Fwiiii
The whistle blew, signaling the end of practice.
My chest heaved, the cold air burning pleasantly in my lungs. Beside me, Shiro was bent over, hands on his knees, gasping for air. Three hours of continuous fielding drills, batting drills, situational drills and conditional workouts left everyone exhausted and our uniforms sullied with mud and sweat.
The dull sky without the sun brought contrast to the bright lights from all the buildings around us. But none of it curbed the excitement and anticipation bubbling from the expected announcement of the team roster.
"Gather Up!"
The crisp sound echoed around the field and the mood shifted instantly from the physical exhaustion of conditioning to a sharp, silent anxiety.
It was time.
Coach Okabe stood by the backstop, the roster sheet in his hand fluttering slightly in the evening breeze. The air around him felt intensely serious, lacking the usual distracted presence of the secondary coaches. The entire team gathered in a hushed semi-circle.
"Good work today," Coach Okabe said, his voice carrying easily without shouting. "As I mentioned, the Spring Tournament begins in two weeks. This roster is not permanent—it can change based on performance. But for now, these are the fifteen players who will be dressing for the opening game."
Fifteen.
There were nearly 30 of us.
"Starters first," Okabe read.
"Ren Iwasaki. Rui Takeuchi. Taiyo Suzuki. Sawamura Ota. Sawamura Ono..."
The names were expected. The "A-Team" from the scrimmage. No surprises there.
"Now, the bench," Okabe continued.
My heart hammered against my ribs.
'Just give me a spot. Any spot. Pinch runner. Base coach. I don't care.'
"Koji Taneda. Kenta Arai. Haruto Miya."
All the bench players that were part of the A-team in the scrimmage.
"Hiroto Shimizu."
Hiroto nodded stoically, though I saw his fists clench in victory.
"Daichi Sato."
Our leadoff man. Makes sense. He has speed. And is one of the best outfielders despite his age.
"And finally..." Coach Okabe paused, scanning the list one last time.
The world seemed to hold its breath. I straightened my back.
'Come on. I gave up two runs. I showed I could handle pressure.'
"...Shiro Anderson."
Shiro's head snapped up. He looked at me, eyes wide, before muttering a quiet "Yes!"
Coach lowered the paper. "That is all. For those named, report to the equipment room for uniforms tomorrow. For the Reserves, you will continue training with the B-Squad. Your goal is to make me regret not putting you on this list. Dismissed!"
"Yes, Coach!"
The shout was unified, but the energy was fractured. The selected players high-fived, relief washing over them. The reserves—my group—slumped, shoulders dropping as the reality set in.
I stood there, staring at the dirt.
Not even the bench?
A heavy, cold stone settled in my stomach. It was disappointment—raw, childish, and bitter. I wanted to kick the dirt. I wanted to storm up to Okabe and demand an explanation.
'I held the top of the lineup scoreless and only allowed 3 hits in 3 innings!'
Then, the thirty-one-year-old in me stepped in.
'Stop it,' I told myself, forcing my hands to unclench. 'Look at the roster. Shiro is a catcher—they need backups. Hiroto is a defensive specialist. Daichi is a pinch runner and an outfield backup. You? You're a pitcher who can't throw fast and a first baseman who is shorter than the umpire and there are better batters up and down that lineup. There's no tactical slot for you yet.'
I took a deep breath, exhaling the frustration until only a cold resolve remained.
"Chibi..." Shiro started, looking at me with a guilty expression.
"Don't," I said, cutting him off with a smile. It was tight, but it was there. "You made it. You deserve it. Don't let me catch you slacking off just because you got a jersey."
Shiro blinked, then grinned. "Yeah. I won't."
*****
As the team began to disperse toward the clubroom to change, I spotted a figure lingering near the dugout, organizing the bats with meticulous care.
Rui Takeuchi. The Vice-Captain. The Architect.
Coach's words echoed in my head: If you want to outthink them, talk to Rui.
'Well,' I thought, adjusting my cap. 'I'm not even on the roster. I have nothing left to lose.'
So, I walked over.
"Vice-Captain?"
Rui paused, sliding a metal bat into the rack. He turned, his expression calm and intellectual behind his sports glasses. He didn't have Ren's intimidating aura or Taiyo's arrogance. He just looked… sharp.
"Tanaka, right?" he said. His voice was polite, measured. "You pitched well yesterday."
"Not well enough to make the bench," I said bluntly.
Rui tilted his head slightly. "The roster isn't a judgment of talent. It's a judgment of utility. You're a developing pitcher. It wouldn't make sense to dress you just to sit."
His logic was sound. Annoyingly so.
"I didn't come to complain about the roster," I lied. "I came to ask about the double you hit off me."
Rui raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"
"Coach Okabe told me you read my posture," I said, stepping closer. "He said you knew I was coming inside with a fastball before I even released it. I want to know what I did wrong. What gave it away?"
Rui stared at me for a long moment, assessing. Most rookies avoided the seniors. On the other hand, I was asking for a post-mortem of my own failure.
"Your left shoulder," Rui said quietly.
"My shoulder?"
"When you throw a curveball or a changeup, you stay closed longer to generate spin," Rui explained, mimicking a motion with his hand. "But when you decided to challenge me inside with a fastball, you opened your front shoulder just a fraction of a second early. You were trying to generate extra power to blow it by me."
He tapped his own shoulder.
"That tiny opening told me two things: It was a fastball, and it was coming to the pull side. So I just started my swing early."
I was stunned. I had opened my shoulder? It was such a subtle mechanical flaw, one I hadn't even noticed in my own shadow pitching. Not even Shiro, my catcher, had caught up on it.
"That's..." I shook my head. "That's incredible."
Rui smiled, a small, genuine expression. "It's not magic. It's observation. You have good mechanics, Tanaka. But you pitch with emotion. When you get desperate, you leak cues."
"I need to fix that," I muttered. "And I need to learn how to see those cues in others."
"If you're serious," Rui said, picking up his bag, "you can join me and Taiyo sometimes. We usually grab food at the diner near the station after practice on Fridays. Taiyo is loud and annoying, but he knows mechanics better than anyone. I can help you with the mental side."
My eyes widened. An invite? Just like that?
"I'd... I'd really appreciate that, Vice-Captain."
"Just Rui is fine," he said, waving a hand as he walked away. "Don't let the roster get to you. It's a long season."
I watched him go, a spark of hope igniting in my chest. I didn't have a jersey, but I had an entry point.
'Step one complete,' I thought.
Then, the heavy stone in my stomach returned. The roster.
Rui's logic made sense, but I still needed to hear it from the source. I needed to know exactly what Coach Okabe saw—or didn't see—in me. Was it just the numbers? Or was there something else I was missing?
I turned and marched toward the small office attached to the equipment shed, where the coaches usually finalized their paperwork.
My mind was rehearsing my speech. Coach, I know I lack power, but my control is better than Taneda's. We might need another pitcher to relieve stress from the starters.
I reached the metal door and raised my hand to knock.
"Coach Okabe?" I called out, my voice firm. "Do you have a minute? I wanted to ask about the roster decision."
The door swung open instantly.
Coach Okabe stood there, looming in the doorway, a half-eaten rice ball in one hand and a look of confused amusement on his face.
"Tanaka?" he asked, chewing slowly.
"Yes, Coach. I know you're busy, but—"
"You're here about the roster?" he interrupted.
"Yes. I wanted to know—"
"Tanaka," he sighed, swallowing his food. "Did you hit your head during practice?"
"Excuse me?"
"I asked you to stay behind after practice," he grunted, leaning against the doorframe. "I've been waiting for you for ten minutes to talk about exactly that. And here you are, knocking on my door like you forgot."
I froze.
The memory crashed into me like a foul ball to the facemask.
"Oh and Tanaka! Meet me after practice..."
My mouth opened, then closed. In my disappointment over the list, I had completely wiped the instruction from my mind.
"I..." I stammered, my thirty-one-year-old composure dissolving into a twelve-year-old's embarrassment. "I... completely forgot."
Coach Okabe rolled his eyes, stepping back and gesturing for me to enter.
"Get in here, you idiot. Before I change my mind."