Meditative—that's what the next couple of weeks felt like. Though not in the calm and spiritual way that most people relate to, it was the exhaustive and focused routine that did the magic for me.
Waking up at the first light of dawn, running till my lungs burned, high intensity workouts, school, baseball drills and helping around the house wherever I could, didn't give me any time to get distracted. Just as I hoped it would. And if by any miracle I had time left after homework and evening stretches, I would look up baseball videos and plays on my dad's computer for some image training.
There was a strange satisfaction in the pain, the fatigue, the focus. Every day felt like I was carving myself into someone I could barely recognize in the mirror—but in a good way.
Mom noticed it first.
"Riku," she said one morning while drying her hands on her apron, "are you training for a marathon or something? You're running every day before the sun's even up."
I grinned between mouthfuls of grilled salmon. "Just trying to stay ahead of the curve."
She raised an eyebrow. "Ahead of what curve?"
"Life's," I said with a shrug.
She laughed softly. "You sound like an old man sometimes."
'Not entirely wrong,' I thought, hiding a small smile behind my rice bowl.
Maki noticed too. She'd watch me as I entered in from the backyard after doing the 1000 bat swings of the day, bat slung over my shoulder, breathing slow and deliberate. "You're so serious lately," she said, clutching her sketchbook. "You are always running or swinging that bat or exercising. You even eat vegetables without complaining now. What happened to you?"
I glanced at the TV, where incidentally some movie about aliens was running. I casually pointed to it. "Don't tell Mom," I whispered, winking. "It's classified."
"What?"
I looked straight in her eyes and whispered, "It was the aliens Maki. They replaced me."
She looked at the screen for a few seconds and made an annoyed giggling sound which turned into a complete laughing fit understanding my joke. "Aliens!? Hahaha!!"
That was when we heard Mom from behind us. Apparently, she had been there for a while and listened to our military grade gossip.
Mom appeared in the doorway, hands on her hips. "Riku, are you seriously talking to your sister about aliens while swinging a bat in the living room?"
"Yes," I said firmly but instantly smirked, unable to hide my amusement. "It's part of the training."
Even in her exasperation, I could see it—the quiet pride flickering behind their expressions. They didn't fully understand yet, but they were beginning to see that this wasn't laziness or rebellion. It was focus. Discipline. Something that belonged to me and no one else.
School was the only part that hadn't changed much. Classes went by quickly, the usual chatter filling the hallways. I didn't mind it. It made me feel grounded—normal, even. My teachers seemed pleased with my sudden attentiveness, though some of my friends looked confused.
Kenji, most of all.
"Hey, I heard you quit the baseball team," he said one afternoon, catching me just outside the school gates. He had a half-eaten melon bread in one hand, crumbs dusting his shirt. "What's up with that? You were one of the best guys out there."
"Trying something different," I replied, adjusting my backpack.
He frowned. "Different how? You're not gonna join the tennis club or something, are you?"
I chuckled. "No clubs. Just training on my own for a while. Figured I need to rebuild from the ground up."
Kenji tilted his head, chewing slowly. "You've changed, man. The Riku I know would rather nap through P.E. than run voluntarily."
"The Riku you knew was a dumb kid," I said with a smirk. "Don't worry. He's still in here somewhere."
He laughed. "Alright, philosopher. Anyway, we're heading to the arcade later. You coming?"
I hesitated for a second before shaking my head. "Can't. Gotta train."
Kenji blinked. "On a Friday?"
"Discipline doesn't take weekends off."
He groaned dramatically. "Man, what happened to you?"
"Puberty," I said with a straight face.
He burst out laughing, nearly choking on his melon bread. "Fine, fine. Suit yourself, old man."
"Well, I was planning to visit the batting cages in the arcade as well so I guess technically I can come along."
"Ahh okay... c'mon then, everyone's waiting."
We hurried over to the next corner where everyone had gathered. I walked along and entered the fray of chatter as my change in attitude was one of the highlighted topics of discussion.
Soon we reached the arcade, and I split from everyone after another attempt from Kenji to persuade me to tag along. He even pointed out how I could spend time with one of the cute girls in the group but that just made me chuckle and remember how much older I was on the inside.
Watching him walk off with the others, I felt a faint pang of nostalgia. Kenji was still the same—carefree, loyal, happy to coast through life. I envied that simplicity, but I couldn't afford it anymore.
But for some reason, even saying no felt satisfying. No to distractions, no to small excuses, no to anything that didn't serve my tiny, personal goal. And somehow, amidst the grind, I was beginning to enjoy it—the ache in my muscles, the tightness in my shoulders, the fatigue in my mind. It was all proof that I was moving forward, reshaping myself in ways the old team practices never had.
Getting to the batting cages, I started off like usual at the 70mph machine. Putting the money in, I got into the cage and took my stance in the batter's box. The machine started throwing and it was easy for me to hit these slow pitches but what I wanted to do was work on my mechanics and form to solidify it and correct any unnecessary movements.
Paying attention to each and every pitch, I tried to keep my form in check and hit back the pitches exactly where I wanted then to go. Steadily increasing the power behind the hits and increasing the swing speed but still keeping control in mind was the training I needed. Eventually after around 50 pitches, I walked out and went over to increase the speed of the pitch to 80mph and repeat the same until I was satisfied.
Similarly, I went up to 85 then 90 and eventually at 95mph I could clearly feel my form starting to break and my contact was very inconsistent, so I stayed and kept practicing on that until I hit the 500 pitch mark.
Completely tired and profusely sweating, I walked out of the place and headed home. Even though it was more than amazing for a player of my age to be able to hit pitches of 90-95mph, and I was happy with my improvement at judging and making contact, but I wanted to be much better.
On the way back, it had become like a ritual to always think about what I could change or do better to increase my swing speed or my form, which I was researching about on the internet whenever I had the chance.
It was evening by the time I reached home and freshened up. The relentless tempo softened into something warmer. The house smelled of chicken, eggs and freshly steamed rice, scents that seemed richer after a week of early mornings and late nights.
'Oyakodon after practice might be the definition of love!'
Mom moved between the stove and the counter, humming quietly, while my sister jabbed at me playfully across the table, recounting some ridiculous mishap with her friends.
"So, your dad's coming back this weekend," Mom said, placing a steaming bowl of miso soup in front of me. "We're going out to celebrate. His new branch in Kansai did really well."
I paused mid-bite, the small warmth of the news hitting me harder than I expected. My dad had been away so long, buried in work, but now he'd be home. There would be a real family outing—food, laughter, conversation that wasn't interrupted by homework or drills. It felt like the closing note on a week I had poured myself into—a reward that wasn't measured in stats, swings, or sprint times.
"Really?" I asked, glancing at Mom. "We're… actually going out?"
"Yes," she said, smiling. "I want us all together this time. Your father deserves it, and so do you, Riku."
"Dad picking the restaurant?" I said, raising an eyebrow. "So, yakitori again?"
Mom laughed. "You know him too well."
"I don't mind," Maki said happily. "As long as there's pudding."
Her laughter filled the kitchen, and I found myself smiling too.
The conversation drifted to plans for the weekend—where to go, what to wear, whether Dad would bring souvenirs from Osaka. For the first time in a long while, the future felt open, alive, full of small possibilities.
I pushed my plate back and leaned into the chair, catching Mom's eyes with a quiet, unspoken understanding. "Looking forward to it," I said, calm but with a spark of excitement.
For once, slowing down didn't feel like defeat. It felt like a reward. And in that small glow of the kitchen, I realized I was starting to like the person I was becoming, one deliberate step at a time.