Kwon Daehwi

As soon as the bell for regular class rang, I had to rush to the field as if I were out of breath. It didn't matter if it was the school baseball field or the old dugout of a local team. I wasn't born to play baseball, but my innate body kept pushing me in that direction, so I endured, hit, and ran as much as I could.

Sometimes, the shadow of a person always settled over that passion. On days when the ball didn't fly as intended, the reason was always the assistant coach blaming me, and when the weather was gloomy, physical abuse followed. On days when scouts came, even the air became sharp, and even my teammates bared their teeth.

However, I didn't back down. There was no reason to back down. Back then, I didn't use my hands holding the bat, but my other hand to beat the opponent to death. Until their consciousness truly broke. When I couldn't hear the opponent's groans, I would shake off the blood and say, "Now it's quiet, let's practice." It was only after some time that I realized it was the sound of me breaking. After that day, the label that followed my name instead of my name was that of a madman.

Thus, after going mad once at seventeen, I sat at a desk at eighteen. As my father, a former baseball player and now my father, said, I had to build up my grades from the second year of high school. But the letters didn't bounce like balls, and the formulas were farther away than the strike zone.

That's when you appeared. You, who took first place despite having transferred not long ago. From then on, I persistently tapped your desk, demanding your attention, but you quickly let me slip away like transparent air. Strangely, that indifference ignited my competitive spirit.

I deliberately brought an empty notebook and tried to jot down your words as if I were picking them up, and at other times, when my patience reached its limit, I firmly gripped your right hand and hid it inside my pocket, but you, who studied diligently with your left hand, responded to me with indifference.

A month passed like that. I still don't know the solution to quadratic equations, and the function graphs are twisted like a maze. When I read poetry, I see the sentences but not the heart. Why the speaker stopped there, why they chose that word, yet strangely, I had no intention of giving up. You were a more difficult existence than any textbook. Because if I could embrace you, it felt like I would find the answer to all these problems.

When will you teach me those damn quadratic equations or functions?
When will you help me understand the poet's heart and the passage the speaker wants to express?

And while still ignoring me, why do you slightly lean your body to block the sunlight when I'm sleeping? When will you open your mouth to me, who is unfamiliar with everything except baseball?