"Sit down, Tanaka."
Coach Okabe took his seat and motioned me to sit in front of his desk. His face grim, shoulders squared, broad enough to make the chair seem too small. The bright lights lit the office catching the hard lines of his jaw, which never seemed to unclench, and the shadows beneath his eyes made them look darker, deeper.
I sat. The metal chair was cold through my uniform, doing nothing to cool the sudden spike in my heart rate.
"Before you say anything," Coach began, his voice low and devoid of the playful sarcasm he sometimes used, "I want you to listen to everything I have to say. Don't interrupt. Don't jump to conclusions. Just listen."
I nodded, my throat tight. "Yes, Coach."
He leaned back, clasping his hands behind his head. He looked at me for a long, uncomfortable silence.
"I want you to give up on being a pitcher for this team for the year."
The words hit me like a bowling ball right in my gut.
'Give up?'
On the outside, I remained still, my hands resting on my knees, my expression carefully neutral. But inside? Inside, the young kid in me was screaming.
'Is he cutting me from the rotation entirely? Does he think my mechanics are broken beyond repair? Or is this a conversion? Is he trying to turn me into a full-time first baseman because of my height?'
Panic, cold and sharp, started to claw at my composure. I had come back to this life to dominate, both on the plate and the mound. If I couldn't pitch...
"You're not panicking," Coach Okabe observed, breaking my internal spiral. He sounded surprised. "Most kids would be crying or shouting by now."
I gulped down the knot forming in my throat. "I'm waiting for you to finish, Coach," I managed to say, though my voice breaking slightly, sounding a little strained.
"Good." He leaned forward, elbows on the desk. "Because I didn't say you shouldn't pitch at all. I said not for this team. Not for the Senior Division squad."
He tapped the folder placed in front of him.
"I'm assigning you to the Junior Division as a starting pitcher."
I blinked. "The... Junior Division?"
"You're twelve, Tanaka. You turn thirteen this year. That puts you in the unique position of being eligible for both divisions. Heck! you're even eligible for the Intermediate." Okabe explained, his tone shifting from authoritative to strategic. "Here's the reality: If you stay on the Senior roster as a pitcher, you will be the second reliever or maybe just a practice pitcher. You might pitch two, maybe three innings a month. Maybe even less. You'll be facing high schoolers who can muscle your best pitches over the fence even if they misread them. And I'm talking about the bottom of the lineup on most days."
He held up a finger.
"That doesn't help you grow. You need innings. You need to face batters, work on your sequences, and refine that changeup without worrying that one mistake will cost us the tournament. Maybe finish working on your mechanics and start learning something new as well."
He pointed a second finger.
"So, the deal is this: You play half the days with the Junior Division. You will be their Ace. You will pitch complete games. You will aim to dominate them. You will refine your mechanics against kids your own size."
"And the rest of the days?" I asked, the logic starting to click into place.
"The rest of the half, you dress for the Senior team," Okabe said. "But not as a pitcher. You'll be a reserve first baseman and a pinch hitter. You'll take batting practice with Rui and Ren. You'll field grounders hit by high schoolers. You'll acclimate your body to the speed of the Senior game without blowing out your elbow trying to strike them out."
He sat back, looking satisfied.
"Only you and Daichi are young enough for this arrangement. But honestly? You're the one who needs it. Daichi is a homegrown player and has moved up from the Juniors for a reason. You have the mind of a veteran, Tanaka, but you need the reps."
He took a pause and leaned forward, "And for God's sake focus on your batting more! I've seen you in drills and in that scrimmage as well. You have battling talent like Ren. It's like you can watch the ball in slow motion and adjust your bat mid-swing. Do you even know how difficult that is, even for professionals?"
I sat there, processing.
"This gives you the best of both worlds."
That was a lot of praise, but it was technically a demotion. Being the "Junior Ace" didn't sound as cool as being the "Youngest Seniors Reliever". But practically? It was exactly what I needed. I needed game experience. I needed to test the "whip" mechanics Coach had talked about in a low-stakes environment before bringing them to the big stage. I needed to grow, both physically and technically.
'It's a farm system,' I realized. 'He's treating me like a prospect he wants to develop, not a tool he wants to use up.'
I opened my mouth to agree immediately, but Coach Okabe held up a hand.
"Don't answer yet," he said. "It's a step back in status. I know that hurts the ego. Take the week. Think about it. Talk to your teammates if you want advice. Some of them have gone through something similar so they will be able to help you decide."
He stood up, signaling the meeting was over.
"You're too young to be sitting on a bench, Tanaka. You have a lot of promise. Don't squander it because you're in a rush to grow up."
I stood and bowed deeply. "Thank you, Coach. I'll think about it."
"Not get out of here. It's already too late. I don't need any more complaints from parents about late practices."
*****
The smell of Sukiyaki filled the house when I opened the front door.
It was a rich, sweet scent—soy sauce, sugar, and beef—that usually signaled a special occasion.
"I'm home," I called out, toeing off my sneakers.
"In the dining room!" Mom's voice floated out, brighter than usual.
I walked in to find the table set for four, the portable gas stove bubbling away in the center. And there, sitting at the head of the table in his suit, was Dad.
"Dad?" I blinked. "I thought you were in Osaka until next week."
He grinned, looking tired but happy. "Surprise. I finished the meetings early and caught the bullet train. Figured I'd crash dinner."
"Yay!!" Maki cheered, waving a piece of beef with her chopsticks.
"Go wash up," Mom ordered, pointing at me. "You smell like the dugout."
I did as I was told, but my mind was still back in Coach Okabe's office. Junior Division Ace. Senior Division Reserve. It played on a loop in my head as I scrubbed the dirt off my arms.
Dinner was lively. Dad recounted a story about a client in Osaka who insisted on taking him to a Takoyaki stand instead of a fancy restaurant, and Maki laughed at his imitation of the Kansai dialect.
But I found myself staring at the bubbles in the pot, my chopsticks pushing a piece of tofu around my bowl.
"Riku?"
I looked up. Three pairs of eyes were watching me.
"You've been stirring that tofu for five minutes," Mom said gently. "What's wrong? You're usually starving after practice."
I sighed, setting my chopsticks down. There was no point in hiding it.
"I got the roster news today," I said.
The table went quiet.
"And?" Dad asked, leaning forward.
"I didn't make the Senior roster," I said. "Well... not exactly."
I explained everything. The conversation with Coach Okabe. The offer to play as the Ace for the Juniors while bench-warming for the Seniors. The logic about innings and development.
When I finished, the silence returned, heavier this time.
"So..." Maki frowned. "You're on the baby team?"
"Junior team," I corrected. "And I'd be the starter."
"It sounds like a good opportunity," Mom said slowly, though she looked uncertain. "You get to play more, right? Instead of just watching?"
"Technically, yes," I said.
Dad didn't say anything immediately. He took a sip of his beer, his expression darkening slightly.
"Did he say why?" Dad asked, his voice sharp. "You said you performed well in the scrimmage. You held some of the best players scoreless."
"It's about age and physics, Dad," I said, repeating Okabe's words. "He doesn't want me to blow out my arm trying to keep up with fifteen-year-olds."
Dad hummed, a low, dissatisfied sound. He didn't push it in front of Maki, but the tension lingered for the rest of the meal.
After dinner, I found Dad on the balcony. He was leaning against the railing, looking out at the city lights, a fresh can of beer in his hand.
"Cold out here," I said, stepping out.
"It clears the head," he replied without turning.
I stood beside him. The wind was picking up, carrying the scent of rain.
"Riku," he started, his voice serious. "This offer... I don't like it."
I looked at him, surprised. "You don't?"
"It feels like a consolation prize," Dad said, crushing the empty can in his hand slightly. "You worked harder than anyone. You outperformed half the kids on that 'Senior' roster. And his reward is to send you down to play with the kids you already beat?"
He turned to me, his eyes intense.
"In business, when a company tries to 'laterally move' you instead of promoting you after a big success, it means they don't value you. They want to keep you around as a backup without paying you what you're worth."
"It's not business, Dad. It's baseball," I argued gently.
"It's the same principle," he countered. "They're stringing you along. Riku, you have talent. Maybe... maybe you should look at other teams."
"Other teams?"
"There are other leagues. The Minato Seniors. The Musashi Fuchu boys. Teams that might actually put you on the mound where you belong." He placed a hand on my shoulder. "You shouldn't settle for being a 'project.' Go where you're celebrated, not just tolerated."
I stared at him.
His face was flushed with a mix of fatherly protection and something else—a jagged frustration that felt personal.
In my past life, I would have agreed. I would have felt insulted by Okabe's offer, taken Dad's advice, and quit. I would have bounced from team to team, looking for the easy path, looking for the "celebration."
But the thirty-one-year-old in me saw the flaw.
Switching teams meant starting over. It meant new coaches, new politics, and likely the same physical limitations. No responsible coach would let a twelve-year-old throw 100 pitches against high schoolers every week. Okabe was actually being responsible.
And Dad... Dad was projecting.
'He's talking about himself,' I realized. 'The expansion project. The time away. He feels undervalued at work, and he's seeing it happening to me.'
"I hear you, Dad," I said carefully. "And I appreciate you looking out for me."
"But?" he asked, sensing my hesitation.
"But I haven't decided yet," I said. "Coach told me to talk to the veterans. Rui invited me to dinner this Friday. I want to hear what they have to say before I make a move."
Dad sighed, the tension draining out of his shoulders. He looked tired.
"Fine," he muttered, ruffling my hair. "Just... don't let them walk all over you, Riku. You're worth more than a reserve spot."
"I know," I said.
He went back inside, leaving me alone with the city lights.
I leaned on the railing, replaying the conversation. It felt weird. Unnatural. My dad, the calm, corporate rock, telling me to quit and run?
'He's wrong,' I thought, watching a train snake its way through the distance. 'But he's wrong because he loves me.'
I looked down at my hand, flexing the fingers.
Junior Division Ace. Senior Division Reserve.
It wasn't the glory I wanted. But maybe it was the grind I needed.
'Friday,' I decided. 'I'll talk to Rui and Taiyo. Then I'll choose.'