Time passed, and before I knew it, I was in sixth grade. My daily routine wasn’t much different from before: go to school, do yoga, run, and hit bodyweight exercises, rinse and repeat.

In between, Yeeun, unable to tame her fiery temper, got into big fights with other girls a few times, dragging our parents into it. With a personality like that, who’s gonna take her?

I joined a Little League team. In the original world, if you wanted to play baseball seriously, you’d join a school team in elementary school. But in this Heaven Korea, where recreational sports thrive, there’s no elite sports system for kids that young.

So, all aspiring baseball players mix with hobbyist kids in Little League teams, nurturing their dreams. It’s the same for other sports too. These kids’ sports clubs are like taekwondo dojos in the original world, and some kids even do multiple sports.

With hobbyist teammates, kids dabbling in other sports, and a curriculum focused on keeping parents happy rather than strict training to avoid dropouts, Little League games are an absolute mess.

I heard bigger Little League teams can field decent squads by picking the best kids, but my Shinhyup Little League Wirye Branch isn’t that big. Even the team we put together for tournaments isn’t much better than the hobbyists.

Today, at the Gyeonggi Governor’s Cup Little League qualifier, my teammates are sitting in the dugout, looking like they’re on a picnic, completely uninterested in winning or losing.

Even if winning isn’t as critical as in academy baseball, terrible results get the coach chewed out by the main office. Sighing deeply, the coach grabbed my shoulder and pleaded,

“Yiseon, seriously, you sure you don’t want to try pitching?”

*

“The way you throw, and you’re talking about your shoulder… Fine, just go out there and hit well. You’re the only one I can count on.”

Last time, I took some pitching lessons just to try it, and it must’ve left an impression because the coach keeps begging me to pitch whenever he gets the chance. I keep brushing him off.

While chatting with the coach, our batter at the plate strikes out looking without even swinging. Ignoring the coach’s desperate expression, I get ready to hit.

Little League bats are much shorter than adult ones but made of aluminum, so they’ve got decent pop. They’re light enough for kids, but for me, they feel almost too light.

I take practice swings in the on-deck circle. The batter before me hits a weak grounder, but the pitcher and second baseman get crossed up, and it sneaks through for an infield hit.

I step up, swinging the bat lightly. It’s the bottom of the fifth, score 5-3 against us, runners on first and third, two outs.

As I settle into the lefty batter’s box, the opposing coach suddenly heads to the mound. After a quick talk, the current pitcher comes out, and a new kid comes in.

Little League games are six innings, with pitchers limited to three innings. That pitcher just started in the fourth and only got two outs this inning—why pull him already?

Then I see the new pitcher: a lefty. What the hell? A one-out relief pitcher in Little League?

I shoot a glare at the opposing dugout and pitcher in protest, then step back to the on-deck circle. I swap my lefty protective gear for righty gear and quickly return to the batter’s box.

The opposing coach frowns briefly but waves to continue. A half-baked switch-hitter is usually worse than sticking to one side. Even famous switch-hitters often have a weaker side.

I hug the strike zone as close as possible, like always. I know nothing about this pitcher, so I decide to watch the first pitch.

The first pitch is a four-seamer right down the middle. Strike. If I’d known his velocity, I could’ve swung, but I hold off. It feels like over 110 km/h—pretty fast for Little League.

The second pitch is a ball, just missing my body. Another hard four-seamer. My blood starts boiling. It’s obviously an intimidation pitch meant to push me off the plate. I step even closer, daring him to try it again.

The pitcher, brimming with confidence, preps the next pitch with a smug look. The ball leaves his hand, clearly headed for the middle. Typical elementary school baseball.

*Crack!*

I pull the pitch, and it soars far. Feeling the contact in my fingertips, I toss the bat lightly and stroll around the bases. The Little League fence, barely over 60 meters, is long gone, and the ball rolls past the adult field’s fence.

Back in the dugout, the coach greets me with a huge grin.

“My treasure! Who needs you to pitch when you hit like that? Baseball’s about sluggers, not pitchers. Look at the majors—hitters make more money. When you go pro, don’t forget your coach, Yiseon!”

Our dugout’s a party, while the other team’s practically a funeral.

Makes sense. A guy hitting a three-run homer as a lefty in his first at-bat, then another as a righty later, turning a 5-3 deficit into a 6-5 lead? Even in Little League, where the fence is close, two homers in a game isn’t normal.

Tough luck, but that’s baseball—skill wins.

*

My new injury-prevention plan was simple: don’t pitch. If pitching caused the injury, just be a hitter. I’m not saying I’ll never pitch. In the manga, Kim Yiseon was a pitcher-only, no hitting.

In real high school baseball, if your hitting outshines your teammates, even at a prestigious school, they let you hit too. If Kim Yiseon’s batting was dominant at Donghyeon High, he’d probably have hit.

The protagonist in the manga hit because his team’s batting was awful. Not a home run slugger due to his build and power, but a gap hitter who crushed doubles and triples, often stepping up when the ace got locked down.

The team’s usual pattern was gritty, tear-jerking plays—bunts, walks, hit-by-pitches, infield hits, desperate slides into first—followed by the protagonist’s long hits to scrape out one-run wins. In the later arcs against strong teams, this got overused to the point of criticism.

Back to Kim Yiseon: in the manga, Donghyeon High had a solid fielding lineup for high school, but their players were good enough for college, not pro drafts straight out of high school.

If my batting can’t dominate those guys, sticking to hitting full-time is a stretch.

But up to middle school, decent batting skills should be enough, right?

Plus, as a perfectly symmetrical human, unlike other switch-hitters, I have no weak side—left or right. Considering how high schoolers struggle against lefty pitchers, that’s a ridiculous advantage.

So, I decided to focus on hitting in elementary school, and… it’s working better than expected. Should I go full two-way like a certain major leaguer?

Imagining myself as the next O*tani, wondering how much my salary could be, the coach sidles up.

“Yiseon, between us, you’re continuing baseball in middle school, right?”

“Of course. Gotta play baseball.”

“Have you thought about which middle school?”

In this world, elementary school is all recreational sports, unlike my past life. But starting in middle school, things change. You can join a school baseball club for fun, but if you’re serious about college or pro prospects, joining a proper baseball team is the standard route.

Since Little League is like an academy, college placements are a big part of their PR. Naturally, the coach is curious about where I’ll go. Or maybe some middle school coaches he knows asked.

“Dunno, still thinking.”

Of course, that’s a lie. I’ve already decided. Baseball’s a team sport—being individually great doesn’t guarantee wins.

If one guy could carry a team to a championship, that angel-led team with U.S. and Japan’s captains would’ve won in reality. And stacking talented guys doesn’t always mean victory, or that cosmic-energy team wouldn’t have pulled off that surprise championship.

So, what’s the easiest way for a reincarnator who knows the future to win?

Simple: if you can’t beat them, join them.