time at all, and he’ll get a lot better in Arizona too. And his style of play is going to work there, no question.

He’d probably be a lot better than he was now. But Taylor wanted him to grow much faster than that.

The reason was his age.

Someone might argue that Suho would prove himself on his ability anyway, so what difference did it make if Mark came along?

But Taylor knew better.

Growing faster doesn’t come from baseball ability. It comes from peace of mind.

Suho was a foreigner, when all was said and done. However good his English was, however well he got along with his teammates, at heart he was a Korean dropped alone into a foreign country with no family and no friends. The emptiness and loneliness he felt in a bare room when he got back from practice—that was the biggest enemy there was, eating away at a player’s energy without him even noticing.

But what if Mark was with him?

Then it’s a whole different story.

In a strange place, a new league, cutthroat competition—having a real friend at his side he could open up to. That was like having a comrade in battle he could trust to cover his back. Here, Mark was Suho’s only family, the shade where he could rest.

If he can pour all the energy he’d spend enduring the loneliness into baseball instead…

With that sense of security to build on, Suho would adjust twice as fast. Baseball was a mental game. It was only natural that a player whose mind was at ease would fly higher on the field.

So Mark has to be there.

If only so that Suho wouldn’t burn out in this faraway country, and could enjoy playing a little more.

Truth was, Taylor had no real reason to go this far. If anything, if Suho showed well in Arizona, he might start next season in High-A instead of Low-A. Then Taylor wouldn’t be coaching him anymore.

We probably won’t even run into each other.

But when someone does you a kindness, you pay it back. However individualistic America might be—

It’s not like we don’t know how to be grateful.

Suho had made Taylor’s dream come true, no doubt about it. And Taylor was the one who’d thought it was good enough and time to stop.

He never gave up, right to the end.

And the result was the icing on the cake. He’d proven Taylor’s read on him hadn’t been wrong.

So the least I can do is this.

The only problem was Kevin’s decision…

Is that even a problem?

Taylor’s heavy expression eased.

Once he sees how those games went, he’ll send him whether he wants to or not.

A guy like Kevin, sitting still after seeing Suho’s magic?

Then he’d have to step down as the Dodgers’ farm director.

And the Kevin that Taylor knew wanted to hang on to that chair until he was so old and senile he was smearing shit on the walls.

End of Chapter 40