The Genius Hitter Who Conquered America - Chapter 91

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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 91
Top of the third inning. The Scoreboard read 3 to 4.
The West Division team that I belonged to trailed by one run.
Despite my fantastic Super Catch, our Starting Pitcher Ethan had faltered.
The East Division’s batting lineup was an All-Star roster composed of each team’s most renowned cleanup hitters.
They had managed to score four runs and flip the game.
Yet the heat of the Stadium showed no signs of cooling.
If anything, the crowd’s roars grew even more intense as the match evolved into a fierce slugfest.
And on the Mound still stood Victor Moretti.
He had given up three runs in the first inning after surrendering back-to-back-to-back home runs, but had since regained his composure by retiring the side in order in the second.
The West Division’s offense was preparing to strike again against him.
Tom Brennan in the Broadcast Booth picked up the microphone.
[And so the top of the third inning begins. The leadoff batter is the West Division’s second batter! Oh Soo-ho, who opened the scoring with that shocking solo home run in the first inning, steps into the Batter’s Box.]
As my image appeared on screen stepping into the Batter’s Box, Commentator Rick nodded and spoke.
[Baseball is truly an unpredictable sport. The entire atmosphere of a game can be swayed by a single player.]
[What exactly do you mean by that?]
[Let’s think about it objectively. Victor Moretti’s pitching against Jose Rivera, the leadoff batter in the first inning, was nothing short of flawless. Three pitches, three strikes. The velocity and control were both perfect.]
Rick paused for a moment and stared at Victor on the Mound.
[But what if, at that moment, I—the second batter—had also been overwhelmed and made an out?]
[Hmm, Victor’s momentum would have been unstoppable.]
[Exactly. For a pitcher, momentum in baseball is a terrifying thing. When you suppress the upper part of the lineup with overwhelming stuff early on, the batters become psychologically intimidated. A sense of defeat—”We can’t hit him today”—takes over the Dugout.]
On days when a pitcher is sharp, batters lose their confidence even before stepping into the Batter’s Box, unable to execute their proper swing.
What if I hadn’t hit that home run?
[Would Casey and Mark have hit home runs afterward? No, it would have been absolutely impossible.]
Casey’s technique and Mark’s power are ultimately expressed through the conviction that they can succeed.
But if Victor had stood firm like an impregnable fortress, that conviction would have transformed into fear.
That 100-mile fastball would have seemed even faster, and his sharp breaking balls would have appeared wild.
But I shattered that wall.
And I did it through the most straightforward and crude method—pure power.
[That single swing changed everything.]
It proved that even the monster called Victor was ultimately human, capable of bleeding.
Having witnessed that crack, Casey and Mark no longer saw Victor as an object of fear.
He was simply a pitcher to be conquered.
[And so that one swing transformed the game’s flow from a pitcher’s duel into a slugfest. And now….]
Rick’s gaze fixed on me standing in the Batter’s Box.
[The very person who created that crack has stepped up to bat once more.]
On the Mound, Victor’s breathing grew ragged.
A different kind of tension from the first inning enveloped him.
The arrogance from the beginning had vanished.
In its place burned a desperate competitive fire—the absolute determination to strike out the batter before him.
* * *
Victor’s gaze upon Soo-ho standing in the Batter’s Box turned cold and sharp.
His mind was rapidly rewinding through the memories of their last two encounters.
The first meeting—an Arizona Fall League game.
Back then, he had been careless.
He’d convinced himself he’d fallen for a cheap trick: the fake bunt slash.
He’d rationalized his defeat as stemming from his own arrogance—the presumption that a Low-A player would never dare touch his pitches.
So today, in their second encounter, he’d tried to overwhelm through sheer force.
He’d given no room for tricks, driving in his most confident 100-mile fastball.
And the result?
‘I fell for it again….’
A towering home run.
A complete defeat with no excuses.
Victor worked the rosin bag between his fingers, biting his lip.
He had to accept it.
No matter how wounded his pride, no matter how his stomach churned, a pitcher who couldn’t face reality had no business standing on a Major League Mound.
‘That guy isn’t Low-A Level.’
He was no longer a minor league batter for whom this stage was too grand.
An equal opponent—just like himself—capable of stepping onto the Major League stage in the not-too-distant future.
Or perhaps the title of prospect suited him even more than it suited Victor.
Victor took a deep breath and shook out his shoulders.
The unnecessary heat drained from his eyes, replaced instead by cool, crystalline clarity.
‘All-out effort.’
No more foolish stubbornness—clinging to fastballs while protecting his pride.
Getting beaten once for underestimating an opponent was enough.
If he let his ego run wild again here, he’d be left behind in the Major Leagues.
A true ace knew how to respect his opponent, and from that respect, he found the optimal strategy.
‘I’ve confirmed he has a strength against fastballs.’
It wasn’t merely raw power.
His reaction time to match timing on a 100-mile pitch and his bat speed were Major League caliber.
Then the formula for victory had to change.
‘Keep it as complex as possible.’
Forget pride entirely.
Bait pitches? I’ll throw them.
Breaking balls? I won’t hold back.
‘Even if I have to throw 10, 20 pitches….’
Even if I have to give up a walk, it doesn’t matter.
Somehow, I have to shatter his balance, steal his timing, and strike him out.
Victor sensed it instinctively.
The key player controlling the West Division’s momentum right now wasn’t Casey batting third or Mark batting fourth.
It was Soo-ho, the second batter.
‘I have to get this guy out.’
If I shut down Soo-ho, the momentum swings back to us.
But if I get torn apart again here, today’s game will spiral completely out of control.
Victor adjusted the ball in his glove.
It wasn’t a fastball grip.
His fingers were angled across the seams.
‘This opponent isn’t a Minor League player.’
Standing before me now is a Major League batter I have to overcome.
Victor was steeling himself with that conviction.
Meanwhile, Soo-ho in the Batter’s Box felt an uncanny thrill run through him.
The air emanating from the Mound had transformed completely.
‘He’s changed.’
The arrogance and overconfidence from moments before had vanished without a trace.
In their place was a killing intent so sharp it chilled the air.
Like a cornered beast at the cliff’s edge, charging forward with the resolve that if I don’t kill my enemy before me, I die.
In that instant, a faint smile spread across Soo-ho’s lips.
I couldn’t suppress the surge of emotion swelling in my chest.
‘I’ve been acknowledged.’
My opponent is Victor Moretti, a prospect destined for the Major Leagues.
A monster who’ll take the Mound at Yankees Stadium next year.
‘Such a player cannot dismiss me as beneath his notice.’
Instead, he recognizes me as a rival he must absolutely defeat.
What clearer acknowledgment could there be than this?
Looking back, it was true.
From my amateur days until now, I’ve received countless forms of recognition.
Sometimes the praise of Scouts who saw my talent, sometimes the trust of teammates who sweated alongside me.
And even through the painful ordeal of being cut from the KBO, the expectations of the Minor League Coaches who gave me the strength to rise again.
But this recognition was different in nature.
This wasn’t praise for potential.
It was wariness of my skill, a declaration of war from an equal position.
Essentially, I’d just been called a worthy opponent by a Major Leaguer.
‘This is exhilarating.’
But I cannot let this joy become complacency.
If I’m satisfied and stop here, I’ll be nothing more than a player who peaked at this moment.
My gaze was fixed on something far higher.
‘The Major League.’
To reach that place, I must use this acknowledgment as a stepping stone and leap to the next level.
I gripped the bat tighter and fixed my eyes on Victor.
The real battle begins now.
‘How will it come?’
The pattern was predictable, really.
He wouldn’t engage in a direct confrontation driven by pride like in the first inning.
He’d mix in breaking balls, throw bait pitches, and steal my timing.
It would be a complex and relentless battle of wits, but let me be honest with myself.
‘Can I bring down Victor with pure hitting technique alone?’
The answer was no.
I didn’t possess Casey’s genius-level bat control, nor did I have Mark’s raw power to tear through a ball.
My hitting mechanics still weren’t complete, and there were mountains of areas where I needed to grow.
But.
‘That doesn’t mean I’m backing down.’
If I gave up because something was impossible, I never would have made it this far.
When technique falls short, I fight with my eyes. When strength fails, I fight with my mind.
At minimum, I had to show a better version of myself—show that I could knock on the walls I’d thought were my limits.
‘The one saving grace is….’
My eyes narrowed.
‘I know you’re going to get complicated.’
That was the advantage—I could stay ahead in baseball’s most crucial battle of wits.
‘And at the very least, I need to show a better performance here.’
And so the at-bat began.
Victor’s body coiled dynamically.
But the ball that left his hand was different from the first inning.
Instead of a powerful 100-mile fastball, there was only a sharp trajectory that deceived the batter’s vision.
Crack!
“Strike!”
A slider that curved sharply on the outside corner.
The bat couldn’t even dare to move.
He’d hit the corner perfectly.
Before I could even catch my breath, the second pitch came flying in.
This time a changeup thrown from a fastball motion.
My timing completely stolen, my upper body flinched, and the ball drifted lazily through the zone.
“Strike two!”
In an instant, 0-2.
An absolutely favorable count for the pitcher.
‘This really isn’t easy.’
I clicked my tongue.
This was the real pitching of a prospect destined for the majors when he was serious.
Compared to the power-versus-power duel he’d shown in the first inning, Victor now was seasoned and meticulous.
The saying “knowing it’s coming but still can’t hit it” felt all too real.
‘Would Casey have cut it off? Or would he have driven it the other way?’
But I can’t become Casey right now.
I adjusted my grip on the bat, shortening it.
‘Then I need to do what I can.’
The third pitch.
This time, a 100-mile fastball.
A high fastball aimed directly at eye level.
A textbook bait pitch designed to trigger fear and induce a wild swing.
“…!”
My shoulders flinched for a moment, but fortunately the bat didn’t come out.
The ball struck hard above the Catcher’s glove.
“Ball!”
1-2.
I barely managed to lay off one pitch.
Victor’s brow furrowed slightly.
He held back? It was pure animal instinct.
But the count was in my favor, so he remained composed.
He’d shown everything he had.
Slider, changeup, and high fastball.
By now, the batter’s mind must be thoroughly tangled.
It was time to fit in the final piece.
Victor wound up.
The ball released from his fingertips flew deep toward my body side.
A cut fastball that came in a straight line before sharply breaking toward the body near Home Plate, or perhaps a high-velocity slider.
A pitch somewhere in between those two.
‘Here it comes.’
My pupils dilated.
I’d been waiting for this pitch.
No—I’d determined this was the only course it could take.
But the trajectory was anything but ordinary.
If I lunged to meet it at the bat’s sweet spot, the bat would shatter, or I’d produce a weak ground ball.
It was a perfect bait pitch.
Victor was already certain of the strikeout.
This course was a trajectory akin to a weapon—one where extending the bat carelessly could break your wrists.
Yet even so, I was swinging the bat.
Not with force.
With technique.
My own method, still incomplete but brimming with greater potential because of it.
An ordinary batter would have pulled back with his hips or forced a swing, resulting in a weak ground ball.
But in that fleeting instant, the authority on mechanics flooded my mind.
Alex’s teachings came back to me.
‘My batting mechanics require… using my entire body.’
I instinctively pressed my left elbow tight against my ribs.
As if coiling my body, I delayed the timing of the bat head’s emergence to the absolute limit.
It was the so-called Inside-Out swing.
‘Now!’
Driving from the inside of the bat and pushing through at the moment of impact rather than snapping my wrists.
Crack!
A dull yet crisp contact sound rang out.
The ball struck slightly inside the sweet spot of my bat, not dead center.
But it wasn’t struck with raw force.
It was a perfect technical victory—returning the pitcher’s throw with its full momentum intact along the grain.
The ball traced an elegant arc, just clearing the Second Baseman and Shortstop.
A lucky bloop hit?
No.
It was an intentional stroke.
And so the ball landed gracefully in front of the Left Fielder.
According to the Scouts’ evaluations.
In today’s game, I was showcasing three of my tools: power, defense, and contact.
But this wasn’t the end.
The fact that I was now on First Base.
There was still one more tool left to display.

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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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