The Genius Hitter Who Conquered America - Chapter 117

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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 117
As the General Manager’s Office door closed behind me, I finally exhaled a long breath in the corridor.
The contract file in my hand felt heavy, and my heart pounded with a weight that matched its physical mass.
“Phew…”
Just as the tension began to release and my legs threatened to give way slightly.
“Hey! You look great!”
A familiar, cheerful voice.
I looked up to see a man leaning against the corridor wall, waving at me.
It was Scout Paul, the Dodgers’ elite scout.
“Oh! Hello.”
“From the look on your face, that contract must have been a huge success. The General Manager must have been quite generous with you.”
Paul approached with a grin.
I smiled sheepishly and nodded.
In truth, eighty percent of my being here was thanks to Paul.
When everyone else shook their heads at my age, nationality, and insufficient data.
He was the only one who pushed forward with absolute conviction.
And throughout the Arizona Fall League, he had watched over me like a shadow, constantly submitting reports to the organization.
“It’s all thanks to you. I’m truly grateful.”
I bowed sincerely, and Paul waved his hand dismissively.
“Come on, don’t mention it. You earned this through your own performance.”
Paul laughed heartily, but beneath that laughter lay the grueling struggle of the past few months.
He glanced past my shoulder at the bustling Front Office.
That place, where countless analysts wrestled with numbers on monitors, was a realm ruled by data.
Exit velocity, launch angle, spin rate, WAR.
Even a player’s sweat was converted into statistics.
And if those metrics fell short of the threshold, the system mercilessly discarded them. Paul was exhausted by this cold machinery.
‘Hundreds of scouting reports land on my desk every morning. The players within them feel like mass-produced factory goods.’
All throwing fastballs alike, all aiming for home runs by optimizing launch angles—data-tailored talents.
The Major League.
And the organizations called it a trend, but to Paul, it was nothing but boring replicas.
‘Baseball isn’t played by machines; it’s played by people.’
Somewhere along the way, even here at the Dodgers, romance had vanished, leaving only the sound of calculators clicking.
‘I need someone different.’
Paul felt a thirst.
Not for those predictable puzzle pieces.
Someone rough around the edges, possessing a burning something that data couldn’t explain.
A mutant who could crack this cold, mechanical system and awaken the true essence of baseball.
But unfortunately, he couldn’t find such talent.
Even searching across the entire United States, he found only players conditioned by the system.
Then one day, as his passion as a scout was cooling.
Soo-ho had arrived.
A late bloomer from an unproven Asian league on the periphery.
An incomplete batting mechanism.
Every data point screamed defective, yet Scout Paul’s eyes gleamed with recognition.
‘I found it.’
True talent that transcended the numbers.
Among all those intangibles, what stood out most was his deficiency-turned-dedication.
The fatal weakness of the current Major League, especially a superstar congregation like the Dodgers, was unmistakable.
‘Everyone wanted to be the protagonist.’
Players who staked their lives on stat management for their free agency windfall or salary reviews.
Satisfied with a single home run even when the team lost.
A collection of prideful egos who grew frustrated when the team won but they underperformed.
That’s why they were brilliant on the surface, yet scattered like sand before adversity.
‘Simply put, they could never become one team.’
It was an All-Star collection rather than a unified squad.
Despite baseball being a team sport, the Dodgers had no cohesion whatsoever.
But Soo-ho was different.
Throughout the Arizona Fall League, what Scout Paul witnessed was Soo-ho’s almost foolish altruism.
The dedication to sacrifice his chance to shine and hit for advancement.
The tenacity to sprint full-force to First Base even on a ground ball, forcing the opponent’s mistakes.
The leadership to be the first voice in the Dugout when morale sagged, breathing fighting spirit into the team.
And finally, his closer’s instinct.
‘A piece we don’t have… No. A piece the current Major League doesn’t have.’
Scout Paul was certain.
Soo-ho could become the powerful adhesive that would bind this vast empire of talent into a single team.
He was the thread that would hold those brilliant gems firmly together.
That’s why Scout Paul fought the Front Office, staking his twenty-year scouting career.
That data wasn’t everything.
He wanted to prove through this young man that baseball was ultimately played by people.
Soo-ho’s success would be the proof that Scout Paul’s conviction was not misplaced.
And though Soo-ho didn’t know it.
Had Scout Paul not pushed for him, he would never have made the 40-Man Roster.
So while Scout Paul was his benefactor, he chose not to voice that aloud.
‘A baseball player should focus on baseball.’
To prove his eye for talent was sound, Soo-ho needed to grow beyond where he was now.
This was the reason.
He had no desire whatsoever to meddle with Soo-ho unnecessarily.
Scout Paul gazed at Soo-ho with a satisfied expression, then erased it and opened his mouth.
Sentiment ended here.
‘For Soo-ho’s future….’
Now it was time to reveal the harsh reality as well.
“Can we talk for a moment?”
Scout Paul gestured with his chin toward an empty conference room at the end of the corridor.
* * *
Soo-ho and Scout Paul moved to an empty office on the General Manager’s Floor.
Click.
As the door closed, a heavy silence settled over the room.
Rather than pulling out a chair to sit, Scout Paul leaned against the window and crossed his arms.
The affable smile he’d worn moments before had vanished without a trace.
His voice was low and grave.
“First, congratulations. Making the 40-Man Roster. It’s a privilege only a select few among thousands of Minor League players ever experience. It means the organization will protect you.”
Scout Paul’s eyes then sharpened.
“But there’s something you mustn’t misunderstand. I’ll be blunt with you. The 40-Man Roster and the 26-Man Roster are worlds apart. Think first about the Dodgers’ current 26-Man Active Roster.”
Soo-ho swallowed hard.
In truth, there was no need to think about it.
Those were the faces that appeared whenever you turned on the television.
Several MVP award winners alone.
Add to that a lineup brimming with Gold Glove and Silver Slugger winners.
Total payroll reaching hundreds of millions of dollars.
Literally, Earth’s defense squad.
“If this were a lower-tier team, you could be a starter right now. But this is the Dodgers.”
Scout Paul gestured with his chin toward Dodger Stadium beyond the window.
“At the Dodgers, simply playing well won’t cut it. To push out the existing stars, you need something overwhelmingly superior. Do you know what your greatest weakness is right now?”
A weakness?
While Soo-ho paused to consider, Scout Paul struck at the heart of the matter.
“It’s ‘time.'”
“Time… you mean?”
“That’s right. You’ve only played in the United States for three months. The impact you showed in that short span was remarkable. But.”
Scout Paul extended a single finger.
“The Major League is 162 games. It’s a hellish marathon where you travel distances that circle the earth several times over, battling time zones, fatigue, and injuries.”
Anyone can have a brief hot streak.
But maintaining that performance throughout a six-month season without fluctuation, without slumps—that’s an entirely different matter.
“What the team management doubted about you until the very end was exactly that. Can this guy really endure a full-time season? When data accumulates and your weaknesses are analyzed, do you have the skill to overcome it?”
Scout Paul’s words stung, but they were undeniable truths.
Soo-ho looked down at his own palms.
Until now, I’d endured through audacity, talent, and refusal to give up.
But my swing technique remained incomplete.
My body had never been systematically managed.
If I collided with the massive wall that was the Major League in this state?
‘I’d shatter.’
The outcome was as predictable as fire.
As Soo-ho’s expression grew serious, Paul exhaled deeply and relaxed his rigid features.
“I’m not trying to scare you. I’m telling you to prepare.”
Paul rose from his desk.
“That’s why I strongly recommended adding that clause to the contract.”
“That clause… you mean…”
The final line of the contract flashed through my mind.
“Personal coaching staff assignment. What you need right now isn’t a single home run. It’s a body of steel capable of enduring 162 games, and flawless technique that won’t waver against any pitcher.”
His gaze swept across my entire frame.
“First, your physique.”
Paul pointed at my chest with his index finger.
“To be blunt, you’re undersized.”
“…”
“Even for an Asian, that’s poor. But this is the United States.”
It was an undeniable fact.
I’d built up my body through weight training as best I could, but the natural skeletal structure of the Caucasian, Black, and Latin American players I encountered in the Locker Room was incomparable to mine.
It was like comparing a compact car to a dump truck.
“In the Arizona Fall League, you got by mixing technique and instinct with that physicality. But the Major League is different. There are pitchers who’ll snap your bat like a twig, and hitters who can clear the Fence with just a brush of contact.”
Paul’s voice carried weight.
“To survive 162 games in that gauntlet, your current body won’t cut it. By mid-season, your stamina will be depleted and the bat will feel heavy. When you’re outmatched in strength, technique becomes useless.”
I was starting next season in Double-A.
But Paul’s mention of the Major League was simple in its reasoning.
Being on the 40-Man Roster meant.
I was closest to the Major League.
So it wasn’t simply about building muscle.
It was advice that without raising my base weight class to withstand collisions with larger bodies and handle a murderous schedule, I couldn’t survive.
Then Paul extended his second finger.
“Second is technique. Among Minor League players, you possess top-tier technique. Or more precisely, you have the potential to develop exceptional technique.”
Paul drew a cold line.
“But that’s also why you can’t become a Major Leaguer right now.”
Minor League pitchers throw mistakes.
But Major League pitchers possess control as precise as threading a needle.
With an incomplete, clumsy mechanism, you won’t even touch their pitches, or if you do, you’ll only produce ground balls.
“You need to master your swing mechanics perfectly. Over this winter.”
Paul stared directly into my eyes.
“Ingrain it into your body completely so you arrive at Spring Training in February ready. Only then can you gather data on what you’re lacking and what works when facing Major Leaguers. If you go unprepared? You won’t even get to confirm anything before packing your bags and heading home.”
It was a piercing statement.
But simultaneously, it was invaluably precious advice.
I read sincerity in Paul’s gaze.
This man wasn’t simply managing a player as a Team Staff Member would.
So you truly wish for the success of Oh Soo-ho.
I bowed my head deeply.
“I will keep that in mind.”
Paul’s expression softened at my response.
“Good. I’m glad you understand.”
Paul rubbed his chin as he asked.
“So, is there a Coach you’d prefer?”
The organization could assign one on their own, but if the player had a preference, they would do their best to accommodate it.
I didn’t need to deliberate.
The man who opened my eyes to hitting.
The very person who left an indelible impression from a single encounter.
“Yes, there is.”
“Who?”
“I wish to learn from Coach Alex.”
At that name, Paul let out a chuckle and shrugged his shoulders.
A reaction as if he’d expected nothing less.
It was then.
A raspy yet confident voice sounded from behind me.
“Hey. I told you I’m not a Coach.”
I spun around in surprise.
“An authority.”
Standing there was a man dressed immaculately in a black suit, a fedora pressed firmly upon his head.
An air of arrogance that seemed almost natural to him.
Yet a man whose skill made him anything but contemptible.
It was Alex Rivera, who had grafted the current mechanism onto me.

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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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