The Genius Hitter Who Conquered America - Chapter 102

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This chapter was translated by Lunox Novels. To support us and help keep this series going, visit our website: LunoxScans.com
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Chapter 102
After the game the next day.
A question mark lingered in a corner of Soo-ho’s mind.
‘He definitely promised yesterday.’
Harry had agreed to Soo-ho’s transition to Shortstop and even offered to coach him directly.
Yet in yesterday’s and today’s games, Soo-ho’s position remained Center Fielder.
Neither in pre-game training nor in actual play had Soo-ho ventured anywhere near the infield.
A full moon hung unusually bright, illuminating the Ground.
On the empty Ground stood only Harry and Soo-ho, facing each other.
“Do you understand why I called you at this hour?”
Harry asked in a low voice.
Soo-ho fell into thought for a moment.
Had the Manager changed his mind?
Did he prefer Soo-ho to play Center Fielder rather than Shortstop?
No, that couldn’t be it.
Harry was a pragmatist.
He wasn’t the type to break a promise if it benefited him.
Then there could be only one reason.
“I think I understand.”
“Tell me.”
“To conceal your strategy.”
Soo-ho’s eyes sharpened as if he had seen through everything.
Modern baseball is a battle of data.
The Pitcher’s pitch distribution, the batter’s hot zones, and even the defensive range of fielders.
Everything is analyzed in detail and fed into the Opposing Analytics Team’s tablets.
“If I had played Shortstop in today’s game, they would have immediately begun analyzing me.”
My footwork, my throwing motion, and my defensive range left and right.
Tailored strategies would certainly emerge.
“But if I take the Shortstop position on Playoffs day without warning….”
The opposition would be caught off guard.
Because there’s no data.
They wouldn’t know what types of ground balls I struggle with.
Or whether my base coverage is quick—they’d have to play the game in complete ignorance.
In baseball, not knowing is fear itself.
I believed Harry’s intention was to deploy a surprise card that would catch the opposition off guard.
Harry nodded with satisfaction.
It couldn’t have been otherwise.
Just as he’d expected, Soo-ho was a player who thought deeply.
A player who understood the Manager’s intentions was always appreciated everywhere.
“Precisely right. Gaining the upper hand in information warfare is fundamental in short series.”
But Harry’s explanation didn’t end there.
“Of course, that’s not all. The real reason I’m having you play Center Fielder is something else entirely.”
“???”
“It’s for your batting sense.”
When Soo-ho’s expression turned puzzled, Harry stroked his chin and continued his explanation.
“Shortstop and Center Fielder use entirely different muscle groups.”
Center Fielder is a position where you read the batted ball, make a judgment, then sprint at full speed over a long distance.
Explosive power in an instant is necessary, but fundamentally, it’s about utilizing wide open space.
But Shortstop is different.
“Shortstop requires you to bend your knees with every pitch, reacting constantly left and right. The strain on the lower body is second only to the Catcher among all fielders.”
The problem was that Soo-ho hadn’t played Shortstop for two years.
If I suddenly had to handle Shortstop defense in a real game and run all nine innings?
Lactic acid would accumulate in thigh and calf muscles I hadn’t used, and my legs would give out.
“Batting balance comes from the lower body. If your legs fail from fielding, your swing mechanics—your greatest advantage—crumbles with it.”
Harry’s assessment was precise.
I’d be making the worst possible move: rushing to show off my defense only to ruin the most important aspect—my hitting.
Soo-ho was the team’s leadoff batter and the offensive cornerstone.
If his bat went cold, no amount of good Shortstop defense would matter.
“So in actual games, play Center Fielder and conserve your energy. Keep your batting sense in peak condition.”
There was also the matter of injury prevention.
Without Soo-ho, the Desert Dogs would lose half their strength in the Playoffs.
He was taking on various roles as the team’s vanguard.
Harry gazed up at the night sky.
“Instead.”
His gaze fixed back on Soo-ho. His bare eyes, now without sunglasses, gleamed with a cool intensity.
“While others sleep, you prepare as a Shortstop. Just sharpen your instincts without compromising your hitting.”
By day, masquerade as a Center Fielder; by night, hone yourself as a Shortstop.
This was the winning scenario Harry had devised.
Because Soo-ho’s batting was far too valuable to waste.
And if this strategy worked.
The Desert Dogs, armed with Soo-ho as a secret weapon, could face anyone.
And maintain the upper hand in the numbers game.
In baseball, gaining the numbers advantage against your opponent meant a higher probability of winning the game.
Soo-ho clenched his fists.
“Understood.”
Soo-ho felt a sense of satisfaction.
It came from Harry’s consideration in maximizing my strengths to the very end.
The night was long, and the moon was bright.
It was the perfect time for grueling training.
* * *
Harry stepped up to the Batter’s Box and spoke.
“If I drill you all day long, you’ll definitely improve your Shortstop defense. But if I do that, you’ll burn through your stamina and won’t have anything left for the Playoffs. So we’re going short and intense.”
Efficiency. It was the most critical virtue when facing a short series.
“Exactly thirty minutes a day. But you won’t feel like that time is short.”
I considered his words.
Thirty minutes was honestly far too little time.
A single defensive training session usually took well over an hour to complete properly.
But if I could actually improve my skills with just thirty additional minutes of training per day?
There was no better method than this.
I could maintain my batting feel while awakening my defensive instincts.
Hadn’t I told Harry myself?
That I couldn’t achieve one hundred percent efficiency at the Batter’s Box.
At least not while starting from scratch as a Shortstop again.
That was because I’d planned to handle so much training volume.
But if I could conserve that stamina?
Even as a Shortstop, I could prevent my stamina from dropping drastically.
If that happened, I might be able to display the batting I’d shown as a Center Fielder while playing Shortstop.
But…
‘Is it possible?’
Doubt was unavoidable.
There was a physical limit to time itself.
That was when it happened.
Harry smoothly pulled out a bat he’d hidden behind his back.
A silver metal bat gleaming coolly in the moonlight.
My eyes widened.
‘That’s…’
Not the usual fungo bat I always saw.
A silver bat with scratches across its surface and chipped paint—bearing the unmistakable marks of time.
Yet its aura was sharper than any renowned blade.
“Ah, is that an aluminum bat?”
“That’s right.”
Hitting fungos with an aluminum bat.
It’s a method sometimes used in Korea during intensive batting practice sessions.
Since aluminum has better rebound than wood, the ball speed is faster.
But Harry’s expression suggested this wasn’t simply about hitting fast pitches.
“This beast has a name. Widow Maker.”
“…A widow maker?”
“That’s right. Back when I was a Coach in Nashville, I sent three infielders to the hospital with this bat.”
Harry caressed the bat’s handle and growled.
It didn’t sound like a joke.
“It’s not just a simple aluminum bat. It’s a monster from twenty years ago, back when college baseball had no regulations on restitution coefficients. Now it’s an illegal bat—banned from production and use due to safety concerns.”
A relic from the so-called Gorilla Ball era.
It was an object that maximized the trampoline effect, where the ball bounced off the bat the instant it made contact.
A solid hit with this bat would send the ball flying at speeds exceeding 120 miles per hour—well beyond the human reaction threshold of about 193 kilometers per hour.
In fact, even in the Major League, only a handful of monsters like Stanton or Judge could generate such exit velocities.
“Every Minor League batter’s box becomes nothing but a slow turtle in front of this bat.”
But the real secret wasn’t the bat itself.
Harry showed Soo-ho the end of the bat, where the cap was fitted.
“And there’s one more thing.”
My eyes narrowed.
The center of gravity at the bat’s end was subtly off.
Looking closer, I could see traces of lead packed inside the bat and the surface meticulously shaved down.
“I did some tuning. To create irregular rotation.”
Harry grinned wickedly.
This was his signature move.
With this bat whose center of gravity was twisted, combined with his unique cutting swing technique.
The ball would fly at bullet speed while simultaneously bouncing like a rugby ball.
A 120-mile-per-hour hit that could bounce anywhere—this was the reality of the hell I had to face every day for thirty minutes.
“If you try to catch it with your eyes, you’ll be too late. Your body has to react before your brain even registers the danger.”
It was training to erase fear and convert survival instinct into baseball instinct.
Catching just ten hits from this bat would consume more concentration than a hundred ordinary drills.
Because if you fail to catch it, you could actually die.
“Get ready.”
Harry adjusted his grip on the bat.
I swallowed hard and lowered my stance.
A chill ran down my spine.
‘This is… dangerous, isn’t it?’
But it didn’t matter.
Just from the explanation alone, I could feel my skills growing by leaps and bounds.
So.
“Ready!”
The moment my shout fell, Harry’s arm muscles bulged.
The silver bat sliced through the air.
CRACK!
‘Wait? Is that really the right sound?’
Could that really be coming from a bat?
A sinister cracking sound tore through my eardrums.
It wasn’t the crisp sound of a typical wooden bat.
It was more like a gunshot—the explosive report of a firearm accident.
At the same time, my pupils trembled as if an earthquake had struck.
‘…What?’
I couldn’t see it.
I clearly saw Harry swing the bat, but the ball had vanished.
Or rather, only its afterimage was burned into my retina.
Before my brain could even register that the ball was coming, it had already streaked past my side and slammed into the Outfield Fence.
Thwack!
The Fence screamed.
Only then did I turn my head stiffly.
A chill ran down my spine.
‘Is this… a fungo?’
Nearly twenty years since I’d started playing baseball.
From my amateur days through the Professional Minor League, I’d experienced every conceivable scenario, but I could say with certainty—I’d never seen a batted ball like this.
If that had come at my shin or face?
It wouldn’t have ended with just broken bones.
“Are you just going to stand there dazed?”
Harry’s cold voice snapped me back to attention.
“Again!”
Crack!
This time, straight at me.
My body flinched reflexively.
Survival instinct born of fear froze my legs.
That moment of hesitation was all it took—the ball had already passed between my legs.
“Don’t track it with your eyes!”
Harry barked.
“React with your knees the moment the bat makes contact!”
He meant I should anticipate the ball’s location by sound instead of sight.
But easier said than done.
Crack!
The third pitch.
I tried to move my knees, but this time an irregular bounce was the problem.
Perhaps from the lead weights packed inside the bat.
The ball bounced off the ground like a rugby ball, careening unpredictably into the air.
I lunged desperately with my glove, but only slashed through empty space.
“If you wait for the peak of the bounce, you’re too late! Snatch it on the short hop, right before it rises!”
Crack! Crack!
Thirty minutes of hell elapsed.
I hadn’t caught a single ball.
Covered in dirt, I could only gasp for breath.
One day passed, then two.
Time flew swiftly until the regular season came to an end.
And with the long-awaited Playoffs just one day away, the final fungo practice session was upon us.
Interestingly, over the past week, I hadn’t successfully fielded a single ball from that ‘Widow Maker’ cleanly.
I’d made contact with the glove’s edge before, but never a perfect catch that flowed into a throwing motion.
Success rate: 0%.
It was a scorecard that would justify any frustration.
Yet standing on the Training Ground, my eyes remained sharp.
If anything, they burned with determination.
‘Today, I’ll definitely….’
But unfortunately.
“Today is the last day.”
In his hands was not the silver bat that had tormented me all week.
It was an ordinary wooden fungo bat—the kind every baseball player uses.
Harry casually adjusted his grip on the bat. Then he swung.
Crack!
That familiar, crisp, clean sound of contact.
Harry’s swing arc and impact point were identical to the intensity that had frustrated me on the first day.
Major League-caliber hard grounder.
A week ago, I would have barely caught it even diving with everything I had.
But now.
‘Huh?’
My eyes widened.
The world seemed to slow down.
The bullet-like ball now appeared to float toward me like a water droplet.
I could even see the seams spinning on the ball.
‘Why is it so slow?’
Was this the same fungo I’d received on the day I declared my position change to Shortstop?
Only a week has passed?
I took a light step without hesitation.
My feet moved of their own accord.
My nerves, honed to their absolute limit adapting to the Widow Maker’s insane velocity.
Were now processing the wooden bat’s trajectory like a freeze frame.
Even though it was a deep fly, no diving was necessary.
I stood comfortably and, as if taking a casual stroll, walked over and plucked the ball from the air.
The moment I heard the crack of the bat, I could predict where the ball would be.
And having drilled for thirty minutes every single day, my muscles felt no strain.
“….”
I stared blankly down at the ball nestled in my glove.
I couldn’t believe it.
‘Was Shortstop fungo practice always this easy?’
It had never been like this before.
Shortstop defense always left me breathless, a war fought in tenths of a second.
But now….
To exaggerate slightly, I felt I could make the plays while yawning or picking my nose.
My senses had been maximized through intensive short-term training.
The result of my eyes growing accustomed to unrealistic speeds that would never appear in actual games.
Of course, real games might be different.
Fungo practice and actual games were entirely different realms.
But one thing was certain.
‘I’ve definitely changed from a week ago.’
And with just thirty additional minutes of training, my stamina remained completely fresh.
Soo-ho clenched his fist tightly.
‘My skills have definitely improved.’
And my batting touch was being maintained as well.
I was confident I could display a far superior performance than I had in the Arizona Fall League or against Polstar.
And there was someone watching his progress with satisfaction.
‘The secret weapon. Complete.’
Harry recalled Soo-ho’s unwavering commitment and relentless effort all this time.
‘Winning the championship is no longer just a dream.’
No. To be honest, he was convinced that the Desert Dogs had come closer to a championship than any other team.

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This chapter was translated by Lunox Novels. To support us and help keep this series going, visit our website: LunoxScans.com
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