The sun peeked from behind the buildings, sinking away into the night's arrival. The electronic scoreboard buzzed, holding the red digits in the fading light.
7 – 1.
A crushing defeat.
At least, that's what it looked like to anyone walking past the fence. The scrimmage was over, and the result was not what I had hoped for. To the regulars, it was business as usual. To us, the rookies, it was a wake-up call delivered with a sledgehammer.
I sat on the bench, untying my cleats. My fingers felt stiff, vibrating slightly—not from cold, but from the lingering adrenaline of standing on the field against monsters.
The day was coming to an end. We were cooling down, packing bags, sipping the last of our sports drinks. But my mind was still replaying the tape, specifically the Top of the Second.
It had been a slaughter.
Our cleanup crew—Shiro, Hiroto, and the others—had stepped up with hope. They walked back with their heads down.
Taiyo wasn't just fast; he was cruel. Continuing to throw his blazing fastballs, he struck out the fourth batter on three pitches. Then the fifth. Then the sixth.
Nine pitches. Three outs.
He didn't even use his forkball. Pure, unadulterated speed that overwhelmed our swings. Precise and crisp display of control that stunned our eyes. It was a statement: "You are not on my level."
He had followed the vice captain's mitt perfectly and their battery led us into a hole which we couldn't think to overcome from.
And then came the Bottom of the Second.
That memory stung the most. That was the final nail in the coffin that started the slaughter which wouldn't end no matter how much we tried.
I had faced him. Ren Iwasaki. The Captain.
He stood in the box like a statue. No unnecessary movements. No menacing glare. Just… presence.
His calm unfazed presence was enough to give me the chills.
'No teenager should have a gaze like that.' I had wondered for a second maybe he was also a grown-up like me.
I threw a fastball, low and outside. My best location.
He watched it go by.
"Ball one."
He didn't flinch. He didn't even blink. He had measured it. Not even moving to check his timing.
'Okay,' I had thought. 'He's looking for something specific.'
Shiro called for a curveball, breaking away. I nodded. I poured everything into that spin, snapping my wrist to get that sharp drop.
I was calm. I was composed. The Captain would have probably given nightmares to any other young pitcher if he were in my place but it had very little effect on me.
I threw the best pitch that I could, but... just for a fraction of a second, it hung. The ball glided over the plate for a bit too long.
Ren didn't miss that.
THWUNG!
The sound was different. It wasn't the sharp ping of metal hitting leather; it was a gunshot. The ball disappeared over the center-field fence before I could even turn my head.
A solo homerun.
I remembered standing on the mound, watching him trot around the bases. He didn't celebrate. He didn't gloat. He just touched home plate and jogged back to the dugout.
It was terrifying.
He looked back at me while walking back to the bench and smiled. A thought had crossed my mind then, 'Can I even hope to be that good?'
I was petrified by his talent, wishful to achieve that level and a little glad he was going to be on my team.
I shook it all off and readied to face the next man, but the damage wasn't done.
Rui Takeuchi, the Vice-Captain, stepped up next. We tried to jam him inside, but his bat appeared out of nowhere to smack the ball right on the sweet spot. He turned on it faster than I expected and connected almost as finely as Captain.
Ping!
A double to the gap in left-center as the ball hit the fence and bounced back right towards Daichi. His swift fielding saved it from being a triple, but it wasn't enough to save us.
Two deep fly balls later—sacrifices that I couldn't prevent—and Rui was home.
Two runs. That was my tally for that inning.
I pitched one more inning after that—the third—and managed to hold them scoreless with a mix of lucky grounders, excellent fielding by our infielders and Shiro's aggressive framing. But by the time I moved to first base in the fourth inning, my arm felt heavy.
'I survived,' I thought, pulling my arm out of my jersey sleeve. 'But I still lost.'
Takeshima Haruno had taken the mound for the final three innings.
I felt for him. I really did. I knew what was in store for him since he was going to start his first inning facing the cleanup crew right from the get go.
Takeshima was a good pitcher for his age. He had a decent fastball and a slider that worked against most people. But against the starters of our Senior League team?
He was meat.
Not much better than I was. But because the lineup was more warmed up and and it was their second time at the plate... they picked him apart.
Five runs in three innings. They read his pitches, stole bases at will, and turned the outfield into a shooting range. By the sixth inning, the "A-Team" was playing with the relaxed precision of surgeons.
Our only run came in the top of the final inning.
A scrape of dignity.
Daichi had managed to draw a walk—mostly by annoying Koji Taneda, the relief pitcher with his endless foul balls. Takeshima came after him and luckily hit a deep flyball, which Daichi used to tag on to the second base, and now we had a runner in a scoring position for the first time with just one out.
It was my last at-bat and with all my experience and practice and poise, I kept fouling until my arms felt like lead. I had no plan in my but all I knew was that I wasn't going to give up just like that.
I was probably the 10th pitch to me and as soon as I saw Koji release the ball, I could notice the seams of the ball rotating clearly. The ball moving towards me in a straight line at a speed high enough to scare any kid my age but was child's play compared to the cannonballs Taiyo was throwing. I waited till the very last second and swung my hips all the way, generating as much power as I possibly could exert. Keeping my head low and eyes trained on the ball, I swung my bat and hit it squarely with that sweet spot and pulled it deep into the right field.
Daichi ran back to home plate while I could only reach the first base.
7-1.
Shiro hit a grounder to Ota which brought the innings to an end with the double play.
*****
"Hey."
A cold water bottle pressed against my cheek. I jumped, looking up to see Shiro standing over me, his gear already packed away in his bag.
"You're making that face again," he said, tiredly with a hint of a smile.
"What face?"
"The 'I'm too old and should be doing better with life' face."
I snorted, taking the bottle. "Maybe I am. Maybe I should."
"Sure. We lost," Shiro sighed, sitting down next to me. "But you only gave up two runs in three innings against the National contenders. That's not nothing, Chibi. Unlike me who did next to nothing in the whole game."
He looked a little dejected. His shoulders drooped, eyes hazy, fist clenched. He must have been really upset with his performance.
I looked around and everyone had similar looks on their faces.
"Yeah, you sucked. We all did. But you can't say that we did nothing! Hiroto and all the fielders saved our a... umm... behinds so many times! And it was your leads and calmness that kept everyone focused. You can ask Takeshima if you have any doubts just how much of a help you were behind the plate!" I spoke to him but my voice gradually kept raising until everyone nearby could hear me.
"There isn't a single one of us that doesn't think they could've done better. But that just tells us what level we are at and how much we can improve! It's not like we played that bad... all we gotta do is practice harder and soon we can reach their levels and show them what we can do!"
There were no cheers or high-fives. Just nods and smiles that showed the renewed determination from every single one to do better. To be better.
Shiro stood up, patted my shoulder and whispered before walking away, "You're really too mature for your age. But thanks, I needed that. We all did."
I slid back down on the seat. Took a long drink of water, letting the cool liquid wash away the dust in my throat. Looked down at my hands. They were small. My wrists were thin. My legs didn't have the explosive power that all the others had.
Physically, I was a child.
But technically? Mentally?
I replayed the homerun pitch again. It hung. That was a mechanical error, a lapse in concentration, maybe in technique. Fixable.
I replayed the double by Rui. I had pitched him inside because I thought he was looking away. I was wrong. Tactical error. Fixable.
I looked across the field. The seniors were laughing, packing up their gear with the ease of victors. Ren was talking to Taiyo, pointing at something on the field.
I wasn't their equal yet.
But I had held my own. I wasn't too far behind.
In my past life, I would have quit after a game like this. I would have said, "See? The gap is too big. Why bother?"
Now?
I clenched my fist. I wasn't going to walk away without improving from today.
I have three years of growth ahead of me. Three years to build this body. Three years to sharpen my mind. Three long years before I get to the same age as them.
I have to surpass them by a huge margin by then.
I stood up, slinging my bag over my shoulder.
"You coming?" Shiro asked.
"Yeah," I said, a small, genuine smile forming on my lips. "Let's go home. I need to wake up early tomorrow."
Shiro groaned. "Wasn't today's loss enough to warrant some rest?"
"Haha," I chuckled, walking toward the gate. "You're too green."
'I guess, so am I.'