The field shimmered under the afternoon sun. The crowd wasn't large, but the energy was sharp — coaches, players, and scouts filled the stands, murmuring as the teams took their positions.
"Play ball!"
Dranred's team was on defense. Charlie's team took the offense.
And leading off at the plate — Charlie himself.
When Dranred saw his uncle step into the batter's box, his stomach tightened. He knew what Charlie could do — his power could send any pitch flying clear over the fence.
This wasn't a casual match anymore. Not even close.
Even though it was only a tryout for the national team applicants, the fact that Charlie's entire squad had come in person to test them added a weight no one could ignore.
Dranred climbed the mound, gripping the ball. Across from him, Charlie stood still, bat poised, eyes fixed on him — sharp, unreadable.
For the first time, Dranred felt a flicker of doubt.
It was strange, almost terrifying, how his uncle's calm stare could rattle him so deeply.
He's not going easy on me, Dranred thought. Not today.
The umpire raised his hand. "Play ball!"
Dranred took a deep breath, lifted his front leg, and wound up — his form crisp, smooth, powerful. Even Charlie raised a brow, impressed by the motion.
The ball exploded from Dranred's hand—
—but veered high and wide.
"Ball!" the umpire barked.
The catcher jerked his glove aside with a frown. Charlie blinked in surprise at the wild pitch, then smirked faintly.
"What was that?" the catcher snapped, standing to call time. He stalked toward the mound, frustration etched across his face. A few infielders jogged over, watching carefully.
"You can't even throw a strike?" the catcher hissed.
"Relax," the first baseman said gently. "Anyone would be nervous with him at bat."
The catcher shot him a glare. "That's no excuse. If he can't handle the pressure, he shouldn't be standing on the mound. There are plenty of others who want this spot."
His voice was sharp, cutting. Dranred stared at the ground, jaw tight. He knew the catcher was right — but the words still stung.
"I'm not doing it on purpose," Dranred muttered under his breath.
The catcher exhaled sharply through his nose, then pointed his glove at him.
"Focus," he said coldly. "You aim for where I put my mitt. Miss again, and you walk off this mound. Got it?"
He turned and walked back toward the plate without waiting for an answer.
The second baseman patted Dranred's shoulder. "Take it easy," he said. "Settle your breathing. Just play your game."
Dranred nodded once. He exhaled, wiped the sweat from his forehead, and looked back toward the batter's box.
Charlie was still there, waiting — the faintest smile on his lips, a mixture of challenge and pride.
Dranred rolled the ball between his fingers, found his grip, and took position again.
The next pitch would count.
Dranred's eyes followed the catcher as he returned to his position. Charlie stepped back into the batter's box, bat poised.
Dranred exhaled deeply and wound up for his next pitch.
The ball cut through the air—
"Ball!" the umpire called.
A muscle in Dranred's jaw twitched. He grabbed the ball again, reset, and pitched harder.
"Ball!"
Another sigh. His third pitch rose too high, skimming above the strike zone.
"Ball three!"
A low murmur rippled through the stands. One more, and Charlie would walk to first base.
Dranred's heartbeat thundered in his ears. He tried to steady his breathing, but Charlie's calm stance — the quiet power in the way he held the bat — pressed on him like a weight.
Even standing still, his uncle's presence was suffocating.
If I can't beat him now, Dranred thought, how can I face the stronger players ahead?
Images flashed in his mind — Rosette's bright smile, her words of faith in him. "I'll be watching your first official match."
Not like this, he thought. I won't crumble here.
He gripped the ball tighter. "I can't be beaten. Not this time."
He drew a sharp breath, lifted his leg, and released.
The pitch tore through the air, slicing straight into the catcher's mitt with a sharp pop.
"Strike!" the umpire roared.
Charlie froze, eyes wide. He had seen the ball — but not its speed. It didn't slow, didn't drift. By the time he registered it, it was already caught.
He turned slightly, surprise flickering across his face. Then, a faint grin.
He's calm now, Charlie thought. That's more like it.
He adjusted his grip, nodding once. Let's see your best, kid. I'll send it flying.
Dranred wound up again.
The next pitch came low and fast — Charlie swung.
Crack!
The sound echoed across the field — but the ball shot foul, bouncing hard down the line.
"Foul ball!" the umpire shouted.
Charlie clicked his tongue, lowering the bat. The swing had been perfect — his timing sharp — yet something about that pitch felt heavier than it should have.
He glanced back toward the mound. Dranred was no longer trembling.
He was focused.
Composed.
Dangerous.
Charlie fouled off another pitch — the metallic clang echoing through the stadium. The ball spun high and curved out of play.
He stepped back, exhaling slowly. Now he understood.
He didn't need Dranred to speak.
The boy's pitches spoke for him.
Each throw screamed discipline, purpose, and defiance.
He was no longer the kid who once stood behind Charlie, catching his pitches.
Now, he was a pitcher in full command of the mound.
Charlie readied himself again, eyes narrowing. The crowd had gone quiet, sensing the tension between the two — a silent conversation written in fastballs.
Dranred wound up. His form was clean, sharp.
The ball exploded from his hand — a perfect pitch slicing through the air.
"Strike three! Batter out!" the umpire's voice cracked through the silence.
For a heartbeat, no one moved.Then Charlie's lips curved into a grin. He lowered the bat and shook his head lightly, the corner of his mouth twitching in admiration.
"That's to be expected," he said as he stepped away from the plate. "If you want to go far in baseball, you have to hold your ground."
His teammates clapped him on the back as he passed the dugout."Don't worry, Charlie. We'll get them next batter," one said.
Charlie just smiled faintly and glanced back at the mound.His nephew stood tall, calm — the sun catching the edge of his cap.
He's not the same boy anymore, Charlie thought.He's a pitcher.
Romeo stepped up to the plate, rolling his shoulders. The duel wasn't over.It was just beginning.