As a 44-year-old father raising two sons in Orange County, the name I hear most often these days is undoubtedly "Ohtani."

On my commute radio, in news previews, and even in conversations among my son's school friends, Shohei Ohtani appears as a cultural icon.

Seeing kids from the current generation, who used to say 'baseball is boring' and preferred football or basketball, repeatedly watch YouTube clips of home runs and strikeouts in awe of his play reminds me of my own childhood when I shouted 'Park Chan-ho.'

But something is different between then and now.

During my college years, my cousin dedicated himself to baseball from little league through high school, undergoing early training. Early morning practices, scout camps, travel games, and parental support were all part of the journey toward the singular goal of 'going pro.' However, by the time he graduated high school, reality was harsh. The competition with elite prospects pouring in from all over the country, the presence of sponsors, relationships with coaches, injury risks, and above all, the limitations of being 'Asian' within the American baseball system were stark. Ultimately, he entered college and put baseball aside, never picking up a bat again.

What I felt back then was one thing.

For a second-generation Korean American, the dream of becoming a Major League Baseball player feels too far from reality....

Perhaps because of this memory, seeing the rise of Shohei Ohtani and the surrounding Asian baseball boom brings me a slight bitterness rather than joy.

It's as if I feel both the hope of "this time it will be different" and the cynicism of "but in the end, it's just a few superstars" at the same time.

When Park Chan-ho entered Major League Baseball in the 1990s, Korean society was literally in a baseball frenzy. Whenever we heard that ESPN was broadcasting Park Chan-ho's starting game, all my Korean friends would gather in front of the TV. The lineage that continued with Kim Byung-hyun, Seo Jae-eung, and Choo Shin-soo was not just about sports stars but a symbol of collective pride that 'we can do it too.'

But now it's different. Ohtani is an incredibly talented player and is already setting unprecedented records in baseball history, yet the number of kids who look at him and say 'I want to be a baseball player too' is surprisingly low. The reason is simple. The realistic barriers are too high. The Major League Baseball system in the U.S. has grown larger over time, and the effort, time, money, and connections needed for a child to enter that world are a significant burden for the parents' generation. Especially Asian families still tend to be centered around academics and are cautious about accepting sports like baseball as a profession.

Moreover, the status of sports itself has changed. Until the early 2000s, baseball was undoubtedly at the center of the four major sports in America. But now, the NFL and NBA dominate the media landscape, and Generation Z prefers short, intense content centered around YouTube highlights. A baseball game that lasts over three hours struggles to capture their attention.

Even now, on Saturday mornings, I play catch lightly with my two sons at the park. Sometimes my son asks.

"Dad, can I become a baseball player?"

Every time he asks, I hesitate for a moment, thinking of my cousin.

But soon I tell him this.

"If you really love it, you should pursue it to the end. However, what's more important is who you become through baseball."

Baseball is still a wonderful sport. I hope that the current spotlight on it, thanks to Ohtani, serves as a bridge for the next generation rather than just a fleeting trend.

Perhaps the real baseball craze has yet to come...