Suho came out of the manager’s office and walked back toward the house in a daze.

The cold night air cooled his cheeks, still hot from the game.

It did nothing at all for the fire burning in his chest.

Taylor’s last words had taken over everything in Suho’s head.

He’s going to write me a letter of recommendation for the Arizona Fall League?

The Arizona Fall League is a fall league that only the best prospects from each organization get into.

Playing there means the club has its eye on you.

A smile spread at the corner of Suho’s mouth before he knew it was there.

He acknowledged me.

There was a hard condition attached, of course — turning a teammate’s mind around.

But that wasn’t the important part.

The manager of the Quakes had declared that Suho wasn’t just another prospect among prospects.

He had called him the core of this team, and a future worth backing.

I’m… really happy.

He meant it.

The baseball he had always believed in.

Giving himself to the team’s win instead of his own numbers, taking the dirtiest work first — this was the clearest proof he could have asked for that his way hadn’t been wrong.

It filled his chest in a way no praise ever had.

Then one thought went through Suho’s head.

Should I… tell Mark about this?

Because Mark, of all people, would be as happy about it as if it were his own.

And maybe.

He might run even harder for me in the playoffs.

One way it served Suho’s goal, and the other way it served Mark’s numbers.

It was a perfect strategy, a win-win for both of them.

The Arizona Fall League had been a desperate goal of his from before he ever joined this club.

Suho stopped walking for a moment.

And then he shook his head.

No. Let’s not tell him.

The reason was simple.

This felt like cheating.

This was a test where he had to turn his teammates around with his own ability.

Telling Mark would be no different from showing his closest friend the answer sheet and steering him to it.

Could an opportunity won that way honestly be called his?

Baseball… I want to play it until my body gives out.

And for that, no tricks.

However hard and however long that road was, he had to go straight through it on his ability alone.

That was the only way he knew, and the way he was best at.

Suho closed his hand into a fist.

It’s all right, Suho Oh. You’re going to grow in the end anyway.

He hadn’t come all the way to America to live on half measures.

So it was decided.

Do your best. Play so the others have something worth following.

He might fail.

Judging by how the players had reacted so far, they had no interest at all in the Low-A playoffs.

But it didn’t matter.

Failure didn’t frighten him.

If I fail, that means I’m not good enough.

A player who isn’t good enough yet has no business looking higher.

But if he succeeded instead.

I think it would mean more.

And he thought he might get some confidence out of it too.

His second life in baseball had only just started.

If he got some confidence here, he would play better from here on.

Suho’s steps got noticeably lighter.

A few days later.

The day of game one of the playoff division series finally came around.

The Quakes’ opponents were their old rivals from the same South Division, the Inland Empire 66ers, an LA Angels affiliate.

They were a strong club, a clear first among the eight teams in the California League this season.

Which naturally made them first in the South Division too.

The Quakes, meanwhile, had piled up wins at a crazy rate after Suho and Mark joined and grabbed second in the South Division at the last minute.

Third in the league overall, and into the playoffs.

The league overall meaning the whole California League, South and North together.

A few hours before the game.

The Quakes players loaded their bags onto the old long-distance bus parked in the club lot and got on.

This was the reality of the minor leagues.

Major leaguers cross the continent on charter flights.

The only transportation these men had was this worn-out bus, which covered tens of thousands of miles a year.

“Ugh. I’m never going to get used to this bus.”

Mark had already claimed a seat and loaded his bag, and he grumbled as he folded his enormous body into the narrow one.

Suho sat down beside him and let out a short laugh.

He thought the same thing himself.

The KBO farm team bus was better than this, honestly.

The bus he’d ridden in Korea at least hadn’t been this old, or creaked like this.

But he decided to stop with the complaints and look at the good side of it.

“It’s close, though. San Bernardino’s thirty minutes away. Let’s just get through it.”

“That much we’re lucky about.”

Mark went on complaining.

“Imagine drawing the northern guys, Fresno or San Jose. Six hours locked in this prison with your backside destroyed.”

What Mark said got at the heart of how Low-A works.

Players move almost entirely by bus, so the whole thing is built around keeping the trips short and the costs down.

Anyway. Time to get started.

Suho had goals.

The first one.

I have to put up good numbers in these playoffs.

Just as Taylor had said, if he tore up the playoffs he might be moved to the next league.

And the other one… run hard.

At least one player in these playoffs had to start playing for the team.

Because Arizona is riding on it.

And for that he first needed a convincing win to pull their motivation up.

Suho’s eyes went to the front of the bus.

Then he got out of his seat and went up to the two men in the front row.

John Miller, the play-by-play man on the Quakes broadcast, and Bill Heywood, the color commentator.

They traveled on this same bus exactly as the players did.

Suho went up to John and asked politely.

“Excuse me, John. If you don’t mind, could I trade seats with you for a while?”

John looked up at Suho with surprise in his eyes.

“Why? What’s going on?”

“Ah, it’s nothing bad. I’ve done my own work on the other team, but I think there are some gaps in it. There are a few things I’d like to ask Bill.”

Bill was the color man.

A color commentator carries more knowledge than a play-by-play man does.

His knowledge alone might have been the best in the minor leagues.

“Oh! That’s all it is? Ha, no problem at all! Kid’s got as much drive off the field as he does on it.”

John got up willingly.

Then he saw the empty seat beside Mark, went over, and gave his shoulder a tap.

“You’ve got me the rest of the way, Mark!”

“Huh? John? Why the seat change?”

“Your friend wants to break down the other team. And you know Bill, our color man — he’s got the whole California League in his head.”

Mark glanced up at the front seats where Suho and Bill were sitting and muttered.

“Ah… that’s Suho for you.”

But the truth was that Mark didn’t really understand what Suho was doing.

He knew the man was full of drive, but he wondered whether it needed to go that far.

Baseball is a sport that runs on data, granted.

The season’s over, though.

Because the players who were getting promoted had already been decided.

So digging information out of a color commentator like that, and producing a result in this game on the back of it.

He didn’t think much would change either way.

Numbers put up here might help down the line, of course.

And if it was going to help down the line, he figured it made a hundred times more sense to be good then.

That’s our Suho. Still making life hard on himself.

It was a compliment, in fact.

There was nothing bad about a player being diligent.

And one other man.

Cash Meyer, with his head resting against the window in the very back seat of the bus.

He must have caught the commotion through the headphones, because his eyes went forward for a moment.

And his brow drew very slightly together.

What’s this?

Why is he changing seats?

Because another strange piece of behavior had come out of Suho.

But he decided not to pay it much attention.

With no idea that two people were watching him, Suho started in on Bill right away.

“Which of my plays do you think would work best against them?”

Bill decided to answer him as honestly and fully as he could.

And no wonder — look at the inside of this bus.

Every one of them had a face on him that said he didn’t want to play tonight.

But Suho?

He was full of drive all by himself.

“I’m a commentator, not a ballplayer, so I don’t know how much help I’ll be, but I’ll tell you what I know. First, your hitting. You know how well known it’s gotten? Your average exit velocity is first in Low-A. So they’re going to be wary of your bat.”

“That’s good news. In that case, how about I lay down a bunt for a hit in my first at-bat instead of swinging?”

Bill frowned and rubbed at his chin.

“Hm. Honestly, if I were you I wouldn’t. Bunting your way on when you’ve got that kind of power… the truth is that even reaching base that way might not look good to people. You know it yourself, don’t you? America doesn’t like the bunt.”

“But it helps the team, doesn’t it?”

“If you reach, it helps the team. But it really could hurt you on an individual evaluation.”

“Right. But on the other hand, if I get the bunt down, they have to guard the bunt in my next at-bat, don’t they?”

“That’s true.”

“Then it gets easier for me to get a hit.”

Bill nodded.

Because, as he’d explained a moment ago, Suho’s ground-ball exit velocity was first in Low-A.

And his exit velocity on well-struck balls was first as well.

So if the other side plays in, the odds of a hit go up.

Hits come off him against a normal defense because of that overwhelming exit velocity.

What happens when they play in?

Playing that close, they’d sooner flinch than get in front of one of those balls.

“If it works the way you intend, then it’s as good as it gets. But if the bunt fails. Or if the bunt works and no hits come afterward. It’s a mark against you, and no arguing with it. That’s the real problem.”

The biggest thing was that people would read it as a lack of confidence, whatever his exit velocity said.

“But what it comes down to is that if it goes as intended, it’s a good thing?”

“Yes. It has to be, in the end. You’d have effectively had two hits. So it’s all or nothing.”

Suho liked Bill’s last words.

All or nothing.

That was exactly the attitude he needed right now.

To make the organization notice him, and to plant some drive in his teammates, he had to show them something completely unlike anyone else.

A mark against me? Forget that and think about what it adds.

A bunt hit is hustle, in the end.

A hustle play lifts me, and the team’s spirit with me, whatever the stage is.

It means running like hell, and maybe throwing your body at something.

Plays like that lead to a flood of adrenaline.

That alone is reason enough to do it.

Not being afraid of what failure costs him on paper.

That was Suho’s biggest weapon right now.

And above all, the reason Suho had bothered to ask the question was simple.

He needed to be sure.

His years in Korea were overwhelmingly longer than his time here, so he couldn’t claim to know American baseball completely yet.

Suho smiled brightly with certainty in his eyes.

“That’s answer enough for me. Thank you, Bill.”

“You’re going through with it, aren’t you? Fine. With your bat control it isn’t a completely impossible gamble.”

“The responsibility is entirely mine.”

“Good thing you know that much.”

Suho finished with a small bow and got up.

Then he walked back to the seat where Mark was sitting.

Mark had watched the whole business blankly, and as Suho dropped down beside him again he asked.

“Are you drawing up some secret operation? The look on your face. I thought you were going off to a war.”

Suho gave a short nod.

“Close enough. It’s a war I’m fighting on my own.”

“…What?”

Suho decided to stop talking there.

Seeing once beats hearing a hundred times.

Proving it with a result on the field would be far faster and far surer than saying it a hundred times over.

Suho had no intention of letting the opportunity he’d been given get away from him.

End of Chapter 29