Days blurred into weeks. Weeks folded into months. Before I realized it, the humid air of late summer had shifted into the quiet chill of autumn which then turned into the dry cold of winter.
Every morning began the same way — the alarm ringing at five, shoes hitting the pavement after 30 mins of stretches. The riverside path had become my second home. The asphalt remembered my steps. The trees that lined the bank grew thinner as the months passed, their leaves first a heavy green, then gold, then gone.
There were mornings when my legs felt like stone, when the dawn mist clung to my shirt and made each breath sting — but I ran anyway. Somewhere between each exhale, the world would narrow to rhythm and effort. I didn't need motivation anymore. Routine had become instinct.
By the time I got back home, Mom would already be in the kitchen. "Look who's back from punishing the roads this early in the morning," she'd call out without looking up from the pan.
"And what about the pain it causes me?" I would look at her with droopy hurt eyes.
She would just snort and say, "Just don't make me increase your meal size anymore otherwise I might start thinking you're trying to be a wrestler or something..."
I'd grin, grab my towel, and reply, "That's the plan."
Even Maki had stopped teasing me for my "alien replacement." Instead, she'd wave her sketchbook at me as I got ready to leave for my evening sessions. "Don't forget to pose later!"
I'd laugh, already halfway out the door.
The workouts got longer, sharper. I started timing my sprints, counting reps, logging everything in an old notebook — not because I had to, but because it felt good to see progress in numbers, in sweat, in calluses.
And sometimes, when I ran out of motivation, I'd replay videos on my dad's old computer — Ryan Howard's perfect swing, Johan Santana's pitching form, the sound of impact when wood met ball. Those moments carried me through.
A month or so in, I had decided to shift from metal bats to wooden bats to make myself more proficient in making better contact and learning how to use my whole body to control where the ball went after contact and put more power into my swing.
By October, the quiet park near our neighborhood had turned into my personal training ground. But after a while, drills weren't enough. I needed pressure — noise, unpredictability, the chaos of a real game. That's when I found the older guys.
They played pickup baseball behind the old community center — mostly working men and a few college students, who loved playing the game but didn't plan on the profession route. The first time I showed up, everyone just laughed since I was almost more than a decade younger than most of them.
"Hey, kid," one of them said, tossing a ball in his hand. "You sure you're in the right park? The kiddie league's down the street."
"Maybe," I said, smiling. "You got room for one more anyway?"
That earned a few chuckles. But when the first pitch came my way—a straight forward fastball, probably around 85mph, nothing fancy... I didn't think. I just swung.
The crack echoed across the empty field. The ball soared clean over the shortstop's glove and rolled toward the fence.
Everyone still laughed but this time it was at the pitcher. "Don't go so easy on him Gary. he might develop hope."
I was struck out or caught on a flyball every time I stepped up to bat next but at least my effort and swing made the everyone consider me good enough to join them regularly.
I was by no means the best among them, maybe just barely average. But that was exactly what I needed. A challenge to keep pushing myself and to learn from.
From then on, they called me "Riku-chan" — half-teasing, half-acknowledging. I played with them whenever I could, always learning, always pushing. Some of them were faster, stronger, but I had precision and talent—a sense of timing that came from years of regret and repetition.
And every time I connected with the ball, I felt it—the quiet confirmation that I was still growing, still improving.
School rolled on in the background. Homework, tests, lunches with Kenji—all a rhythm that kept me balanced. He still tried to drag me out to arcades, still rolled his eyes at my "grandpa discipline," but sometimes, I caught him looking at me differently. Less confused, more impressed.
"You're seriously built now, man," he said once, patting my arm like he'd just discovered muscle for the first time. "You hiding steroids in that bento box or what?"
"Just rice and willpower," I replied.
He burst out laughing. "You're so weird now, it's actually cool."
By late November, the evenings had turned cold enough for breath to fog in the air. My body had changed — leaner, stronger, faster. The mirror no longer showed the uncertain twelve-year-old who'd stumbled back into his past life. It showed someone hungry, someone rebuilding from the inside out, someone working his arse off towards something.
Mom's friends sometimes stopped by and whispered things like, "Your son's so grown up lately," and I'd catch her smiling that quiet, proud smile she tried to hide.
Maki drew me again too — this time mid-swing, eyes sharp and focused.
When I asked her why, she shrugged. "You just look... like you're chasing something."
Maybe I was.
One Saturday evening, after another pickup game, I stayed behind when everyone else left. The field was quiet — just the hum of streetlights and the faint smell of dust and leather.
I set another ball on the tee, took my stance, and breathed. The muscles in my arms burned. My palms were raw. But when I swung, the motion felt clean, sharp — exactly as it should.
The ball hit the back net with a sharp thud and fell to the ground, rolling until it stopped by my feet. Continuing to focus on my form even in a tired state was what made it solidify and give me confidence to trust my swing in any situation that I might encounter.
Staring at the field in front of me and the bat in my hands made me realize that after all this hard work and sweat, I was maybe now starting to get better. Not from the time I started training but compared to the self I was before. I was probably at this level when I peaked in highschool in my previous life, which made me accept how much of myself I had wasted to already be here after a few months of actual rigorous training.
For the first time since waking up in this younger body, I wasn't chasing the past anymore. I was building toward something new.
The next step wasn't far off.
As December passed by in a similar fashion and Christmas rolled in, I could see that I was probably as best as I could be working on my own. It was the holidays, and we were going to celebrate it as a family since Dad had promised to clear his schedule for the whole week till the New Year.
I too was going to take some rest and enjoy the week as much as I could. But after that I had planned to look for a Little League team to join.
'Maybe I'll give Coach Yamada a call soon. He'd know what I should focus on next.'
The tryouts and signups for teams started around the end of January, so I had some time. Despite that I wanted to consult my Dad and Coach Yamada for their advice and on what would be the best next step for me.
I knew I was a grown man inside, but I also knew that I was still a million years too young to not need advice from the people who knew better and were there to help me as best as they could.
'But first, let's have some fun for this next week.'