Right after the meeting with the manager.

Suho walked into the locker room with Mark.

In that moment the noisy laughter cut off all at once, as though on cue.

The energy hanging in the air turned instantly into a heavy, awkward silence.

The players did nothing but throw glances at them.

Not one of them came over to say anything first.

“Damn it, look at the way they’re staring at us.”

Mark muttered it as he picked up the distinctive blue uniform hanging in his locker.

As a Dodgers minor league affiliate, the Quakes wore a uniform close in color to the parent club’s.

Except it kept the blue that was the Dodgers’ identity while carrying a design of the Quakes’ own.

And Mark’s number was 4.

Suho smiled at the grumbling and looked at the uniform he’d be wearing from now on.

Number 79.

Two digits where Mark had one.

Once Suho had changed, Mark went on complaining.

“However I look at it this is too unfair. We don’t even know the names of the guys we’re playing with, and we’re supposed to go out there with no introduction? Isn’t the manager being a bit much?”

Suho shook his head at the complaint.

“Mark, instead of complaining, hurry up and change.”

“No, come on. We show up, we don’t get one proper round of batting practice, and we’re supposed to go out and produce. And how are we supposed to play in an atmosphere like this? Does that seem reasonable to you?”

Mark’s complaint had a fair amount of sense in it.

“Even so, Mark. You’re better off than me.”

“Better off how?”

Suho pointed a finger at the number on the back of Mark’s uniform.

“The manager seems to expect a lot more from you than from me, at least.”

Mark bit his lip, apparently caught out.

Because he couldn’t argue with it.

Mark’s 4 was a number that regulars commonly wore in baseball.

It meant the team counted him as real strength on the roster.

And carried the implication that the Quakes’ manager expected a great deal of him.

Suho’s 79, on the other hand, was the sort of high number given only to minor leaguers.

Something like a temporary number, handed to a player who wasn’t a certain starter yet, or who had joined late.

It also meant the manager expected little of him.

“Ugh. Put like that I’ve got nothing to say.”

Mark sighed his way into his uniform.

And Suho’s eyes, crescent-shaped from smiling a moment ago, narrowed to slits.

There’s an intention behind this.

Back in the KBO farm system.

He’d been through this kind of test any number of times.

On the surface it looks like an unreasonable instruction.

But hidden inside it was a manager’s sharp intent, probing a player’s baseball intelligence and his ability to handle a situation.

If the man simply disliked them on sight he wouldn’t have given them a chance at all.

So this was a test.

Not a simple examination of ability, but something like an unspoken assignment — prove for yourself whether you’re a piece this team actually needs.

In baseball, reading the other man’s move matters most of all.

Suho decided that reading the manager’s move was the heart of today’s test.

Become the kind of player the man wanted and he could stand out well enough even without producing a result today.

And I should be trying to produce one regardless.

Because that was the road to growing faster.

Suho and Mark sat side by side at the edge of the dugout.

Having joined only that day, the two of them couldn’t find a way into the mood around them and watched the game without a word.

Except that unlike Mark, whose expression had frozen solid.

Suho’s eyes were sweeping the field without pause.

“The level really is high.”

Suho said it quietly.

His eyes were on the pitcher throwing four-seam fastballs from the opposing mound.

The velocity sat above 93 as a matter of course.

His assessment continued.

“The Dodgers tryout doesn’t compare.”

But was the level better than the KBO farm system? It wasn’t.

Honestly, the KBO farm system played more seasoned, more finished baseball.

Even so, there was a separate reason Suho was surprised right now.

The players are young.

Extraordinarily young, at that.

Which meant that in terms of potential they were beyond anything the KBO farm system could compare to.

The pitcher on the mound now had a boyish face, twenty at the outside.

And he was already throwing well past 93 at will.

The same went for the hitters.

They didn’t put the ball in play or reach base every time.

But there was force behind every single swing.

Beyond that, the bat paths were clean and each man’s individuality showed clearly.

Which means the mechanics are already close to perfect.

Suho thought of his own swing.

He’d changed his mechanics under Coach John’s instruction.

But those mechanics weren’t his own, so next to these men he still had a long way to go.

Not having mechanics isn’t what matters right now, though.

Getting into the manager’s good graces came first.

Only then could he learn mechanics that fit him, a day sooner.

Perform first.

Which was why Suho had been watching the game so closely.

By the time the fourth inning had gone by.

Swing paths, defensive positioning, baserunning styles — all of it was fitting together in his head like puzzle pieces.

He worked through every piece from the leadoff man to the nine hole, and the picture still wouldn’t close.

The corner of Suho’s mouth lifted, as though he’d realized something.

There’s a gap in this team’s lineup.

The talent these players had was genuinely outstanding, as he’d already noted.

But baseball isn’t something you can play on talent alone.

Baseball is unambiguously a team sport.

If every man on the roster is the same kind of player, the wins don’t follow.

I think I understand why the manager wanted to check our ability today, right now.

More precisely, Suho had worked out what he needed to do to get into the man’s good graces.

Before long the opposing pitcher changed.

Thump.

Thump.

The stuff was tremendous from the warm-up pitches alone.

“Wow. That’s insane. Anyway, I’ve seen that guy somewhere. Who was he?”

Mark’s brow furrowed hard and he left his seat briefly to check the opposing roster.

He came back shaking his head.

“Damn it. No wonder he looked familiar.”

Suho asked.

“What? Who is he?”

Mark swallowed.

“Cade Foster. Two years ago at the High School Invitational they called him Cannon.”

The name was new to Suho.

But the tension in Mark’s voice told him what kind of pitcher this was.

“He was one of the guys they called the Four Heavenly Kings among high school pitchers that year. I was injured that season so I never faced him myself, but I heard the name endlessly. He’s a monster who throws 100.”

Mark let out a hollow laugh.

“And he’s here now? At our test game, of all things? He’s probably going to pitch unbelievably well. Which is why I don’t want to face him right now. Please.”

Suho nodded at it.

Nickname’s Cannon? Fair enough for a guy who throws 100.

As a Korean, Suho found American naming sense a little juvenile.

But he couldn’t laugh at it either.

Getting a nickname at all meant you were that good.

What a genuinely interesting stage.

He’d joined the minors and met a monster on day one.

His heart picked up.

He was happy to be able to perform on a stage at this level.

And there won’t be just one or two monsters like him.

Suho fixed his eyes on Cade Foster on the mound.

His delivery was compact with nothing extraneous in it, and the force coming off the throwing arm was beyond imagining.

He really is different.

A different dimension from the pitchers before him.

He was demonstrating why he was a top-tier prospect off warm-up pitches alone.

And then.

“Hey. New guys. Get ready to hit.”

Taylor’s voice carried down the dugout.

Mark shot up out of his seat and complained.

“Y— you want us out there now?”

“Yes. What. Got a complaint? You have a great many complaints.”

Complaints? Of course Mark had them.

Why send them out to hit the moment an insane monster took the mound?

On top of which neither he nor Suho had gotten one proper round of batting practice today.

And now they were supposed to face a man throwing 100.

This was plainly because the manager disliked them.

Thoroughly deliberate.

Mark looked at Suho with eyes full of complaint.

Shouldn’t you say something? is what the look said.

Suho patted him on the shoulder.

“Mark. It’s all right.”

Then he answered with his eyes: push back any further here and they might not get a chance at all.

Mark glanced around and dropped his voice.

“What’s all right about it… can’t you see that ball? We haven’t even warmed up, we’re not going to handle that, I’m telling you.”

“Want to try trusting me? I’ll get you into the manager’s good graces without fail.”

“What? How?”

“What you have to do is simple. Swing as hard as you can. With the intention of hitting a home run and nothing else. Thinking of yourself as a power one-tool guy.”

“Hey. I’m not that bad! My contact’s good too!”

“I know. I know, but I think here it’d be good to show them the strength you have.”

“No, but if I swing like that I can’t catch up to that velocity in the first place.”

“It’s fine. Doesn’t matter. Because—”

Suho began telling him what he’d noticed earlier.

What the Quakes were short of in today’s game.

“Going by today’s game alone, the Quakes don’t have a real number-four hitter. There’s nobody whose whole game is overwhelming strength.”

There was force in the Quakes hitters’ swings.

But that meant force enough to produce a hit or an extra-base hit.

Not the innate strength that comes from a tool.

To explain it more simply, there were plenty of hitters who could put up twenty home runs.

But the strength for thirty or forty — overwhelming power that turns into home runs and nothing else — was nowhere in that lineup.

Mark’s eyes snapped open at the explanation.

“Th— that’s actually true.”

“Yeah. So if you show them that here, Mark, the manager will be satisfied.”

Mark was astonished at how much Suho had seen.

“Insane. Your baseball IQ is off the charts too?”

“Not something to brag about. I had a hard time in the KBO farm system, living off reading the room to survive.”

“Reading the room? That’s an eye for the game! That’s a good thing to have! But hold on. What are you going to do?”

“I’ll show you with action rather than words.”

Suho left it at that and walked straight over to the manager.

“I’ll take the box first.”

“Do that, then.”

Then Suho pulled a bat from the rack and stood in the on-deck circle.

Thump.

“Strike three!”

When the hitter ahead of him struck out, Suho stepped into the left-hand box and breathed deep.

Then he thought of another type the Quakes didn’t have.

The leadoff hitter.

The spearhead, in other words.

There was nobody of the type who leads with his plate discipline, works the count, and concentrates on reaching base.

Nor was there a player with the fast legs to disrupt the other side once he got on.

Whether that was a characteristic of American baseball, or simply of the modern game, he couldn’t say.

Every one of them was busy swinging the moment a pitch they wanted came.

Put simply, it looked like individual play rather than team play.

Baseball is unambiguously a team sport.

This was the first game, of course, and he couldn’t claim to know the players accurately yet.

But this much was certain.

Baseball isn’t a game of heroes.

Back in Korea, Suho had learned to contribute to a team more desperately than anyone, in order to hide his weakness at the plate.

Reaching base, advancing, disrupting the other side.

That was the only way a man with insufficient talent had been able to survive.

A player who can’t hit home runs but paves the road to a run is absolutely necessary.

Because a star can’t shine alone.

Those talented young players didn’t seem to know that simple truth yet.

Where they trust individual talent, I prove myself with play for the team.

That was the thing they didn’t have.

And it would become a weapon entirely his own.

Bring it!

Suho set his stance.

A type the Quakes didn’t have.

No — a type that had perhaps dried up even in the major leagues was preparing to spread its wings.

End of Chapter 19