Chapter Text
X. START OF JUNE
By some miracle, Sano secured a friendly game with Shingen Junior High, a decent baseball school from Yamanashi. They want to give their fourth string some game experience , was what Sano told Eijun. Though, from the way he was being shifty and vague, Eijun could bet what had transpired during the game agreement: Akagi would be crushed per usual, while their opponents learned how to kick a losing dog dead once it was down.
He tried not to mind. Not while his teammates were thrilled and hopeful at the fair fighting chance they were given for the first time. Except, the more he consciously not imagine Shingen’s condescending attitude — the things they must have said to Sano, the sneers they would be given once Akagi stepped onto Shingen’s field — the more he ended up vividly picturing it. Which then of course prompted him into another passionate speech on nonsensical fighting spirit, fuming and ranting for his team and Sano’s honour.
Nonetheless, in the back of his mind, he had to begrudgingly admit: playing with an opponent at their equal did make the bitter pill a tiny bit easier to digest. It was better than being fodder for the other teams’ first or second string, and it gave them a kind of strange, fragile hope. Seeing his friends sweating and eagerly practicing late into the evening alongside him despite the hard farm work they had done after school burned a fire in Eijun’s chest. So, the only thing he could do was train like a mad man possessed from before sunrise till long post-sunset, trying to channel the excessive energy away.
Nothing happened by luck. Whether it was in the past or in the present or in the future, whether it was in this timeline or the other, Eijun had scrabbled and fought to create every single chance for himself. However, if he didn’t have the skills to capitalize on the serendipity granted, even favourable fortunes and endless effort would sooner or later run out. Just because Shingen’s fourth string wouldn’t be as strong as the previous schools they were set against meant nothing if Akagi couldn’t put up a good fight.
He had no doubt his friends would play with their hearts on their sleeves, however, Eijun needed to be the strongest, fiercest, most persistent fighter on the field. Especially since he had troubled them this far — he had to repay them by doing his job and exceeding their expectations. But, to do so, he needed to be more perceptive of his battlefield.
As the game date drew closer, the restlessness itching under his skin only grew bigger and bigger — agitated and on edge. He had practiced throwing the balls with his right arm, over and over and over again, until the hesitation stemming from his failures was gradually overwritten by the mental simulation of him landing a straight fastball into his awaiting infielder’s mitts. Still, no matter what, he couldn’t tamp down the jitters in his fingertips.
It didn’t matter how much results he yielded in practice if he failed in the actual game.
When Wakana finally poked the hornet’s nest, he exploded.
“HOW CAN I NOT BE MAD AT MYSELF?! WHAT KIND OF CAPTAIN I AM IF I LET OUR TEAM BE RIDICULED BECAUSE I AM INCAPABLE?” He raged, throwing the ball at the wall with more force than necessary. The rebound narrowly missed his skull and bounced toward the field. His form was probably whacked, but for a second, he couldn’t care less. “THEY’RE LOOKING DOWN ON US!”
“Well, we aren’t very good,” Wakana offered, chasing the stray ball.
“Hey! Don’t believe in defeat before you even step on the field!” Eijun pointed at her. “Winning is not a sometime thing, it’s an all time thing. Winning is a habit. So is losing. We cannot let ourselves be complicit in defeats!” He threw his head back and howled at the inky, starry sky stretching above them, glowering at the crescent moon slice winking from behind the dense treetops, fists raised high as if he was challenging heaven itself. “WE’LL TEACH OUR OPPONENT A PAINFUL LESSON ON WHY THEY SHOULD NEVER UNDERESTIMATE THEIR ENEMY.”
Wakana swatted his stomach, interrupting his screeching. “Not by attempting to physically fight our opponent again, I hope?” She heaved out a long-suffering sigh while she handed the ball back to him, exasperated. “Honestly, if Nobu and others hadn’t held you back at Tsugumori, our team would have been banned from playing ever again.”
Eijun’s cat eyes popped up. “I wasn’t going to punch them! I was simply planning to give them a piece of my mind for daring to mouth off our team! That’s my duty!” He declared, despite cracking his knuckles and puffing steam out of his nostrils just recalling Tsugumori and Mito’s jeers and taunts when they lined up to bow after the games. I’ll definitely beat respect into them. Let’s see who will walk away laughing next time. How dare they—
Rolling her eyes, Wakana poked his side and snapped him out of his evil black aura. “Idiot, you’re going to hurt yourself trying too hard to make yourself look cool in front of us.” Eijun yelped, dramatic fake tears welling up. She harrumphed, hands on her hips. “And I wasn’t only referring to the post-game skirmish, you hear? I meant during the game, too. Give the runners a lane and don’t fight them at home plate, Ei-chan.”
“HA?!” Eijun jumped up from the catcher’s squat, arms flailing. “I can’t jump out of the way like a coward, Wakana! Else I’d be giving up runs for nothing!”
“Even though you keep taking penalties?”
He clamped up at that, cheeks heated — all the indignant protest he wanted to shout died in his throat as flashbacks to his disastrous performances in the previous games replayed across the forefront of his brain. Still, he jutted out his chin, stubborn, scowling and spluttering. “It’d be wrong of me to allow the runners to score easily when you guys work hard to get them out.” Spinning around, he muttered under his breath, stamping at the dirt with his toes. “Especially while I’m being the most useless on the team.” His facial muscles twisted into a derisive expression — more to himself than anyone in particular. So much talk, all to fall flat in my face.
During their first game, he was too aggressive right off the gate and focused on the inside pitches — the pitches that he liked, instead of considering Nobu’s strengths — then, instead of keeping his calm and adjusting his calling, he panicked as the hits and passed balls piled up. To make matters worse, his check-throw to bases were clumsy and often veered off-courses, creating easy opportunities for Tsugumori. No wonder he couldn’t calm Nobu down while he himself was fretting over runners. He exposed his weakness and naivety, allowing Mito in the following game to take full advantage of his inexperience as a catcher. He let them take massive leads, let them aggressively slide home, unable to block either the home plate or the hard collisions.
If he was kind to himself, he’d say he wasn’t very good at his first try. But if he was kind to himself, he’d perpetuate a silly self-fantasy.
The three-way games were a disaster — no way around it. 20-1 against Tsugumori. 37-0 against Mito. Both called by the fifth inning.
He could blame the losses on the roster being shuffled and changed on a game-to-game basis, and nobody settled in their roles yet. But such an easy cop-out was something an honourable man, namely Sawamura Eijun, refused to take.
The only person he could blame the losses on was himself.
He had gone home sore and livid. His knees, thighs and quads were trembling, and his sides bruised, swollen. He couldn’t meet anyone’s gaze, feeling like he might break from the humiliation and guilt. It was embarrassing to think he could fool anybody by trying to encourage and reassure his teammates when he himself was clutching his ribs, unstable and lost and underprepared the more the matches went on.
Against Sadaharu Junior High, he still choked whenever there was a runner on base, and more so with bases loaded. The panic was always pressing against the walls of his subconscious. Although he managed to direct the fielders into positions and held their opponent to 4 lead with some successful double plays heading into the fifth inning, they still lost 10-2 in the seventh. Many later runs were directly due to Eijun’s misthrows to bases, mishandles on the outfield returns, or failed blocking.
For three consecutive times, when he bowed to the opponent teams at the end, it had felt eerily similar to the moment he walked off the field in that fateful Yakushi practice game after giving up three home runs — like he had lost a piece of himself on the mound. His dignity, his pride, his confidence, all tore to shred for the other teams’ amusement.
“If we lose, we lose. Who cares,” Wakana said — voice cutting through his consciousness loud and clear. That got him raring to go again, ready to launch into another tirade. However, the unexpected fierce and solemn expression on his friend’s face stopped him. She leveled a disapproving glare at him, however, within the familiar fondness, there was a harsher edge. “You can’t expect yourself to be perfect when you just started out.”
“Then what am I good for?” He asked, the words came out snippier and louder than he intended. He winded up and threw another ball at the wall with his right arm — growling in frustration when it missed the mark by half an inch. “Why would I dream of bringing you guys to Nationals if I can’t even lead the team with my performance on the field? Why would I become a catcher if I couldn’t even draw out Nobu’s ability? Why couldn’t I be better at hitting so I can score a few home runs and ease the defense? We weren't even close to winning a single game so far —and I’m being nothing but a deadweight.”
“What are you talking about? You’re leading us, Ei-chan. You’ve been driving in runs—”
Eiju wasn’t listening to her at all. “No. I’ve to get better faster. We’re in a race against the clock. There’s so much left to do—”
He dreamed of his future more often lately. Chris wasn’t here. If Eijun fell to his own demon again, he was afraid he might not be able to claw his way out. The only thing he could do was rebuild the basics, reinforce his foundations and reflect on his plays — methodical and patient, exactly how Chris had taught him. One step at a time . Except, the familiar afterimage of his own back bearing that proud number 1 had started getting further and further away, each footstep echoed a ticking second.
He knew he was running on a dangerous mentality. This constant blind drive to keep practice practice practice and chasing after tangible results in compensation for his shortcomings was going to come back to him with a heavy price — his second-year Fall Tournament had taught him the downside of that. But, he didn’t have time . Every minute counted. He had to keep practicing, keep improving himself, in some form or another — pushing himself past his breaking points and forcing this damned late-bloomer junior high body of his to grow.
“And how are you going to get better if you got a broken rib or a shattered leg?” Wakana raised her voice, cutting his rambles. The anger that she had been reining in bloomed full-forced. She wretched off her fielding glove — looking like she was going to fling it at his face — before she spun around and marched to the sideline where they had left their stuff.
Eijun jolted, sobering up. The dark red haze encroached on his vision receded.
Chris’s stern warning echoed, superimposed over Wakana’s question, Do you want to become like me, Sawamura?
The implicit implication pierced through him like a blade.
“I—” He tried, scrambling toward her. Thousands of thoughts raced through his brain. However, only the clumsiest words fumbled out of his mouth, tangled up and tripping over each other. “Sorry, you’re right. I shouldn’t—”
Shaking her head, Wakana tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and gazed out to Akagi’s small, empty baseball ground, her silhouette stood strong against the rusty chain link fence and peeling exterior school wall backdrop. Eijun snapped his jaws shut with a muted click . The wind rustled around, and above them, the twinkling night sky rotated.
“I know, Ei-chan. You’d never be the one to step onto the field with the acceptance of losing or to step off happy he was a loser.” Wakana drawled, clasping her hands behind her back, and took a deep, shaky breath — gathering herself — before she continued. “But, it was different from before, you know. Nobu never got caught in these things. It’s not pleasant to watch you being a catcher, Ei. We couldn’t stand up to the other team while their runners kept bowling you over. And whenever you go down, it feels like—” She cut herself off with a soft, choked gasp. “It feels like you might never get up again.” The quietness in her voice didn’t carry a hint of anger or disappointment he was bracing for — instead, there was an inexplicable sadness that crumbled the last bit of his facade.
The bravado which blazed inside him seconds ago was doused out by a shot of cold reality. That’s right . How many times had he felt his heart dropped at the sight of his teammates’ prone forms? How long had the dread and fear frozen him as he waited for the dust to clear — hoping Chris, or Tanba, or Furuya, or Miyuki, or Asou to be fine? If he was so worried for the second family he found at Seidou, then what kind of things his family and friends who had been beside him since he was a toddler would have thought whenever he put himself in a dangerous play?
Wiping a hand across his mouth, he blinked back the tears prickling at the back of his eyeballs. He sucked in a big gulp of air, held it till it stung his lungs — till he stopped feeling like a bundle of raw nerves wrapped under thin skin.
“I’m sorry for making you worried. I should’ve known better,” He said, and Wakana turned around to look at him — her expression softened. He cleared his throat. His voice was scuffy and thick — but he pushed through it, gripping the hard baseball in his right palm. “Wakana, I can’t promise to stop trying my damndest to get the runners out on every turn, but I can promise I’ll be smarter about it, rather than just tanking it, okay?” Wakana said nothing, but the silence suited Eijun just fine. Loose, angry strings of thoughts in his head slowly straightened into a singular coherent goal, the blunt, prideful ire he had been running on hardened into determination as he clenched his fingers. “Tomorrow’s a rare opportunity. I can’t waste it. I’m going to prove Akagi’s persistence and tenacity, and I promise to not pick battles that will put our team at a disadvantage.”
Wakana stared at him for a long moment. “Then, won’t you promise me something else, too?” He felt, more than saw, her eyes searched his face.
Eijun blinked, nodding.
“Will you pitch in the game tomorrow?”
He stiffened.
“Just one throw, or one inning, is fine. I just—I really miss you on the mound.”
His throat dried, and his palms were suddenly clammy with cold sweat. I can’t , the answer was obvious. Yet, he couldn’t bring himself to open his mouth nor to say it. Guilt clogged up his chest. I can’t, because I promised to bring Seidou to Koshien.
Wakana must have mistook his silence for something else, because she reached out to grasp his sleeve. “Ei-chan, don’t you ever wonder what would happen if you were pitching instead, in those games that we lost?” Wakana said in a rush. She tilted her head, eyes glinted — the shallow moonlight reflected, turning her dark pupils into oily black vortexes. “Do you still dream of bringing us to the National as a pitcher?”
Eijun felt like she was reaching inside his chest and closing a fist on his heart — nails digging into the blood and tissues. It was different from the way Haruichi had asked it — maybe because this time, he could see how the night shadow rippled across her upper face, or maybe because he could hear a weird desperate hitch in her voice. He could only steel his spine and swallow his pathetic sobs. “Always, Wakana. You know me. I can’t give up the mound. I can’t give up pitching.”
“Then why did you?” She asked, and Eijun flinched. “Why do you insist on being the catcher?”
He wanted to give the same explanation he did a month ago — wanted to do the same sheepish smile and the same boisterous ring and the same bashful head-scratch like a good little parrot he had practiced to be. Except, his shoulders hunched and his voice was cracking. “If I told everyone to try out different positions but I don’t do the same, that makes me a lying hypocrite.”
“No one would fault you if you go back to pitching.”
“What good would that do? I was way worse of a pitcher than Nobu, Wakana.”
“That’s not true,” Wakana shook him. “I know you don’t believe it either.”
He focused down at his feet and listened to the heartbeats drumming in his ears. Overhead, a thin shooting star streaked across, before petering out in a sparkle of dust behind the ancient cedar’s silhouette standing tall at Akagi Middle School’s front yard. The loaded silence settled between them.
With a disbelief huff, Wakana released her hold on him and stepped back. There was the slightest hint of a smile on her lips, but there was neither joy nor humour in it. “Sorry.” She turned to pack her bag. She hesitated for a second before pushing a water bottle at him and said. “No need to walk home with me. I need to stop by the convenient store for something.”
“Alright,” Eijun said on auto-pilot.
And then the blotchy summer darkness engulfed her whole.
Eijun stared at the empty space she left behind for a moment before forcing himself to walk home.
What are you hiding, Ei-chan? Am I not trustworthy enough? He heard the silence said, and the flimsy half-lies he had spoken burnt the inside of his mouth, like he had swallowed salt.
Yamanashi. 1:00 PM. Highest temperature expected: 22.5℃. 74% chance of heavy precipitation.
And so, the game day finally arrived in all its cloudy and stormy glory.
Despite the weather, straggler spectators were scattered around. Eijun even spotted a posh guy in a pretentious suit sitting amongst a bunch of other polo-wearers and alumni. He tightened his chest protectors, eyeing the fences. So this is the difference between a no-name baseball team and a decent baseball team . Despite a low-brow, bottom-tier game, Shingen Junior High’s team still attracted a scout.
“Ei-chan, Nobu,” Wakana said, and both him and Nobu looked up from where they were bending, fixing the leg guards and knee savers in place. She held up Eijun’s catcher mitt. There was a split second awkwardness between them as they gauged each other, before Wakana cleared her throat and nodded at both of them. “Break a leg. Keep calm, okay?”
“Thanks,” Nobu said.
“Hey, don’t jinx it, Wakana! My knees are already hurting more than enough!” Eijun whipped back. That got her giggling a little. Happiness and relief flooded through him to see Wakana laughing again.
As Akagi players spilled onto the field to take the top inning with an energetic hurrah, Eijun stepped out onto the field with a wide grin. He held his mitt up to Nobu. “Let’s seize this moment, partner!”
“Let’s, Ei-chan!” Nobu cheered, bumping their fists before they splitted up. There was a twinkling light in his friend’s eyes, and an optimistic nervousness in his body language that the fielders also shared.
“YAMANASHI, WE SHALL BRING A STORM UPON YOUR LAND WITH OUR AKAGI FIGHTING SPIRIT. BLOOD, TOIL, TEARS, SWEAT — LET’S US LEAVE IT ALL WE HAVE ON THE FIELD, AND LEAVE THIS GAME WITHOUT ANY REGRETS,” He declared. He paused, sucking in another breath. “FIELDERS, BALLS WILL GO FLYING, SO WE’LL BE COUNTING ON YOU!” Eijun shouted, pointing at the field with both hands as he walked backward to home plate. His teammates’ replied with the same enthusiasm, and spotting the jitter settling down in their movements made his heart beat faster.
Man , Eijun thought. The catcher’s mask constricted like blinders on his vision the moment he pulled it over his face. He scuffed the ground and flattened the slightly bumpy dirt, jaws locked and trapezius muscles tight, and he could feel his body keyed up as he swept his eyes across the ballpark. I can’t lose to them . With his team so dialed in, he had no other options: he had to try his damn hardest so Akagi could — would — win.
It wasn’t the first time he played against unfavourable elements, but it’d be his first as a catcher.
Three games played may not be much of a difference. He was still doing things out of raw instinct and imitating other catchers, pulling from his pitching and outfielding experience to find a comfortable sensation for his body motion. Nothing looked nice. Nothing felt nice yet.
But, during recent practices, he hadn’t let many balls behind him, and could actually catch and block most of Nobu’s throws, even if they went off-course. He was also catching nine out of ten infield throws, and had gotten better at receiving outfield throwbacks. The existing coordination in his left hand helped him adjust a bit faster when transitioning from catching on his feet to practicing catching crouching. He wasn’t fumbling with the balls much anymore, and his right-handed throw accuracy went up. If he attempted to throw out a runner today,he was sure: there was a good chance he’d make it.
The opposing team garnered a few encouraging claps as their batters strolled into the batter’s box, and Eijun sized up the first batter.
“Thank you for the opportunity to play,” The batter mumbled.
A second baseman. Right-handed, square batting stance, didn’t really squat low, choking up on the bat. Eijun had half-paid attention to the Shingen players across the field while they were warming up, and he didn’t recall seeing this batter as particularly fast. Based on his defensive position, he was likely a contact hitter. Still, with no prior data on their batters, he’d have to observe in-game and mentally note down which pitches they liked or disliked, similar to what he did against Sadaharu’s second-string.
Closing his eyes, he gripped his mask’s grill with his fingers, inhaling and exhaling through his mouth several times, relaxing his back, arms and legs’ tense muscles. “Get them out, one at a time,” Eijun murmured aloud, centering himself. “Talk to the pitcher. Keep your cool. Even if a pitch is hit, the fielders will catch it. Even if a runner is in a scoring position, get them out at home. An out by the fielders and an out by strikes are outs, all the same.”
Eijun didn’t know how far he had come from the clueless catcher at the beginning. He knew: results in practice meant nothing if he couldn’t produce the same in actual game. However, the only thing he could do was to be in his best condition, and have faith in his ability. Otherwise, what else had he been practicing like crazy for?
He wanted to win. Even if he couldn’t pitch in this alternative universe. Even if this was who he was as a catcher, at this point in time: a good catching hand; a decent throwing arm; a terrible average pop time; horrible blocking skill; nonexistent framing; and subpar game-calling. Even if all he had was a strong, unwavering belief that he had to be Akagi’s best weapon despite all his shortcomings. It didn’t matter what positions he was going to play — as long as his team wins.
No way I’ll let my teammates’ effort go to waste , he gritted his teeth. No way I’ll drag ‘em down.
No matter what the result of this game would be, this must be where he stood his ground and proved how far he had come. His endless sweats, tears and struggles to be a catcher for the past three months culminated in this one friendly game.
Could he squat and lead the plays for two hours without feeling like his knees would give out by the seventh inning? Could he make his pitcher shine on the mound, no matter what?
Pulses squeezing in his throat, Eijun took one last long breath before he punched his glove. “Let’s have a good game!” He shouted, startling the opponent player in the box and the umpire. He squared his shoulders, glancing at Nobu, who nodded back timidly. He grinned, feeling the uncertainty in his chest ebbed away, replaced with the surge of confidence he had missed so much. An excited buzz thrummed under his skin. “We won’t lose a single point this inning, Nobu!”
“Pitch to contact, Nobu!” Wakana called out from second base.
Eijun signaled for the first baseman to shift slightly away from the foul line. He moved to indicate an inside high fastball on habit before stopping short.
Nobu is not me , Eijun reminded himself. Nobu preferred the outside pitches, because he was scared of accidentally hitting the batters or the hitters zeroing on the inside ones. In the last three games, when Eijun called for an early inside pitch, he had tensed up and bounced the ball into the ground or drifted it to the middle.
A meek outside pitch could be what the batter was anticipating, and an inside ball to the low corner could throw him off-kilter, and even if he managed a hit, they could get him out on a grounder. However, calling for an inside now would just rattle Nobu’s confidence.
A starting pitcher was most vulnerable in the first inning while they're getting into the rhythm of the game. It’d be bad if the first throw ended up a ball, worse if the batter got a hit off the first pitch, and the worst was to call for a waste pitch because they were unsure.
Nobu’s earlier practice balls were soft, but mostly accurate. The trajectories just barely missed the zone corners, but with the wind drifting the balls inward, some might have ended up hitting the batters.
Eijun bit his lips and slowly shifted.
He made up his mind.
A low and away fastball. If it ended up as a strike, that would be awesome. Fine even if it was a ball. If the batter swung, it’d be a fly.
Nothing wrong with going for a textbook move. It was a pitch Nobu had the most confidence in.
Even if it got hit—
The most important thing isn’t what happens when a pitch is hit — it’s what happens after it , Chris’s words echoed back to him, The team is counting on you, Sawamura, so you can’t be scared. Don’t dwell in a past riddled with mistakes, or wonder about a future full of mistakes. Focus on the here and now.
He had to trust his teammates.
Nobu winded up.
The batter swung.
CLANG.
“I’VE GOT IT!” Eijun darted forward. The ball landed in his outstretched mitt with a resounding thump .
“Out!”
“YOSH, YOSH, YOSH!” Eijun roared, tossing the ball back to Nobu. The atmosphere on the field seemed to shimmer, brightened. Exhilaration pumped through him. He felt like he was running on air as the team cheered to his lead. “ONE OUT!”
Last inning. On their offensive turn, Akagi tried hard to hang on, but with three consecutive clean strike-outs, the game closed out. Shingen Junior High won, 6-2.
“THANK YOU FOR THE GOOD GAME!” Eijun said, brusquely shaking hands with some of the batters that scored on them. “A SHAME WE COULDN’T WIN, BUT WE PROMISE WE’LL KEEP AT IT! I SENSE A VICTORY COMING OUR WAY SOON! THE LESSONS WE LEARNED TODAY WILL DEFINITELY COME IN HANDY!”
“It was a pleasure to play,” Shingen’s captain guffawed, responding kindly. “Your bunting skill is definitely formidable, fellow Captain.”
“YOU PRAISE ME TOO MUCH. THIS LOWLY ONE IS NOT WORTHY OF SUCH FLATTERY.”
“Don’t sell yourself short, idiot!” Haru said, ruffling Eijun’s hair. Both the opponent team and his own teammates laughed while they parted.
A delicate joy filled Eijun’s chest when he stepped off the field, embraced in the centre by his teammates. He let himself be enveloped in a boisterous aftermath haze. The childish glee soaked through his flesh, soothing the burns in his legs and back muscles from playing three extra innings.
He was glad to see his friends grinning and jostling, relaxed instead of being thoroughly exhausted like the previous three times. Akagi had put up their best defensive effort — the fielders catching balls and making plays like how they practiced. The opponent didn’t wrestle the first two runs out of Akagi easily. His friends were methodically forcing out and stayed calm even with runners on base. Meanwhile, their opponents were swinging and stealing aggressively.
Although they lost, the game was truly fun to play — both sides left all their hearts and souls on the diamond. Eijun might dare say he might be proud of his performance as a catcher for the first time. With his catching and blocking form solidified, his right-handed pitching motion had become more ingrained and less awkward. Gone were the embarrassing fumbles as he switched the ball from his glove to his right hand — he could transfer the ball to the correct throwing arm in one quick motion now. Sano even said in this game, Eijun had recorded his best pop time to second base ever, clocking in at 2.15 seconds. His right-handed throw accuracy was also stabilizing — he succeeded in preventing four out of fifteen stolen-base attempts from first to second, and getting outs with either 1-2-3 or 1-6-3 double plays to shut the door on scoring chances.
Eijun was pretty pumped. It probably also helped lessen the sting of losing when Shingen’s fourth-string players were courteous, unlike other teams they were up against before. There was a sense of easy-going camaraderie between them.
Indeed, the experience wasn’t bad at all, compared to the disastrous beginning to their season.
Nonetheless, despite the good mood, as Eijun pulled off his chest protector, the mask seemed to solder onto his fingers. The air was humid like stuffy damp cottons. A golden slice of afternoon light slipped the cracks mockingly, slanted at the gap between first and second bases where the last batter’s hit had bounced to.
The surroundings were almost the exact opposite of what it was two-hours-and-thirty-minutes ago when the game started. Wooly grey clouds had started curdling at around the halfway mark of the game. The sky remained ominously dark until the seams finally broke on top of the ninth inning. With a few rumbles, rain poured down hard, blanketing the whole field in a thick white sheet. The shower was over in a blink of an eye, though. By the time the players scrambled back to their respective dugouts, the game was resuming.
However, the short delay was enough to swing the momentum, breaking the tentative 2-point lead Shingen had over Akagi. Nobu’s steady rhythm was interrupted. The muddy, dampened ground made the ball bounce differently — throwing both Eijun and the infielders off. The slippery, rain-soaked grass caused their outfielders to stumble and miss a critical hit.
Unconsciously, a sigh escaped from his mouth. “So close, weren’t we?” Nobu looked up at him where he was kneeling to help Eijun unfasten his leg guards. Eijun stared at the Shigen’s dugout, clenching his fists. A low frustration thrummed like an undercurrent in his belly.
His command and speed still needed much work, and he had to modify his form for a better arm slot and to account for fluctuating throwing angles.
Another friendly game like this, where the opponent allowed them to learn and to make mistakes without stomping their faces in — Akagi wouldn’t have another opportunity again.
Once they got back, they’d be swarmed with work. June was a key turnover month for farming, and July was when the crops needed tending to most. There wouldn’t be much time to play or practice after this. Akagi would be lucky to secure another game before August.
Eijun raised his chin, mouth slashed. A determined light shone in his eyes. “Next time, for sure.”
Next time, he wouldn’t allow his hastiness to get the better of him. Next time, he’d definitely notice and take a necessary time-out when his pitcher was worn out from the first wave of fatigue. Next time, Eijun wouldn’t be so caught up in the calculation for the next play that he didn’t notice his fielders were tired and therefore couldn’t quite react on time.
Nobu hummed. “C’mon.” Eijun turned his attention back when a gentle nudge at his ribs came — the motion felt slowed, like he was moving through molasses. Nobu held out a ball and a glove. “I’ll help you cool down.”
Eijun tugged off his catcher’s mask, lips ticking up a little. “Yeah. Good work today, Nobu.”
They trotted out to the bullpen and passed a few balls back and forth — loosening their muscles with soft throws.
“Your fastballs are all on-point. And the two-seamer is such a killer today!” Eijun started chattering. Around them, other teammates also splitted off into pairs and went through the cooldown routine — similar to what Shingen players were doing across the field.
“Really, Ei-chan? My pitches were floating high and down the middle a lot,” Nobu said.
Eijun nodded, huffing determinedly. “They’re still drifting a lot, but no worry. By the next game, we’ll fix that! A pitcher’s control usually slips when they’re tired. Over time you’ll build up enough stamina for it! Just like with farming!” He laughed, nabbing the ball that was falling a tad short. “Remember how you used to faint during harvest season? The same Nobu is now the best rice harvester in Nagano!”
Nobu spluttered in embarrassment, but he deflected the topic in high spirits, receiving the returning throw. “Ei-chan, you’re awesome today, too. Most runners didn’t even make third base. And you got us two runs! I can’t believe the Shingen captain gave you his LINE!”
Eijun grinned, shrugging, wiping his sweat running down his face with his shirt sleeve. “No, no! It was a team effort! I couldn’t do it without your superb pitching, Nobu, or without Wakana or Haru in scoring positions!”
He raised his mitt and caught the next throw between the C of his hand. The ball landed with a distinct, pretty thump that made the inner pitcher in Eijun preened — and he held onto the ball for a moment, staring down at his hands, mimicking the motion again, a grin working its way across his lips.
I see. You don’t catch it in your palm or thumb.
He tossed it back. “Again, Nobu!” He shouted.
Eijun was so focused on chasing after the familiar sound, he didn’t realize how long they were playing catch until he threw their last cool-down ball back to Nobu with a huff and Nobu grabbed it with amusement glittering in his eyes and laughter in his voice.
“ Ne, wanna pitch me a few, Ei-chan?”
Eijun blinked, mouth fallen open. He felt his cheeks heated up as though he was a child caught with his hands in the cookie jar. He should probably say No way! It’s time for our cooldown runs and stretches! He should probably say I’m a catcher today, Nobu! You can’t tempt me to go back to pitching like that! But Nobu was already smiling like he already knew what was going through Eijun’s mind, because he passed the ball back to Eijun.
“C’mon! I know you want to! You were staring at the mound all the time, silly.” Nobu watched Eijun catch the soft toss square in his glove with a fond expression that made Eijun’s subconscious guilt flared up again. Wakana’s closed-off, unsmiling gaze resurfaced at the forefront of his mind, and Eijun’s shoulders drew up to his ears defensively. A cold realization — something akin to a terrible exposed, naked feeling — gripped him.
Was it so obvious?
He knew he could never give up pitching, but he didn’t realize he was playing like a half-hearted catcher. Was he so caught up in whether he could play to his full potential as a pitcher after all this, and neglected being able to play to his full potential as a catcher? Was that why he couldn’t seem to grasp being a catcher after three months? He had accepted to be a catcher, so why was he still preoccupied with pitching?
A spiky ball clogged in his throat. He wasn’t sure whatever he was going to say next would fully prove his conviction — but he spoke up, anyway, not allowing a single hesitation to fester inside him. “I shouldn’t,” Eijun said, shaking his head. The words prying out of his teeth — shame washed over him. “I need to stop thinking about pitching while I’m catching, else I’ll keep letting you down and wasting your efforts.”
Nobu halted, perplexed and slightly panicked, stepping close. “It’s only natural that Ei-chan thinks about pitching all the time. You love it so much—”
Eijun ran a hand through his sweaty hair, lowering his lashes. “No, That’s the problem. I won’t allow myself to be distracted by pitching anymore. I’ve to focus on catching, else I’m failing my duties as your catcher.” He sucked in a long breath through his nose and exhaled at once. “I sincerely apologize for being unable to focus and uphold our promise, Nobu.”
“Hey. Stop it, Ei-chan,” Nobu said. A rare, quiet hint of anger and melancholy in his tone that pushed Eijun to straighten his spine, eyes widened. “I’m—I don’t want to be a responsibility you’ve to take care of. We’re friends before we’re battery mates. I want to win with you, yes. But more importantly—” Nobu held up a palm to stop Eijun’s immediate protests. He met Eijun’s gaze with a determined look of his own. “I just want to have fun with you. That is what you promised me, right?”
“Of course! I’m always having fun playing baseball!” Eijun said with the brightest, cockiest smirk he could muster, though even he could hear his voice rising a little too loud, a little too enthusiastic to be genuine.
Nobu snorted. “You hadn’t smiled much since you became a catcher, you know.” Eijun tensed. “If we can only win when you’re unhappy, it won’t sit right with me.” Nobu reached out and touched Eijun’s elbow. “It’s okay to keep thinking and wanting to pitch, while being a catcher, Ei-chan — if that’s what keeps you loving baseball. I know you’ll always give it your all no matter what. But if you keep thinking you’re playing out of duty, you’ll hate the sport.”
Eijun gritted his teeth, fingers clenched, the corners of his eyes prickled. Nobu’s face blurred.
“If there’s someone who should say sorry, it’s me,” Nobu sighed, chuckling. He scratched his head. “I know I’m not the most reliable — my pitches are slow and I don’t have the confidence to be aggressive at times. Yet you’ve always stepped in at the right time when I’m scared. You don’t get mad, even when we were making frequent mistakes. Just like when you stand on the mound, you shoulder the burdens and cheer us on no matter what.”
The nonchalant self-depreciation pierced Eijun’s heart. He felt himself tearing up. Nobu smiled, gentle. “We aren’t a perfect battery, but we’re getting better, right? When you finally return to being a pitcher again, Ei-chan, I want to be ready to catch your pitch the same way you’re able to catch mine. I’ll support you in both catching and pitching.”
Eijun sniffled, clumsily pressing the heel of his right-hand against his eyelids and his nose, nevermind the ugly tears and snots leaking out of him. “Yeah.” Throwing an arm around Nobu, he shouted with all his might. His voice cracked, still a little raw and roughened. But he let it all out in the open. “ALRIGHT, THEN! LET US CONTINUE IMPROVING DAY BY DAY, NOBU!”
“What’s wrong, Ei-chan?! Why are you crying?!” His teammates, who were moving to their second phase of cool-down stretches, fretted while he half-laughed, half-sobbed. Across the field, the Shingen players were looking over at them with a mixture of curiosity and interest.
Nobu flushed at being the centre of attention. Nonetheless, when Eijun looked back at him, all the dourness had seeped out of his friend, replaced by a matching excitement. A rejuvenated determination flourished inside Eijun’s chest. “I’m going to raise the bar, Nobu, so make sure you watch closely!” Grinning with all his teeth, he held out his left hand. “Twenty pitches! And then we run three laps around the field!”
Nobu bumped his glove against Eijun’s bare knuckles, biting his lips like he was holding back on an ear-to-ear smile as they jogged back to the dugout. “I can’t wait! It’s been a while since I last caught for you, Ei-chan!”
“Eh? Ei-chan is pitching?” Akira whispered, first to break the dazed hushness seemingly fallen over their team.
His soft affirmation still didn’t quite render what they were seeing. There was a disbelieving breathlessness that hung suspended in the air while they stared at the scene unfolding in front of them. Wakana blinked until the sight in the present and her messy, overlapping memories clicked in place — Sawamura, standing tall, a pitcher’s glove in his right hand and a ball in his left, stepping onto the bullpen’s mound and Nobu, in catcher’s gear, getting in place across from him. And finally, at long last, the vague feeling of wrongness she had felt for the past three months fizzled away. In its place, a rush of exhilaration, fondness and eagerness bundled up in her lungs, making it difficult to breathe.
Her friends were in a similar state — buzzing and unconsciously inching closer. Wanting to see more than just a glimpse from the sides.
“We haven’t seen Ei-chan pitch in games since forever!” Haru — their current third baseman — said.
“I want to see him!”
“Let’s not get too close,” Wakana spoke up, smiling and returning to her stretches. “Ei-chan had been hiding his pitching from us for a while. I’m sure he’ll show us himself soon.”
The team exchanged glances amongst themselves before snickering. “Right! He’s always trying to look cool in front of us.” They brightened, resuming in a semicircle and finishing the remaining cool-down sets — even though none of them actually focused on the exercises.
Sawamura’s earlier outburst had drawn attention to their side of the field. And now that he was standing in the bullpen — not as the catcher, but as a pitcher — everybody on the field had collectively stopped to study Sawamura from the corner of their eyes. Sano was gawking nervously from the dugout. The last few of the spectators who were leaving halted and gathered around near the fence, scrutinizing Sawamura from afar. Even the opponent team had also paused, bewildered.
Here, there were no high stakes. Nothing to prove, nothing to gain. Their impromptu session was witnessed only by a handful, and all the noises were muffled by the wind save for Sawamura’s booming voice. It certainly wasn’t the kind of pressure Sawamura had often described in vivid details lately. Wakana couldn’t comprehend what it’d be in Koshien , couldn’t imagine how the ground and the heat shook and trembled to the wills of a million people cheering and booing. However, she knew it’d be nothing like the aftermath of this junior high game, where the home team didn’t even play their best group and the away team was merely some unknown school.
Yet, she couldn’t help feeling a thread of nervousness underneath her anticipation for Sawamura’s first pitch. She didn’t even dare blink.
Sawamura warmed up, and started off throwing a few practice balls.
It didn’t look impressive.
But, it was also strange.
A subtle difference about her friend that she couldn’t quite put her fingers onto — it made her feel off-kilter. Wakana had witnessed him learning to throw right-handed in a similar form multiple times before, and saw how he corralled the wild balls slowly but surely until they hit the mark. But, now, gone was the split-second hesitation, gone was the ham-fisted awkwardness in his body language. When he was throwing with his left, there was a newfound certain grace and efficiency. With each pitch, Sawamura’s stance progressively lowered and the sound of a ball hitting Nobu’s glove sounded louder.
And, on his tenth throw, his arm whipped, seemingly broken for a fraction of a second, before a ball flew out and landed with a beautiful thump against Nobu’s glove. And Wakana let out a small, audible gasp.
“That windup is pretty clean, no?”
“A southpaw!? Throwing like that, too! He’d be better on the mound!”
“YOSH! I’M GOOD TO GO!” Sawamura hollered, rolling his shoulders. “I’LL PITCH TO YOUR MITT, NOBU!”
“Okay!”
“He looks completely different,” Ninsei — their left fielder — exhaled, a bead of sweat slid down his chin.
Wakana nodded, stunned. Sawamura’s pitching posture had changed. He no longer raised his leg high to the sky or balanced himself on his toes. Instead, his joints were kept close, tight, like a coiled spring.
A movement caught the corner of her eyes. She turned and spotted one of the Shingen players braving the distance, carrying a bat and a helmet.
Wakana recognized him once he got closer. Shingen’s team captain, Toyama, the person who had driven in 3 runs against them. The person who had praised Sawamura during the handshake. He raised his palms in a placating and apologetic manner to the Akagi players as he bypassed them, beelining to their bullpen. Sawamura, who was about to wind-up, stopped to greet the Shingen’s captain, and Nobu stood up from crouching.
Sawamura, Nobu and Toyama conversed for a few seconds before Sawamura broke into a half-bowing stance. Next to him, Nobu seemed to be flustering as if he was caught off-guard by the whole situation.
“YES! IF YOU INSIST AND WILLING, HONOURABLE SIR. THIS SAWAMURA EIJUN IS OVERJOYED TO TEST MY ABILITY AGAINST YOU.”
“He’s going to face a batter?” Haru yelped.
Wakana’s hands started wringing as she watched the fearsome hitter step into the box, adjusting his grip on the bat. Sawamura had been throwing accurately so far. Nonetheless, despite his relentless, untiring practices, Sawamura hadn’t faced batters since he took on the catcher role, and his self-training hardly simulated this situation.
Don’t get nervous, Ei-chan . She bit her lips. On the mound, he drew his knee up, tucking his arms back. Wakana searched Sawamura’s expression from afar, hidden under the cap’s bill. You can do it!
And Sawamura pitched. The ball streaked across the 18.44 m distance into Nobu’s awaiting mitt. It didn’t look particularly fast, yet—
The batter didn’t react.
“STRIKE!” Sawamura called out, miming the umpire’s arm signal. She could hear a wide grin in his voice, the way he positively buzzed on the mound.
Wakana watched, mesmerized, as Sawamura winded up and threw — again, and again, and again — like a well-oiled machine humming along. The head-on battles he loved had transformed into a complex dance that kept the batter blundering.
“Outstanding control and command, I must say. Twenty-four pitches. All in the strike zone. Ten strikes, eight swing-and-misses, two fouls, and the remaining four the batter either got jammed or popped a fly. And he pitches at a good rhythm.”
“Oi, that kid is quite a competent pitcher. He’s throwing exactly where the glove is.”
“Oh yeah, remember how fast he throws the ball across the field?”
“He’d be a monster pitcher.”
As Wakana stared at Sawamura’s figure, she couldn’t help but think, indeed , he was most beautiful like this — on the mound, head thrown back, arms raised triumphantly to the depressive sky looming above, roaring. And across from him, the batter looked both flabbergasted and impressed as he lowered his bat, defeated in the box.
“How long has he been—” Akira wondered aloud, the words trailing off as he glanced at Wakana, eyes wide, mouth agape.
Wakana shook her head, inexplicable pride bloomed in her heart. “Let me get some water for Ei-chan. He has worked hard.” She stood up.
Unconsciously, an exasperated, fond exhale of relief escaped her mouth, and she tugged her cap lowered.
To be honest, she was terrified lately.
The boy in front of her was physically Sawamura. Yet, he started to become a familiar stranger rather than the childhood friend she had grown up with. The simple, happy-go-lucky Sawamura Eijun who just wanted to have the best time playing baseball with his friends wasn’t there anymore. He had been replaced by someone else — closed off, driven by hard results as if that was the only thing that defined him. He stubbornly remained a catcher despite looking like he tore himself apart from the inside every time he stepped onto the field, and when probed he talked about Koshien like it was an inevitable reality beyond a grandiose ambition.
Wakana had seen Sawamura play with a chip on his shoulder before. This wasn’t it. Instead, it was more like he was treating himself as a product of trial-and-error — a tool for a greater good.
What is this greater good you’re chasing after, Ei-chan? She had wanted to ask him. Why do you have to change everything that makes you you for it?
Wakana thought she was losing him.
Perhaps, she was small-minded.
Of course, she tried in her own way to help Sawamura where she could. However, truthfully, she couldn’t be like Nobu. She would never be. How could she be thrilled for Sawamura’s progress after seeing him raking himself through pains for something he didn’t love? How could she be happy to witness Sawamura destroy himself for something seemingly-unattainable?
He had been driving in runs, and got Akagi to pull off double plays for the first time. He had been practicing with the fielders and helping them adapt to their new positions, and taught them how to bunt when most of them couldn’t even make contact with the balls a month ago. She could not fathom, then, why on Earth would he sincerely think he was letting the team down?
Wakana entered the dugout. Sano wasn’t there — and she was grateful for the happy coincidence. Grabbing a damp towel and pressing it against her upper face, for a moment, she simply breathed with her eyes closed.
Although Sawamura hadn’t told her the real reason he switched positions, she was smart enough to understand he had good reasons for why he forced himself to become a catcher. But, having to accept he may have to continue being a catcher for the future pushed biles up her esophagus. Sawamura looked wrong in the bulky catcher’s gear. He looked wrong with a mask covering his face, looked wrong squatting behind a batter.
He only looked right with a foot pushed against the rubber, eyes sparkling.
It was stupid, but seeing Sawamura pitching again today soothed a balm over the nasty anxiety that had been burning inside Wakana for too long.
Because finally, she knew for sure: the Sawamura Eijun she loved was still there, wearing his dream on his sleeves and putting his hopes into every pitch.
For now, if all Sawamura allowed himself to do was pitching in the bullpen post-game, she shall make peace with it.
Wakana wiped her forehead and nose clean, before rooting around for Sawamura’s water bottle. She was wrapping it around a brand new, chilled towel when the muted, even voices coming from the locker room stopped. She looked up to Sano shuffling into the dugout, followed by a tall, lanky man in a sleek black suit and red tie. Wakana bowed, eyes kept close on him.
“Ah, Wakana. Has Sawamura finished his cool-down?” Sano said, a weird note in his voice.
“He’s running a few laps before stretching, Sano-sensei. He should be done in twenty minutes,” Wakana glanced between Sano and the mysterious man. “I can call him in if you need him?”
Sano opened his mouth. However, the suited man was the one who answered. “No. That won’t be necessary. I’ll wait.” He appraised Wakana, and she felt like she was an open file whose content was being leafed through without consent. “Second baseman, aren’t you? Good contact hitter. Under proper training, you will do decent at softball.”
Wakana shifted on her feet awkwardly. “Thank you. I’m not really a sporty person.”
The man looked at her like there was a particular line of thought he was considering telling. But in the end, he only gave a brisk nod, taking out his business card. “Your teammate, Sawamura Eijun, has displayed immense performance today on the field. I’d like to see who he is as a player off the field as well. Mind if I ask a few questions?” Wakana accepted the given card in a half-daze. Kudou pulled a pair of black-rimmed glasses out of his jacket’s inner pocket and pushed the spectacles up the bridge of his nose. Despite his droopy eyelids, his gaze was sharp, calculating. “Kudou Fumio. I’m a scout from Inashiro Industrial. Our school has been to Koshien for the past thirteen years straight. I believe Sawamura-kun will be a good fit for our team.”