"You can't."
The words hung in the air between us, heavy and absolute. They didn't sound like a challenge. They didn't sound like criticism. They sounded like law I had to accept as reality.
My world, which had been neatly partitioned into 'Regret' and 'Redemption,' suddenly tilted.
"I... can't?" I repeated, my voice barely managing to hold steady. I felt the heat rising in my ears—a mix of disappointment and the familiar anger of my thirty-one-year-old self.
'Why not? I know more than they do!'
Coach Okabe's stare didn't waver. He was looking at me like I was a problem in algebra—complex, but solvable.
"Not with physics, Tanaka," he said, stepping closer until the brim of his cap shaded his eyes. "You want to overpower them. And that is impossible. At least for the current you."
He waved a dismissive hand towards the field. "Look at Ren. Look at Taiyo. They're fifteen. They have height. They have muscle. Their bones are denser, their growth plates are fusing. They're running on three extra years of puberty and dedicated training."
He jabbed a finger, not at me, but at the air next to my chest.
"You're twelve. You haven't hit your growth spurt. Your muscle fibers are still developing. Your levers are shorter. You've only trained for probably like a year or two. If you try to force velocity now, you'll just blow out your elbow before you even hit high school."
'He sees it,' I realized with a shock. 'He doesn't know why I'm trying to pitch like a grown-up, but he sees the mismatch between my intention and my body.'
For months, I had been fooling myself. I had been relying on the phantom strength of my adult self, remembering the feeling of a hard pitch and trying to mimic it with a body that couldn't cope. The result? Strain, fatigue, and the hanging curveball.
'I've been relying on memory, not reality. My mind is thirty-one, but my body is a child's toy. It's fragile.'
The humbling sting was sharp, but necessary. This wasn't a game of mental chess against my past self; it was a physical battle against time.
"So what do I do, Coach?" I asked, my tone dropping all pretense. "If I can't beat them with speed or muscle, how do I get them out today? How do I get hits off of them?"
A slight, almost imperceptible smile touched the corners of his mouth. He was testing me, and I had passed.
"Good. Now you're asking the right questions." He began to speak, his voice dropping to a low, intense coaching tone—the kind of advice that wasn't meant for everyone.
"Three things, Tanaka," he said, holding up three thick fingers. "The first is Stability."
I pulled out the tiny notepad I carried in my pocket and clicked my pen, ready to take notes.
"Your velocity is respectable for a twelve-year-old, but it's inefficient. You're trying to compensate for the lack of strength in your core by muscling the ball with your arm. Watch your tape: your hip drive is weak. You're collapsing your back leg too early in your delivery, leaking power before you even release the ball."
He mimicked a pitching motion, exaggerating the flaw. The difference between his movement and the controlled power of Taiyo's delivery was suddenly obvious.
'The hip separation,' I scribbled down. 'My back foot is dragging. It's all arm.'
"You need to build the engine before you drive the car fast," Coach Okabe emphasized. "Forget lifting weights. Focus on core stability. Planks. Side planks. Lunges. Medicine ball rotations. Build a strong, flexible foundation. If you can hold your torque longer, that 75mph fastball will look like 80 because it will be crisper."
The Grind. I remembered the long, solitary workouts I used to skip in my past life. The boring, repetitive work that didn't feel like baseball. The routine I had recently gotten accustomed to. This time, I wouldn't skip a single repetition.
"Got it. Stability," I murmured, tapping the notepad.
"Second," Coach continued, his eyes suddenly focusing on my hands, which were still slightly vibrating sorely from the exhaustion of the scrimmage. "I also watched your last at-bat. You fouled off ten pitches, which is gutsy. But that line drive you hit? It was a push, not a swing. You were rigid."
I felt a flush creep up my neck. He saw that, too. My entire focus had been on pitching; I had neglected the fact that I was a batter, too. My muscle memory was useless when my physical structure was different.
"Your lack of brute force isn't just hurting your pitches, it's neutering your swing," Coach stated flatly. "You need Whip."
He moved his hands quickly, simulating a flexible, elastic movement.
"For a small frame, power doesn't come from static muscle; it comes from the kinetic chain—how quickly you transfer energy from your legs and hips through a loose core and out through your extremities. You need explosive flexibility in your arms and legs. Not just stretching, but dynamic flexibility. Yoga. Light resistance training focused on rotation."
He stepped back, looking me up and down.
"Think of your limbs as slingshots. Fast, loose, and elastic. That whip-like motion will add more intense spin and velocity to your pitches, and it will turn your bat into a weapon that cuts through the zone instead of just pushing the ball. Rui would be an excellent example to look for."
Whip-like motion. Flexibility. This was new. This was a technique I hadn't considered even in my adult years, always relying on my height and reach. This was the true cheat code for this new body.
"The third thing is Intellect," Coach concluded. "Your mind is sharper than any kid your age, and maybe sharper than most of the seniors. But you're only analyzing yourself. You need to analyze the enemy."
He pointed towards the outfield where the team was stretching.
"Don't just talk to me. Go talk to them."
I followed his gaze. The seniors were jogging, their movements synchronized, professional.
"Taiyo," Coach Okabe said smiling mischievously. "He's arrogant, but his mechanics are flawless. Ask him about his weight transfer and his rotation through the core. He loves talking about himself; he'll tell you everything if you stroke his ego enough. Learn how to throw from him."
I nodded. Taiyo was the speed master. If I couldn't beat him, I had to learn his secrets.
"And Rui," Coach added.
I blinked. Rui Takeuchi. The Vice-Captain. The one who hit the double off me after Ren's bomb. This was the second time Coach was suggesting me to learn from Rui in the last 5 minutes.
"Rui? Why Rui, Coach?" I asked, voicing my confusion. "Ren is the one who hit the homer. Ren is the captain. He is probably the best player on our team, probably in the whole prefecture. Shouldn't I be studying him?"
Coach Okabe scoffed, a short, sharp burst of air. "Ren? Ren is a genius. A natural. He is a monster that was born, not built. If you ask Ren how he hit your curveball, he'll probably look confused and say, 'I just saw it and swung.' He doesn't know how he does it; he just does. He operates on instinct that you can't teach. He's a dead end for mechanical improvement."
'The natural talent,' I realized. 'That's what I was in my past life. All instinct, no application, no understanding.'
I looked at Rui. He was leading a stretching drill, his face focused, his movements efficient.
"Rui is different," Coach continued, leaning in conspiratorially. "He was not born with Ren's gifts. H is talented for sure, but not a monster like Ren. Rui had to build his swing, piece by piece. He had to learn how to read the pitcher. His baseball IQ is on par with some high school coaches I know. He knew you were going inside with that fastball because he read your slight shift in posture, your catcher's glove placement, and the fact that you threw him a curveball on the previous pitch to throw off his timing."
I felt a genuine chill run down my spine. The Vice-Captain hadn't just hit the ball; he had read my mind. That was the skill I needed—the true power of the adult brain applied to the game.
"If you want to learn how to outthink batters and generate power from a small frame," Coach concluded, his voice low and intense, "talk to Rui. He's meticulous and a much better teacher than any other player. If you want to learn how to maximize your current throwing speed, talk to Taiyo."
He looked me dead in the eye, his expression now one of profound respect. "You have the mind of a veteran, Tanaka. But stop trying to carry the body of one. Use your brain to compensate for the missing muscle. Now go. You've wasted enough of my time."
I didn't just bow; I gave him the deepest, most respectful bow I could manage. "Thank you, Coach. I'll get to work immediately."
"Good. Now get to those laps."
I turned and was about to race off before I heard Coach's voice one more time.
"Oh and Tanaka! Meet me after practice if you want one more crucial thing you want to learn." He shouted before turning away.
'What could it be about?' I wondered while sprinting towards the outfield. The cool evening air rushed past my ears, but my mind was on fire.
'Core stability. Whip-like flexibility. Taiyo's weight transfer. Rui's tactical genius.'
I had a roadmap. I wasn't fighting in the dark anymore. I had the cheat codes.
I caught up to the group just as they were finishing high knees. I slid into line next to Shiro, breathing hard, but with a lightness in my chest I hadn't felt since before the scrimmage began.
"Nice of you to join us, celebrity," Shiro whispered, not breaking his rhythm. "What were you doing? Trying to bribe the Coach for a starting spot? You were over there for ages."
I smirked, falling into step with him.
"No," I whispered back. "Just asking him for the cheat codes."
Shiro laughed, shaking his head, his blond hair bouncing. "You're weird, Chibi. Seriously weird. What codes? The code to stop crying?"
"Nah," I said, eyeing Rui and Taiyo across the circle. They were still untouchable, but now they were targets, not mountains.
"The code to beat those natural geniuses."