⚾Ten years. That's how long it had been since someone last caught one of his pitches. For the past few years, the only thing catching his throws had been the net in his private training cage — silent, unfeeling, never answering back.
"You've got great form," Romeo said as they walked back to the dugout. "Your pitches are sharp — clean, powerful. You could've been a pro baseball pitcher, you know."
Dranred gave a small, sheepish smile. "Maybe in another life."
They stepped into the dugout where Charlie was already gearing up — the familiar click of his chest protector and the snap of the mask strap echoing softly.
"So, you're the starting catcher today?" Romeo asked, grinning.
"Yes," Charlie replied, returning the grin.
Romeo raised an eyebrow. "Then you should've been the one catching his pitches earlier."
Charlie chuckled, glancing at Dranred. "It's fine."
Dranred met his uncle's gaze. For a moment, the noise around them faded. There was something in Charlie's eyes — not just pride, but a quiet message he couldn't quite read. Maybe it was trust. Maybe a challenge. Or maybe it was something deeper, something he wasn't ready to face just yet.
The announcer's voice boomed across the stadium, introducing the players from both the national team and Charlie's team. Though it was only an exhibition game, everything felt real — the crowd, the reporters, the flashing cameras.
Charlie's team took the field first. He crouched behind the plate as catcher, while Dranred — unexpectedly — was the starting pitcher.
"Don't strain yourself," Charlie said as he joined Dranred on the mound. "It's just an exhibition game. But everyone here's taking it seriously. Still, remember — you have a basketball game tomorrow."
Dranred frowned. "If you knew that, why bring me here?"
Charlie smirked. "To mess with your head." Then, after a beat, his tone softened. "You joined basketball because you felt like you owed something — maybe that was true before. But look inside yourself now. Is that still the reason? James is back in basketball. Maybe it's time you figured out what you really want to play."
He gave Dranred's chest a light tap with his mitt. "Use this game to find your answer. I'll always have your back. I just can't stand seeing my only nephew lost." He grinned, then jogged toward home plate, slipping on his helmet.
"Give me your best pitch, Mr. Shooting Star!" Charlie called over his shoulder.
Dranred chuckled. "You always talk too much," he muttered, stepping onto the mound.
He glanced around — the bright diamond, the chatter of the crowd, the weight of the ball in his hand. A wave of emotion hit him. This was the feeling he'd missed — the thrill of standing on the mound, the quiet before the throw, the heartbeat of the game he used to love.
The umpire signaled. Dranred lifted his leg high — that old familiar stance — and let the pitch fly.
The ball sliced through the air with perfect spin. Thwack! The sound echoed as Charlie caught it cleanly.
"Strike one!" the umpire barked.
The crowd gasped. Even Charlie blinked in surprise — he hadn't seen that form in years. Then, a grin spread under his mask.
"He's not here just to play," Charlie thought, pride flickering in his eyes. "This brat…"
Dranred threw again. Strike two. Then another — strike three! The first batter was out in three pitches. The audience erupted, cameras flashing wildly.
Many of them had come expecting to see a basketball star — not a pitcher with a flawless delivery.
He struck out the next batter, this time with a clean swinging strikeout. For the third batter, Dranred shifted his grip slightly. The crowd expected another fastball — but then, at the last moment, he released a slow, perfect change-up.
The batter froze. The ball kissed the catcher's mitt.
"Strike three!"
For the first time in years, Dranred smiled — not for the cameras, not for the crowd, but for himself.
Three strikeouts — the opposing team was done for the inning.
Charlie's team switched to offense, and as they returned to the dugout, Dranred was immediately surrounded. Teammates clapped him on the back, their voices loud with excitement and disbelief.
"Unbelievable!"
"Charlie wasn't kidding after all!"
"You pitched like a pro out there!"
Dranred couldn't even speak at first. He was smiling — really smiling. The weight of the mitt in his hand, the crisp sound of the ball snapping into the catcher's glove, the rhythm of each throw — all of it filled him with a long-forgotten joy. He looked down at his hand, flexing his fingers slowly, as though trying to remember the boy who once loved this game.
"How was it?" Charlie's voice broke through his thoughts. He was grinning. "Feels good to stand on that mound again, doesn't it?"
Dranred met his uncle's gaze.
Charlie went on, softer now, "You know, you can walk away from basketball anytime. The reason I asked you to play today wasn't just to distract you. I wanted you to see where you truly belong… where you're happiest."
Dranred hesitated. "Can I really do that?"
Charlie smiled. "That's up to you. Only you can decide what you want."
He patted Dranred's shoulder and grabbed a bat. "Now if you'll excuse me, it's my turn."
As Charlie stepped into the batter's box, Dranred watched silently from the dugout. The next pitch came fast — crack! The ball soared deep into center field, and the batter sprinted to second base. Cheers erupted from the crowd.
Then it was Charlie's turn. He glanced back briefly, locking eyes with Dranred for a moment before facing the pitcher. The first pitch came — wham! — and the sound of the bat connecting echoed through the stadium. The ball sailed high, climbing over the fence for a home run.
The crowd roared. His teammates ran to meet Charlie at home plate, laughing and shouting.
From the dugout, Dranred watched them — the bright field, the running figures, the joy. A warmth filled his chest, but behind it lingered an ache.
Was this what I've been missing all along? he wondered. Could I really walk away from basketball… or is this just a dream I'm not ready to wake up from?
He smiled faintly as the cheers continued, his heart caught somewhere between the mound and the court.