The sunlight was sharper now, cutting through the faint morning haze as I climbed onto the mound. The dirt felt firmer than usual — raked smooth but slightly damp, a sign the field crew had been here early. I could see the mark Taiyo had left, making it seem like I was in someone else's place. His step a lot longer than mine.
I crouched slightly, rubbing the ball in my hand, feeling the seams roll under my fingers.
'Alright… time to settle down.'
Behind the plate, Shiro crouched and gave me a little nod. His mitt thudded twice, his usual signal for "your best pitch."
Kiyashi Inoue, the leadoff speedster for Team Setagaya, stepped into the box, grin already tugging at his lips. He was quick, dangerous, and talkative. Each and every one of them were arrogant enough to look down on all of us, but the worst part was they were good enough to back that up as well.
He tapped the plate once, then pointed his bat at me like a challenge. "Should I try for my first homer, rookie."
I smiled faintly. "Give it your best shot."
Shiro flashed the signal — one finger, outside corner.
Fastball.
I exhaled, wound up, and let it go.
Thud!
The ball smacked into Shiro's mitt, just where I wanted it.
"Strike one!"
Kiyashi's grin twitched. He stepped back, took a practice swing, then reset.
Shiro called for another — this time, inside.
I threw harder. The pitch tailed a little more than expected, jamming him near his hands. The ball bounced toward shortstop, where Hiroto glided in, smoothly transferred the ball to his right hand before firing to first.
The fielding and transition and throw were all immaculate. But when I looked over at the first base, Kiyashi had almost reached and was speeding through, faster with every second.
"Out!"
One down.
'That was too close for comfort.'
Everyone erupted in cheers — not loud, but confident.
Sawamura Ono was on his way to the batter's box, and I could see Ota swinging his bat on the deck. Both of them very consistent and solid batters with a knack for making contact but they were nothing compared to the monster behind them waiting in the hole, Ren Iwasaki, the cleanup batting captain.
I motioned for Shiro to come over for a timeout. Not only him, the entire infield joined me on the mound.
"What? Are you getting nervous?" Shiro asked with a smirk.
"Yeah, a lot actually." I made the most worrisome expression I could, "I am really nervous that Hiroto is going to drop the next one and we will end up with a runner."
""Puhahaha""
Everyone lost their minds and held their stomachs or bent over laughing. But Shiro was the worst, he was literally on his hands and knees laughing like there was no tomorrow.
After everyone had calmed down a little and Hiroto had stopped choking Shiro, I spoke with a serious tone, "Alright guys, on a serious note… I do not want to face the Captain with a runner, let alone two!"
Shiro spoke before anyone else could, "I am pretty confident we can jam the duo but a strikeout is gonna be next to impossible."
He looked straight at Hiroto, "You are the best fielder in our team… it's going to be in your hands. This chibi has excellent control but isn't very fast for obvious reasons, so they will be able to make contact. The fielders will have to save his behind if we want to keep competing with the starters."
Hiroto and all the other infielders looked at Shiro with a somewhat stunned look.
'I didn't know this guy could be so mature and composed.'
"I didn't know you could be so mature and composed, Shiro." Hiroto sighed, "lead him well and we will take care of the rest."
Others nodded and slapped my back before jogging back to their positions with focused eyes and smiling faces, leaving me with just Shiro on the mound. He just tapped my chest with his mitt and gave me a reassuring smile before hurrying back to the home plate. I kept my eyes trained on him as he bowed to the umpire and apologized for the delay before crouching down and putting his mask back on.
The umpire motioned us to resume play which prompted Ono to step up to the plate with his signature wide grin. I took a deep breath and a long few seconds before winding up to throw the first pitch to him.
Ping! Thud!
It all happened in a flash. Not even 2 seconds had passed after I threw the pitch before it was over.
It was a fastball in the inside bottom corner of the strike zone, exactly where Shiro had positioned his mitt. Ono made a compact swing, squarely hitting the ball travelling in the high 70s right back where it came from. The ball whizzed past me at breakneck speed making me tumble and fall trying to dodge away from it, which, to be honest, probably wouldn't have hit me either way.
I turned around to look for it in the outfield when I noticed everyone running towards Hiroto who was on the ground just like me.
Well not exactly like me.
His body sprawled near the second base, face down, glove outstretched, dirt all over his shirt. Turning over, he thrust his glove in the air showed the ball nestled inside for everyone to see clearly.
"Out!"
"You crazy bastard!" Shiro roared, pumping his fist in the air.
I scrambled to my feet, dusting the dirt off my knees, my heart still hammering against my ribs—not from the line drive that had nearly taken my head off, but from the sight of Hiroto calmly picking himself up from the dirt.
The regulars in the opposing dugout were silent. Even Coach Okabe looked like he'd swallowed a lemon. They had expected that ball to tear through the infield for a base hit, maybe even a double.
Instead, Hiroto tossed the ball to the umpire with the casual indifference of someone taking out the trash. He picked up and dusted off his cap, glanced at me, and gave a barely perceptible nod.
'I asked for a miracle, and he actually delivered.'
"Two outs!" Shiro shouted, his voice echoing across the field. "One more, Chibi! Let's close the door!"
""Yeah!"" The infielders chorused back, their voices laced with a new kind of adrenaline. Belief.
I took a deep breath, trying to slow my pulse. Two outs. Bases empty. But the relief was short-lived as the next batter stepped out of the on-deck circle.
Sawamura Ota.
He wasn't as flashy as the leadoff hitter or as terrifying as the captain, but he was arguably more annoying out of the Sawamura twins. He walked to the plate with a calm, analytical expression, tapping his cleats with the bat. He was known for his contact hitting—the kind of guy who rarely ever got struck out and had an eye for bad pitches.
And behind him, swinging a heavy bat with terrifying ease in the on-deck circle, was Ren Iwasaki.
'If I let Ota on base, I have to face the monster with a runner. Absolutely not.'
I set my stance. Shiro called for a fastball, low and away.
I delivered.
Thud!
"Strike!"
Ota didn't even flinch. He just watched the ball fly by catching his swing as if adjusting his timing.
The next pitch was a curveball that hung a little too high. Ota watched it drop just outside the zone.
"Ball!"
'Tch. He's disciplined.'
The battle dragged on.
Pitch three—fastball, inside. Ota fouled it off down the third-base line.
Pitch four—another curveball that broke too early. Ball two.
Pitch five—fastball again, fouled straight back.
Ota was suffocating me, fouling off anything close to the zone, refusing to chase anything outside of it.
"Ball three!"
The count was full. Three balls, two strikes. Two outs.
I stepped off the rubber, wiping sweat from my forehead with my sleeve. The stress of this high intensity first inning was making me sweat a lot more than I realized. If I walked him, the pressure would skyrocket. If I grooved one, he'd hit it.
I looked at Shiro. He called for a timeout, jogged right up to the mound and covered his mouth with his glove.
"He's timing your fastball perfectly, and he's not biting on the breaking stuff unless it's a strike," Shiro whispered, his tone serious. "We have to gamble."
"The changeup?" I asked.
"The changeup. But it has to be your best one. Sell it like a fastball and keep it low, or he'll crush it."
I nodded, gripping the ball inside my glove.
As I stepped back onto the rubber, I noticed movement in my peripheral vision. Hiroto had turned his back to the infield, waving his hand subtly away from the plate. He was shouting something to the outfielders, his voice lost in the wind.
I didn't have the mental bandwidth to process it. My world had narrowed down to the mitt and the batter.
'Just throw it. Trust the grip. Trust yourself.'
I wound up. I pushed off the rubber with everything I had. My arm whipped forward, mimicking the exact motion of my fastball.
Ota's eyes widened. He saw the arm speed. He triggered his swing.
But the ball didn't zip. It floated.
It was a good changeup—dropping just as it reached the plate. But Ota was good. His bat speed was fierce, and even though his timing was thrown off, his hands adjusted mid-swing. He kept his weight back just enough.
CRACK!
The sound was duller than a pure hit, but it carried. The ball soared high into right field. Right down the foul line, barely staying in play.
My stomach dropped. 'No… it's dropping.'
A guaranteed double, maybe a triple if it rolled to the wall.
I whipped my head around to notice him: Rento, sprinting. But he wasn't running from his usual position. He was already there, much closer to the edge of the field.
The ball kept dropping faster with every second, but Rento made it barely in time to slide in with a stretched out glove.
Thwack.
"Out! Three outs! Change!"
The umpire's voice was the sweetest sound I'd heard all year.
Rento jogged in from the outfield, tossing the ball to the umpire with a lazy grin on his face. "Man, that was close. Wind almost took it."
"Close?" I jogged off the mound, meeting him near the dugout entrance. "You were standing right there! How did you know he was going to hit it that way?"
Rento laughed, nodding toward the shortstop. "Don't ask me. Ask the mastermind."
I turned to Hiroto, who was calmly sliding his glove onto the bench next to the water cooler. He looked up, unbothered by the excitement buzzing around him.
"You moved him," I said, grabbing my water bottle. "Right before the pitch. How?"
Hiroto shrugged, taking a sip of water. "Ota was late on your inside fastball earlier, but he was pulling his fouls on the off-speed stuff. He has a habit of dropping his back shoulder when he adjusts to slow pitches. I figured if you threw a changeup, he wouldn't pull it perfectly—he'd push it toward right. He always favors that side."
The dugout went quiet for a second. Even Shiro looked impressed.
"So you shifted the outfield to cover the right?" Shiro asked.
"Just Rento," Hiroto said simply. "Masaki and Daichi just moved a little back to cover the rest."
I stared at him. This kid wasn't just playing; he was dissecting the game in real-time.
"Well," I said, letting out a breath I felt like I'd been holding for ten minutes. "Remind me never to play poker against you."
"Nice pitching, by the way," Hiroto added, a ghost of a smile touching his lips. "That changeup had some nasty drop."
"Yeah!" Masaki slapped my back, nearly sending me into the equipment bag. "We held them to zero! Zero! Against the A-team!"
The mood in the dugout had shifted completely. The anxiety from the first inning was gone, replaced by a buzzing, electric energy. We weren't just surviving anymore. We were fighting back.
"Alright, settle down!" Shiro clapped his hands, strapping on his batting helmet. "Great defense, but we can't win with zero runs either. Their pitcher is tough, but he's human. Let's get on base."
I sat on the bench, wiping sweat from my neck, watching my teammates grab their bats. My hands were still trembling slightly from the adrenaline.
'We stopped them. We actually stopped them. But only I'm realizing just how close we came to getting scored on.'
I looked across the field at the opposing dugout. Captain was staring straight ahead, his expression unreadable. Everyone else, as focused as if it was the official season final.
'This isn't a scrimmage anymore,' I realized, gripping the bench. 'This is war.'