The Genius Hitter Who Conquered America - Chapter 58

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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 58
“I need you guys to help me out.”
At Soo-ho’s confident request, Mark and Casey exchanged glances for a moment.
Mark was the first to speak.
He wiped away his usual playful expression and bowed his head with a troubled look.
“Look… I really want to help you, okay? I owe you so much. But here’s the thing… honestly, my approach won’t work for you.”
Mark held up his forearm with a bitter smile.
“Because I’m just the type who brute-forces everything with raw power.”
Mark was what you’d call a natural-born power hitter.
His exceptional frame from childhood, the inherent elasticity of his muscle fibers.
Rather than pondering complex mechanics, he was the type who instinctively crushed whatever pitch came his way.
Baseball through overwhelming physicality—not through technical elements like hip rotation or weight transfer.
That was Mark’s way.
“But you, Soo-ho—technical hitting suits you better. It’s fundamentally different from my brute-force approach.”
Mark genuinely wanted to help Soo-ho.
He wanted to give his benefactor everything he could.
But he understood this wasn’t the moment to step in.
His instincts were meant for those with raw power.
If he carelessly imposed them on Soo-ho…
Soo-ho’s already delicate balance could completely collapse.
In baseball, form is like a labyrinth—once you take a wrong turn, there’s no telling how long it takes to find your way back.
“I absolutely want to avoid that. If I step in to help and end up ruining you instead, what then?”
Better to do nothing than to ruin a friend.
That was Mark’s idea of the best consideration, and it came from the heart.
Instead, Mark pointed to the side with his finger.
“Casey. He’ll be useful to you.”
Casey shot Mark a sideways glance.
His eyes gleamed with irritation—as if asking why he was being dragged into this bothersome affair.
But Casey didn’t object either.
Mark was absolutely right.
If Mark was power, Casey was meticulous technique.
The arc of the bat, the turn of the wrists, the balance of the lower body.
Casey was a batter who elevated the ball through perfect mechanics rather than brute strength.
What Soo-ho needed now wasn’t Mark’s muscle—it was Casey’s technique.
Casey exhaled briefly and opened his mouth.
“I can teach you the technique.”
Soo-ho’s eyes lit up.
“Yes!”
“Honestly, it’s not that hard. I just explain the theory I know and teach it—the rest depends on you absorbing it with your body. I can’t swing for you, after all.”
Casey seemed unburdened by any sense of responsibility.
He possessed an ruthlessly cold-blooded temperament.
Knowledge was simply imparted—nothing more.
Whether I digested it or choked on it was my own burden to bear.
Unlike Mark, who agonized over emotional investment and feared ruining things, Casey harbored no such anxieties.
“But not now, at least.”
Casey drew a firm line.
“Because we’re moments away from the game starting.”
Casey gestured toward the Ground with his chin.
Both teams’ players were already lining up in preparation for the lineup announcement.
“For my advice to be of any use, you need to find your rhythm through at least some tee batting first. Teaching you requires an absolute minimum of a full day.”
He was right.
If a few words could fix everything, why would Hitting Coaches exist in the world?
One-point lessons only work when the fundamentals are already in place.
Hearing a secret technique right now wouldn’t suddenly grant me the ability to hit a home run.
Above all, Casey didn’t want to half-ass this either.
‘I despise being indebted.’
Soo-ho had integrated me into this unfamiliar team and ensured I wouldn’t fall behind in the competition for a starting position.
For someone as proud as Casey, gratitude toward Soo-ho felt like a debt that demanded repayment.
So if I was going to teach him, I wanted to do it properly.
I had no intention of settling for half-baked advice.
Soo-ho nodded in agreement.
Both of them were right.
My mind was racing, but attempting to overhaul my swing with less than thirty minutes before game time was pure greed.
“Right. So you’re saying I should just figure it out on my own today?”
Today’s game was my first since I’d made such bold declarations to Cody.
I needed to demonstrate that I had legitimate reasons for my confidence.
‘Otherwise, I won’t be able to stop the interference.’
What if today’s results weren’t good?
Starting tomorrow, Thomas could come at me wielding data sheets, pressuring me relentlessly.
‘Since this is still the early stages, he might try to convince me it’s not working out.’
He absolutely would.
It was certainly good when a prospect hit it big.
But this facility wasn’t so lax that it would stand idly by watching a player with no signs of breakthrough potential fall apart.
‘If that happens, I’ll lose even the time to learn from Casey.’
So today, I had to earn that time through results, no matter what.
“Yeah. I’ll have to survive on my own.”
Casey answered matter-of-factly.
But as he turned to leave, he added one more thing.
“Though if you want my advice, it’d be better to hunt breaking balls like you did yesterday. To be honest with you, with that swing you showed yesterday, you’ll only pop up fastballs.”
“…I see.”
“With your bat speed and strength, if you try to execute an upper swing against fastballs from higher-league pitchers, you won’t be able to match their velocity. Your timing will be late, and even if you make contact, you’ll be overpowered—resulting in an infield fly or a weak pop-up.”
Casey’s advice was sharp and incisive.
Slow breaking balls could be met with a level swing and driven upward, but throwing an upper swing against a fastball would only make me easy prey.
“So today, abandon the desire to hit fastballs. Go in with a calculated approach instead—that’s your best path to increasing your chances of extra-base hits. You’re good at that.”
He meant I was skilled at forcing the opposing pitcher to throw breaking balls.
In simpler terms, I excelled at pitch sequencing.
I chuckled softly.
“You’re right. Besides, it’s my first day anyway. For now, I should focus on showing them who I am.”
Both the opposing team and the Dodgers scouts watching me.
First impressions are always more impactful when they’re bold.
I intended to make such a striking first impression that it would set the stage in my favor as I evolved in the days to come.
If I couldn’t hit a home run right now, I would create the conditions that would allow me to hit one later.
That was my approach.
* * *
Shortly after, the game began.
Today, the Desert Dogs faced the Scottsdale Scorpions.
This team was composed of promising prospects from the San Francisco Giants, Boston Red Sox, LA Angels, Philadelphia Phillies, and Detroit Tigers.
They were an assembled roster of top prospects from those organizations.
In particular, they were known as one of the championship favorites, renowned for their pitching strength.
Unfortunately, Soo-ho and his companions didn’t make the starting lineup.
Though they had shown impact in the Blue-White game, that was merely a practice match.
More time was needed to verify their abilities before they could displace the existing Double-A and Triple-A prospects.
They would need to demonstrate consistent excellence for at least a week to secure a starting position.
The game unfolded as expected—tightly contested.
Through the fourth inning, the score stood at 1-2.
The Desert Dogs trailed by one run.
Both teams’ pitchers threw with such velocity that the batters struggled to generate power.
That was when it happened.
Harry Miller, the Manager, who had been standing in the Dugout with his arms crossed, gestured.
“Hey, you three.”
Soo-ho, Casey, and Mark hurried over to the Manager as if they’d been waiting for this moment.
“You’ll go in around the fifth or sixth inning, so warm up.”
Since it was currently the bottom of the fourth, our entry was imminent.
If we entered at the inning change, we’d have at least two chances to step into the Batter’s Box.
Mark and Casey’s expressions brightened.
They seemed satisfied that the opportunity had come relatively quickly.
None of this would have been possible without yesterday’s performance in the Blue-White game and my advice.
We might have spent the entire day warming the bench otherwise—so we were grateful.
But I was different.
I intended to go beyond mere gratitude and aim even higher.
“Manager, may I ask for a favor?”
“A favor?”
Harry’s eyebrows twitched.
A rookie, and one from Low-A at that, daring to question the lineup?
But Soo-ho spoke without hesitation.
“If possible, I’d like to swap places with the ninth batter.”
It was an unexpected request.
“Ninth? Why?”
Usually, players crave higher batting orders that offer more at-bats.
Yet he was deliberately choosing ninth?
“Ha. There’s a reason. Would it be alright if I showed you through my play rather than words?”
Soo-ho smiled with confidence.
Harry stared at Soo-ho for a moment, then let out a dry chuckle.
He couldn’t fathom why ninth specifically mattered, but truthfully, he wasn’t curious.
If the results were good, that was enough; if not, he’d simply cut them loose.
Still, giving these kids an opportunity so quickly meant something.
It was proof that even Harry held some expectations for them.
“Hmm. Fine. Do as you wish.”
Top of the sixth inning. Desert Dogs’ turn at bat. The promised moment had arrived.
The leadoff batter was the pinch-hit ninth batter—Soo-ho.
Following him, Casey would bat first, and Mark would bat second.
Stepping into the Batter’s Box, Soo-ho twirled his bat lightly while studying the Pitcher.
‘OPS hitter.’
On-base percentage plus slugging percentage.
In other words, if I can’t get a hit, I need to walk.
And if I’m going to swing, I need to hit it far.
But I’m not ready for power hitting yet.
Not until I learn the technique from Casey and master it through practice.
‘Then for now, it’s about on-base percentage. First, I need to get on base.’
Soo-ho adjusted his helmet and organized his thoughts.
I need to showcase my strengths before the real game begins.
‘They have our data.’
Detailed analytical data.
Exploiting opponents based on information is the foundation of modern baseball.
‘But they probably just glanced at “Low-A” at the top of the information sheet and moved on.’
They wouldn’t have dug deep into what type of players we are or our recent condition.
Of course not. They’d think children had wandered into the Professional Baseball World.
That carelessness was my opening.
‘Honestly, if I lay down a bunt, my chances of getting on base are… 100%.’
But Soo-ho had no intention of bunting.
My goal isn’t simply to survive this one at-bat and be done with it.
To hit for power, my eyes and body need to adapt to this level of pitch velocity and movement.
I can resort to bunting later.
Right now, I needed to face it head-on.
First pitch.
A fastball on the outer edge, tight and sharp.
My bat came out, but the ball was already in the glove.
“Strike!”
My eyebrows twitched.
‘It really is fast.’
It wasn’t just a matter of what the radar gun registered.
The ball’s tail end had weight and heaviness to it.
If Low-A pitchers’ pitches felt like they were coming at you,
then pitches at this level felt like they were being shot at you.
‘Lift that with an upper swing?’
Casey was right—it was impossible.
Not only couldn’t I time it, but even if I made contact, the bat would get pushed back and result in an easy infield fly.
‘I have to admit it. I don’t have the raw power yet.’
I quickly regained my composure.
Overpowering this pitcher’s stuff and hitting a solid line drive right now was impossible.
That meant there was only one approach.
‘Focus on making contact.’
Second pitch. This time a fastball diving deep inside.
Crack!
With a dull sound, the ball struck behind home plate.
Foul.
A sharp vibration ran through my palms.
It wasn’t a clean hit.
Sensing the timing would be late, I instinctively rolled the bat head back and cut at it.
‘This is tough.’
But I didn’t back down.
If I couldn’t hit it clean, I’d foul it off.
If I couldn’t go forward, I’d send it back.
Somehow, I had to cling to this relentlessly and get my eyes accustomed to this velocity.
That way, there would be a next at-bat, and one after that.
Third pitch. Slider. Cut. Fourth pitch. High fastball. Cut.
The pitcher’s expression began to contort.
He’d thought he’d strike out the pinch hitter easily and be done.
But this Low-A batter was clinging to him like a leech, refusing to go away.
‘This stubborn bastard….’
The Pitcher threw the ball with even greater force.
But Soo-ho’s concentration had reached its absolute limit.
‘I can see it.’
What had initially appeared as merely a dot, the ball’s trajectory began to reveal itself as I continued to foul it off.
It was fast, but not impossible to hit.
Tick!
“Foul!”
The 7th pitch, 8th pitch, 9th pitch.
The count was full.
The Pitcher was exhausted, and I had adapted.
And on the final 10th pitch.
The Pitcher’s desperate last-resort changeup fell away on the outside.
An ordinary batter would have been fooled by the timing and swung through it.
But my eyes tracked the ball all the way through.
Crack!
“Foul!”
I caught it on the end of the bat and sent it just outside the Third Base Line.
The Pitcher dropped to his knees with a look of utter despair.
No matter how hard he threw, I somehow managed to make contact with the bat—this infuriating contact ability.
I’d never encountered this type before.
And for good reason, whether in the Major League or Minor League Baseball.
Even in amateur baseball throughout the United States, players maintain their own swing even when striking out.
But this opponent seemed to be deliberately fouling off my pitches.
Of course, I wasn’t intentionally fouling them off.
If I were, that would mean he was a player of a higher level.
And I was executing my own swing.
My exceptional talent and relentless determination had simply carried the at-bat.
As a result, the Pitcher finally conceded.
The next pitch sailed well outside the strike zone.
He no longer wanted to compete.
From the Pitcher’s perspective, it was ugly baseball.
From my perspective, it was good baseball.
“Ball four!”
“Wow.”
With the Referee’s call, a small gasp erupted from the Stands.
It was overwhelming bat control.
As I settled into First Base and removed my protective gear, I silently celebrated my success.
‘Mission accomplished.’
With this, I’d solved one half of the OPS equation—my on-base percentage.
But my true objective wasn’t simply to reach First Base, was it?
A glance.
He caught sight of the opposing team’s players in the Dugout frantically flipping through papers from the corner of his eye.
‘Now they’ll review the report with my information all over again.’
And they would nod their heads.
Ah, this guy. Fast feet, excellent execution of plays—a textbook speedster.
The moment that preconception took root in their minds.
‘You’ve all been deceived.’
The prejudice that speedsters cannot hit for power.
That very prejudice would become Soo-ho’s decisive weapon at his next at-bat.

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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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