The steam rising from the bowl of curry rice did little to fog the recent memory of the scoreboard. I poked at a chunk of carrot with my spoon, the clinking sound unnaturally loud in the dining room.
It had only been a couple of hours since my humiliating defeat, and the evening wasn't over. At the dinner table, both Mom and Maki had probably realized from my expression that today's scrimmage hadn't ended well.
"So..." Mom started, her voice cautious, like she was approaching a stray cat. "How did it go? The scrimmage?"
I swallowed a mouthful of rice, forcing a smile that didn't quite reach my eyes.
"I have just one word for it." I said simply. "Humiliating."
Maki, who had been busy dissecting her food with the seriousness of a surgeon, looked up. "Did you cry?"
"Maki!" Mom scolded gently.
"What?" Maki said, shrugging. "Hana cried last week when she spilled juice on her dress! It was humiliating, you know."
I chuckled, a genuine sound this time. "No, I didn't cry. But I wasn't happy about it either. I gave up two runs in three innings."
"That sounds... good?" Mom asked, tilting her head. "Is that good?"
"It's not," I admitted. "For what I want to achieve? It's not enough."
'It's nowhere near enough,' my inner voice corrected. 'Two runs in Little League translates to a disaster in high school. If I can't completely shut down my own peers now, how am I supposed to handle Koshien-level batters within a couple of years and be good enough to go pro as one of the best and that too in 5-6 years?'
I took another bite, letting the familiar taste of Mom's curry ground me.
In my previous life, a setback like this would have sent me spiraling. I would have locked myself in my room, blasted music, and blamed the coach, the wind, or the unfairness of genetics. I would have let the regret ferment until it turned into apathy.
But I wasn't that 16 y/o kid anymore. I had grown up.
And I am grown up enough to know that sulking doesn't fix mechanics.
'I might be a lot younger than everyone I was competing with but that isn't an advantage I should stay hung up on. It won't matter much if I compare it with all the kids in America who are trying to prepare for the Majors. They are probably younger and much better than me.'
"Don't worry about it," I said, looking between them. "I know what I did wrong. I just need to fix it."
Mom smiled, but it was a little thin. Her eyes drifted to the empty chair at the head of the table.
Dad was still in Osaka. The expansion project was going well, which meant he was going to be away longer than expected.
She didn't say anything—she never did—but I saw the way her hand lingered on her phone, checking for messages that hadn't come yet. The silence in the house always felt a little heavier when he was gone, the space a little too big for just the three of us.
"We'll be fine, Mom," I said softly. "I've got practice covered, and I'll help Maki with her math later."
She blinked, then nodded, the shadow lifting slightly. "My little man of the house. What would I do without you?"
"Probably eat all the curry yourself," I quipped.
*****
After dinner, I retreated to Dad's study.
It was a small room, smelling of old paper and ink. His computer hummed to life with a loud whirring fan—a relic compared to the silent laptops of my future, but it served its purpose.
I sat in the oversized leather chair, my feet barely touching the floor, and typed into the search bar.
Pitching mechanics for small frame.Increasing velocity without muscle mass.Mental cues for breaking balls.
The screen filled with forums, articles, and grainy videos. I clicked through them, notebook in hand, scribbling down anything that seemed relevant.
Hip separation. I wrote that down. My lower half wasn't driving enough power.
Delayed arm action. My release point was too consistent, too easy to time.
Grip pressure. The hanging curveball. I had choked the ball too hard in the moment of stress.
'I need to rebuild my delivery,' I thought, chewing on the end of my pen, a habit I had picked up during my office days. 'My body is twelve, but I'm pitching like I'm an adult with grown up strength. I'm relying on muscles I don't have yet.'
"Riku?"
"Mom?" I called without looking up from the screen.
I felt a knock on my head and finally noticed Mom standing right next to the desk, holding a plate of cut apples.
"Studying late?" she asked, setting the plate down next to my scribbles.
"Just... research," I said, rubbing my eyes. "I need to figure out how to get better. Fast."
She looked at the screen, then at my notes. "You know," she said, leaning against the desk. "You really are a lot like your father. When he hits a wall with his work, he stays up all night reading, planning, trying to solve everything by himself. And forgets about the whole world around him."
"It works for him, right?" I muttered, just now realizing that I hadn't noticed Mom entering the room and walking up to me until she spoke to me.
"Does it?" She raised an eyebrow. "Or does he eventually call his partners? His team?"
I paused.
"Riku," she said gently, brushing a stray hair from my forehead. "You're smart. Probably smarter than you should be for your age. And I have never seen you more focused towards anything before. But you're on a team. You have coaches. You have those older boys you talk about. You don't have to reinvent the wheel all alone in a dark room. You have to realize that you are still just a little kid, who has people next to him that will help him."
"You're right," I whispered.
Her words hit me harder than I expected.
In my first life, I had been a solo act. I played for myself, succeeded for myself, and eventually failed by myself. I had treated teammates as background characters and coaches as obstacles.
"I usually am," she winked. "Eat your apples. And go to sleep. You can't pitch if you're a zombie."
She kissed my forehead and left with a smile. No room left for argument.
I stared at the apple slice for a long moment.
'Right. I'm not doing this alone this time. I can ask for help.'
I closed the notebook.
Tomorrow, I wouldn't just practice. I would ask.
I went to my room, my mind already drafting the questions I needed to answers for. Coach Okabe. My teammates.
'I'll talk to Coach first,' I decided, pulling the duvet up. 'Then... maybe Taiyo. If I can get past his ego.'
I drifted off to sleep with the image of a perfect curveball snapping into a mitt.
*****
Monday arrived with the usual gray routine of school, but the buzz in my chest hadn't faded.
Classes were a blur of history dates and kanji practice. By the time the final bell rang, I was already packing my bag.
The air at the Setagaya Little League grounds was crisp, the afternoon sun casting shadows across the infield. The mood, however, was tense.
Everyone knew.
Coach Okabe stood near the dugout, clipboard in hand, looking even sterner than usual.
"Gather round!" he barked.
We shuffled into a semi-circle, the mix of Red and White teams now blurring into a single nervous unit.
"Good work yesterday," Coach began, his voice flat. "The scrimmage showed us a lot. Some of you stepped up. Some of you... realized how far you have to go."
His eyes swept over the group, lingering on a few faces. I kept my chin up, meeting his gaze.
"The season schedule is out," he continued. "Our League matches start in almost 2 weeks. I've also finalized the starting roster based on yesterday's performance."
A ripple of tension went through the group.
"I will announce both at the end of practice. For now... get moving. Warmups!"
"Yes, Coach!"
As the group turned to follow Ren, who was already waiting for everyone to get ready to begin, I walked up to him.
My heart hammered against my ribs. This was it.
"Captain!" I called out.
Ren slowly turned. He looked at me with those calm, unreadable eyes.
"Permission to step out for a moment, Captain? I need to speak with Coach Okabe."
Ren stared at me for a second, then nodded once. "Don't take too long. You owe me ten laps if you're late."
"Understood."
I turned back to Coach Okabe, who was watching the exchange with a raised eyebrow.
"Tanaka?" he asked. "Something wrong? Injury?"
"No, sir," I said, jogging up to him. I took a breath, channeling every bit of my thirty-one years of composure. "I wanted to talk about yesterday."
Coach Okabe lowered his clipboard. "Go on."
"I gave up two runs," I stated. "The curveball to Ren hung. It was a mechanical failure on my part—I choked the grip because I wanted to throw harder. And the double to Rui... that was tactical. I challenged him inside when I didn't have the velocity to beat his bat speed."
Coach Okabe didn't say anything, but his eyes narrowed slightly. He was listening.
"I've been working on my conditioning," I continued, "but I know my body is behind. I can't generate the power Taiyo has. I need to rely on location and spin. But yesterday proved that my 'best' isn't good enough to fool the regulars."
I looked him dead in the eye.
"Coach, I need to know what I need to do to bridge that gap. Not in three years. Now. How do I get them out today?"
Silence stretched between us for a few seconds.
"You can't."