"And it's over! The game is over! What a finish — a legendary meteor shot from the one and only Shooting Star, Dranred Masterson!"
The commentator's voice roared through the speakers as the ball arced high from beyond the three-point line. The scoreboard glowed 95–95. Five seconds left.
"Masterson's got the ball—defender's on him tight!" shouted the color commentator. "He fakes left, crosses right—oh, beautiful footwork! He's looking for space—four seconds!"
Dranred's teammate, Lewis, shouted, "Take it, Star! Take the shot!"
Three seconds.
The crowd was on its feet. The defender lunged.
Dranred spun away, planted his feet just beyond the arc.
Two seconds.
The buzzer screamed in the distance.
He rose for the jumper — smooth, confident, unstoppable.
"One second left—Masterson for the win!"
Swish!
The ball kissed the net just as the buzzer blared.
For a split second, silence.
Then the entire arena erupted into chaos.
"UNBELIEVABLE! DRANRED MASTERSON DOES IT AGAIN!"
Fans screamed until their voices cracked. Some threw their arms into the air; others burst into tears. The ground itself seemed to quake beneath the thunder of the crowd.
Dranred barely had time to react before his teammates swarmed him. Lewis jumped onto his back, laughing and shouting.
"You did it again, man! You crazy star!"
Dranred grinned, catching his breath. "It wasn't just me. That screen you set? Perfect."
"Yeah, yeah," Lewis chuckled. "But we all know who they came to see."
The scoreboard flashed: Final — 98–95. Champions.
Confetti rained down from the rafters. The arena glowed with flashing lights and roaring chants: Shooting Star! Shooting Star!
Later, under the golden glare of the stadium lights, the announcer's voice echoed:
"Ladies and gentlemen, your Finals MVP and Season MVP — Dranred Masterson!"
The crowd roared again as Dranred stepped forward, sweat still glistening on his face, jersey clinging to his shoulders. He raised the trophy, and the cameras flashed like fireworks.
A reporter approached, smiling as she extended a microphone.
"Dranred, that was one of the most incredible buzzer-beaters we've ever seen! What was going through your mind in those final seconds?"
Dranred laughed softly, catching his breath. "Honestly? I wasn't thinking. I just trusted the game. Trusted my team." He looked at the camera and pointed toward the stands. "And trusted everyone who believed in us."
"You've led this team to victory year after year," the reporter continued. "Ten straight seasons — that's unheard of! What keeps you motivated?"
Dranred smiled faintly. "It's never been about the trophies. I play because of someone who couldn't."
The reporter tilted her head. "You mean the friend you always dedicate your wins to?"
He nodded. "Yeah. Every shot, every game, every win — it's all for him."
The crowd quieted, sensing the shift in tone.
"People are still curious about him," the reporter said gently. "You've never told anyone who he was. You once said, 'I play the game he couldn't.' What did you mean?"
Dranred paused, gaze lowering to the court beneath his feet — the same court where dreams were made and broken. He took a slow breath, then looked back up at the camera.
"In the perfect time," he said quietly, "we'll meet again."
He smiled, small but certain. "Until then… I'll keep playing his game."
As the camera zoomed in, his expression softened — proud yet burdened. Above him, the stadium lights shimmered like stars, and for a fleeting second, one could almost see two shadows standing side by side.
After all, he thought, this was his dream… not mine
The cheers around him blurred into a dull hum, the confetti falling in slow motion. Dranred blinked, and for a moment, the bright arena lights above him seemed to melt into the amber glow of an autumn sunset.
The sound of the crowd faded--- The sound of the crowd faded — replaced by the crisp rustle of falling leaves and the sharp pop of a baseball landing in a catcher's mitt.
He knew this sound.
⚾ The Final Pitch
"Strike! Batter out!"
The umpire's call thundered across the diamond as the catcher's mitt snapped shut, swallowing the 155-kilometer fastball that sealed the game.
For a heartbeat, the stadium froze. Then — eruption.
The crowd roared in disbelief as the speed flashed on the big screen: 155 KPH. The final strike. The final out. The deciding pitch that crowned the new champions of the Inter-High School Baseball Tournament.
Players from the winning team burst from the dugout, sprinting toward the mound. The pitcher barely had time to exhale before his teammates tackled him to the ground, laughter and joy spilling across the field.
"You did it, man!" shouted the catcher, throwing an arm around his shoulders as the others piled in. "That last pitch was insane — you're unstoppable!"
The pitcher smiled faintly beneath his cap, still catching his breath. "Guess that's one way to end it."
Confetti burst above them, shimmering like silver dust against the deepening sky. The announcer's voice echoed over the loudspeakers:
"Ladies and gentlemen, your 2015 Inter-High Champions — the Westbridge Hawks!"
Applause thundered through the stands as the team lined up to bow to the cheering fans. The cameras zoomed in on the pitcher — the ace — his name flashing on the screen as the crowd chanted it in unison.
"Dranred! Dranred! Dranred!"
The catcher leaned close, laughing. "You're not even in the major leagues yet, and people already know your name."
Dranred chuckled softly, shaking his head. "It would be nice if that were true."
But his gaze drifted — past the crowd, past the cameras — toward the entrance of the field.
There, standing just beyond the chain-link gate, was a young man in a basketball jersey, a gold medal glinting around his neck. Beside him stood a smiling woman holding a trophy, and between them, a little girl waving excitedly toward the field.
Dranred's breath caught. The noise of the stadium faded until all he could hear was the quiet thud of his heartbeat.
"Excuse me," he murmured to his catcher, patting his shoulder. Before the other could reply, Dranred jogged off the mound, weaving past photographers and sideline officials.
The catcher turned to say something — but the reporters were already on him, microphones and cameras flashing. He could only watch as Dranred ran toward the trio by the gate.
"Congratulations!" the young lady greeted him with a bright smile, wrapping her arms around him. "That was incredible, Dranred!"
Dranred laughed, hugging her back. "I'm glad you came."
The basketball player stepped forward, smirking. "Looks like you didn't even let them touch the ball." He flipped open the scorecard — seven innings, no hits allowed.
"Conceding a hit isn't part of my vocabulary," Dranred replied with mock pride, adjusting his cap. Then his eyes softened as he noticed the medal gleaming against his friend's jersey.
"I guess I don't have to ask how your game went. That trophy and medal say it all."
James chuckled. "Not bad for someone who still can't throw a curveball."
Dranred grinned. "I stick to fastballs. They get the job done."
He crouched down and smiled at the little girl peeking from behind James's leg. "What do you think, kiddo?"
The girl giggled, nodding enthusiastically. "You were amazing! Just like always!" she was beaming with excitement and a proud gaze at the winning pitcher.
Dranred's smile faltered for just a moment — his eyes flicking up to meet Jame's. No words passed between them, but the silence spoke louder than any cheer. Two dreams, once shared, now fulfilled in different ways.
The crowd's chants swelled again behind them — "Dranred! Dranred! Draned!" — and the autumn wind carried the echo across the diamond.
Dranred straightened, looking back toward the field, his voice low. "Guess we both made it, huh?"
James smiled. "Yeah. We did."
As the cameras flashed and the lights bathed the two in gold, a single leaf drifted between them — spinning gently, like a falling star that had finally found its way home.