Kamiyama Middle's back field didn't look like a place dreams were made.
It looked more like where dreams came to die.
A rusted chain-link fence.
Grass as tall as Sōta's ego.
No chalk lines. No benches.
Just dirt, wind, and three kids who didn't know when to quit.
Haruto stood on the mound—well, the flattened cardboard circle they called a mound—and hurled another fastball into Sōta's glove.
Clang.
It hit the pole behind him. Again.
"That was a little outside," Sōta muttered, removing his glove to shake the sting from his hand.
"It curved," Haruto said.
"No, it missed."
Aoi sat cross-legged nearby, scribbling in her logbook. "That's 14 balls, 3 hits, and 1 bruise to Sōta's shoulder."
"Not helpful," Sōta muttered, rubbing the spot.
Riku yawned from the outfield. "When are we gonna play an actual game? I'm just running wind sprints for no reason."
Haruto dropped the ball into his glove and looked up. "We will. But not with four people."
Silence.
"Then what now?" Aoi asked.
Haruto's voice was quiet. "We recruit."
Later That Week
Haruto did something he hated more than tests.
He talked to people.
Flyers made from math notebooks.
Drawings of baseballs that looked like eggs.
"JOIN US" in red marker that looked too much like blood.
Still, he hung them up.
They laughed at him in the hallway.
Said baseball was dead.
Said he should try cleaning club instead.
Even the gym teacher chuckled.
"No one wants to play on a dirt patch, Haruto."
But Haruto didn't tear the posters down.
---
Three Days Later…
Rain had turned the outfield into mud.
Sōta had nearly lost a shoe.
Riku refused to run.
Aoi brought umbrellas.
And then—
"...You're Haruto Saito, right?"
A girl stood by the gate, holding one of the torn flyers in her hand.
She looked serious. Ponytail. School track pants. Arms crossed.
"I heard you're building a team," she said.
Haruto blinked. "Uh… yeah."
"I want to try."
Riku raised an eyebrow. "You play baseball?"
"I play softball. Shortstop." She shrugged. "I can throw faster than your catcher."
"Hey!" Sōta said.
Aoi stepped up. "What's your name?"
"Reina Fujiwara."
Haruto smiled. "Welcome to the team."
Behind her, another voice chimed in.
"I, uh… I don't really play sports but—if you need help—my brother used to be in a batting center. I can hit okay. I think."
A nervous boy shuffled forward. Chubby cheeks. Hair in his eyes. Looked like he belonged in a library, not a dugout.
Name: Tomo Hoshikawa.
Aspiration: "Not be last picked for once."
Position: To be determined.
A third newcomer peeked from behind Reina.
He was huge. Like, "Are you in the right school?" huge.
Didn't speak. Just nodded.
Name: Kento. Quiet. Strong. Shy.
His glove was worn, but he held it with both hands like it meant something.
Haruto's throat tightened.
Three more. Just like that.
Reina. Tomo. Kento.
They didn't ask for uniforms.
Or trophies.
Or guarantees.
They just… showed up.
--------
That evening, six kids stood in the drizzle.
Laughing.
Throwing wild pitches.
Missing easy grounders.
Getting soaked.
Getting closer.
No lights. No scoreboard. No coach.
But the field didn't feel forgotten anymore.
It felt like it was remembering.
---
End of Chapter 3