The cold air, the chilly mornings, the frosted windows, the steaming kettles and the slowed down life showed the glacial arrival of the new year. Everyone took in the flow of nature and slowed down. Relaxing holidays for students, adults taking days off work, animals cozying into their homes, and just a general pause to life itself. Everyone taking a breath before starting the year in earnest.
But not me. For me, it wasn't a time for slowing down — it was the opposite.
Every dawn began with the same chill trying to make me freeze as I walked out. The riverside path, slick with frost, making my steps unsteady. My breath a faint ghost in the pale morning air that made sure my lungs worked overtime. But I ran anyway, the steady rhythm of my sneakers on the pavement cutting through the stillness.
Each stride felt more effective now, my form cleaner, my breaths measured. The fatigue that used to drag me down had become something I carried with me familiarly, like a vestige. My body covered with additional layers of clothes and my ankles adorned with a new set of jewelry — weights.
These ankle weights were something that Coach Yamada had suggested to make me work harder and focus more on my lower body.
'And here I thought I was getting the best training I could alone.'
I realized I should have at least talked to someone about the training earlier to get better and more efficient methods to further my body and my routine towards the ideal that I had in my head.
'That is a lesson learned.'
*****
When I got home, Mom would already be in the kitchen, bundled up in a cardigan, watching me with that amused look that said you're insane, but I'm proud of you anyway.
"Back already? I didn't even hear you leave."
"Maybe I never came back from yesterday," I'd reply, smirking.
She'd just shake her head. "If you collapse one day, I'm not the one carrying you upstairs."
Even Maki had started to get used to it. She'd yawn her way past me in the mornings and mumble, "At least let the sun wake up before you do."
But underneath the teasing, I could see it — the small spark of pride. The way they watched me not as a kid lost in a phase, but as someone steadily building something real.
I had set my sights on the end of January — the Little League tryouts Coach Yamada mentioned. He'd called a few days after New Year's to confirm that one of the clubs in Setagaya was holding open evaluations for new players. "It's competitive," he'd warned over the phone, "but I think you're ready. Just keep sharpening the basics until then."
Sharpening the basics. That phrase became my mantra for the month.
I split my training into smaller, deliberate parts — short sprints to push my acceleration, mirror drills to perfect my swing form, endless wall ball sessions behind the community center until my shoulders burned, and Coach also taught me a few new pitching drills.
One was the Front Side Punching drill where I was effectively just standing sideways but punching forward with my right hand while holding a dumbbell in my left hand and tucking it in with the motion. This was to focus all my effort on my non-dominant left hand and develop a habit of putting effort into pulling it into the body which increases the force I apply towards my pitching arm
Another was the Rocker drill where while standing sideways with feet wide apart in the pitching stance I rocked front and back once before throwing the ball, focusing on the weight shift and the non-dominant arm's motion.
Then came the Heel-Toe drill where the front leg is slightly extended and in the air at the start, but the motion begins from the leading hip as it is pushed up and out which in turn tilts my shoulders back. Sliding my front leg forward to finish the throwing motion while pulling in the left arm and ending with the whole body facing forward and even leaning over was the essence of it all. This was a complete drill to work on my overall mechanics and settle the details of my form.
And when the weather was too cold to throw outside, I'd practice towel drills in my room, snapping the air and imagining the sound of a fastball slicing through it.
*****
At night, I'd sit with Dad in the living room, reviewing short video clips of pitchers and hitters. He didn't say much — just small observations about posture, timing, or follow-through — but each word mattered.
"You notice that?" he said one evening, pausing the screen on a player mid-swing. "His front foot barely moves. He's not chasing the ball — he's letting it come to him."
I nodded, scribbling a note down. "So, it's not about power. It's about control."
He smiled faintly. "It's always about control, Riku."
Sometimes, that line stayed with me long after we turned off the TV.
School life returned back to normal with a few changes — winter uniforms, test results, Kenji's endless chatter. He still couldn't believe I was trying for a Little League team. "You're seriously turning into one of those 'training anime' protagonists," he said, munching on a sweet bun. "All you need is a rival and some dramatic background music."
"I'll let you handle the soundtrack," I said.
He grinned. "Don't worry, I'll make sure it's dramatic when you strike out."
But even he had started to tag along sometimes after school, watching from the sidelines while I hit off the tee or practiced pitching against the net. "You really don't stop, huh?" he'd mutter. "Guess I can't call you lazy anymore."
"You can," I'd reply. "It just wouldn't be true."
*****
Midway through the month, I went back to visit Coach Yamada for another short check-in. He met me near the empty school field, bundled in a thick jacket and scarf. "Show me what you've been working on," he said simply.
The winter air bit at my fingers as I wore my gloves and picked up the bat, my breath fogging with every exhale. I ran through my stance, my timing, the follow-through. The ground beneath my shoes was cold but relaxing.
When I finished, he nodded slowly. "Good. Much cleaner. You're not forcing your shoulders anymore."
"Still not perfect," I admitted.
"It's not supposed to be perfect," he said. "It's supposed to be yours."
That line stuck with me too — make it yours.
It wasn't about copying anyone anymore. It was about building something that fit me, something that would last.
The leftover month of January passed in fragments — moments of repetition, quiet improvement, and the faint hum of anticipation.
I'd go for evening runs under streetlights, their glow racing past as I counted seconds and breaths. I'd spend weekends at the batting cages, the rhythmic clack of the bat echoing like a metronome for my progress. Sometimes Dad would stop by on his way home from work just to watch for a few minutes before heading off again.
"You're getting faster," he'd say.
"Trying to," I'd reply, hiding a grin.
At night, my muscles would ache in that satisfying, grounding, fulfilling way that told me I'd earned every bit of rest. Maki would sit on the floor of my room, sketching quietly while I did my stretches.
"What's it gonna be this time?" I'd ask.
Shrugging at me without looking up she'd whisper. "Don't disturb onii-chan."
By the last week of January, I could feel it — the quiet tension before something important. The tryouts were set for the first Sunday of February, and every hour leading up to it felt heavier, sharper. Even the air seemed to hum differently.
I was trying out for the Senior Division team of Setagaya Little league. Since I was to turn 13 this year and would officially be eligible to play in it even though I was currently 12 while the age limit for the Senior Division is 13-16.
'I'll probably be the youngest person in the Senior Division this year'
I packed my bat and glove every night, checking them like a ritual. Every callus, every bruise, every swing — it had all led here.
The last night before the tryouts, I couldn't sleep. I sat by the window, watching the faint city lights flicker in the distance. The street below was empty, silent except for the occasional passing car.
I thought about the past few months — the running, the effort, the sweat, the quiet support from my family. Everything that had built up to this one small moment.
I smiled to myself, whispering into the stillness, "Alright then… let's see how far I've come."
'Let's take the first step.'