Ilmoi-mu (一毛二無) – The One Ball Thrown in the Operating Room

There is a scene in baseball that I like the most.

The moment the closer puts his hand into his glove in a crisis and quietly exchanges signs with the catcher.

A moment when all the noise dies down and all you can focus on is one ball.

In that brief instant, it feels as though the cheering songs and the crowd’s roar have disappeared.

In that moment, as if time itself has stopped, the pitcher is putting everything on the line for one ball.

Whenever I see that look in his eyes, I think of Manager Kim Seong-geun’s words.

“Life must be put into one ball.” And the phrase he often used, ‘Ilguyimu (一球二無).’

It means that one ball has no second chance.

It was a call to throw it with the resolve that it is the last one.

When I heard those words as a child watching baseball broadcasts, I did not really understand them.

They also felt somewhat solemn.

But these days, those words come to me a little differently.

In fact, my childhood dream was to become a baseball player.

When I was in elementary school, I even wore a uniform and took the mound for a short while.

The pitcher’s position seemed to me like “the attacker who opens the game.”

No matter how prepared the batter is, the game cannot begin unless the pitcher throws.

And among them, the closer appears at the most dramatic moment.

Maybe that is why I really liked Lee Sang-hoon, who was the closer for LG Twins.

(He is also an alum of Seoul High School!) Recently, pitchers like Jung Woo-young and Ko Woo-seok, who throw refreshing fastballs, have been especially impressive.

When they come in with the game tied in the bottom of the ninth, the stadium falls so quiet it feels like it has stopped breathing.

And then they break that silence with one powerful fastball.

Whenever I see that scene, the same words always come to mind.

"Put your life into one ball."

And at some point, that sentence began to overlap with the operating room.

As I looked at each strand of hair through surgical loupes, a thought suddenly came to me.

This one strand of hair felt like that one ball.

On some days, the repeated motions of harvesting and transplanting more than 2,000 times feel like pitches thrown inning after inning.

Before I know it, I find myself muttering inwardly.

“Ilmoi-mu (一毛二無)”

Even a single strand of hair has no second chance.

Borrowing from Manager Kim Seong-geun’s “Ilguyimu,” I gave my surgery the name “Ilmoi-mu.”

Patients often ask me this.

“How many grafts are you planning to implant today?”

I know very well that numbers matter.

But on some days, the meaning contained in one graft feels heavier than a thousand.

The moment I harvest and transplant a single follicle.

My 마음 feels like the closer in the bottom of the ninth with two outs, facing the last batter.

The hands of the staff moving in real time, and the rhythm flowing in my head, are carefully aligned through thousands of routines.

But even in the midst of that, this thought quietly, yet firmly, keeps repeating inside me.

“This strand is the last one. There will be no more chances.”

The operating table often feels to me like the mound on a baseball field.

Especially early in the morning, when harvesting the first follicle.

“How many innings will today go?”

“What kind of pitch will this patient need?”

No two patients have the same hair or the same hairline.

Just as a pitcher changes pitches for each batter, I also adjust my plan according to the patient’s scalp condition, face shape, hair density, and daily lifestyle.

So every moment is a new game, and every pitch in that game matters.

Every follicle is a turning point.

In baseball, when the game is over, the crowd does not leave right away.

They receive the signs, savor the lingering feeling, and wait for the next game.

Surgery is the same.

The moment you leave the operating room is not the end; it is the beginning of the wait.

The washing method, regenerative treatment, and the time it takes for the new hair to settle in.

Follicles do not fly like a ball, but my 마음 is never very different from that of a pitcher who throws every time.

In that way, through thousands of movements in a single day, I keep repeating “Ilmoi-mu.”

And one day, a patient smooths their hair back in front of the mirror and says,

“I really like it.”

In that moment, a small cheer spreads inside my heart like applause.

“Doctor, the surgery is ready.”

The call comes in.

It feels like a manager calling the closer from the bullpen.

I tie up my surgical cap and walk into the operating room.

Step by step, like a closer walking up toward the mound.