"Uncle Charlie?!"
Dranred froze, startled to see his uncle walking into the stadium. The team was in the middle of warm-ups for their second preliminary game, and Charlie's sudden appearance caught everyone's attention.
He hadn't expected this. His uncle was supposed to be busy preparing for the opening of the new baseball season.
Charlie smiled at his reaction. "Why do you look so surprised?"
The rest of the national team glanced curiously toward the newcomer. Their coach quickly approached, shaking Charlie's hand with a warm smile.
"I didn't expect you to arrive this early," the coach said.
"Well," Charlie replied, "the scouts wanted to catch the game before the season starts."
"Scouts?" Dranred echoed, his brows furrowing.
"Oh, I didn't tell you?" the coach said, turning toward him. "A few major league scouts will be watching today. They're here to look for potential recruits. If any of you perform well, you might just get a chance to join their teams."
Dranred's eyes widened slightly. "Wait— is that even okay? We're supposed to be preparing for the international games."
"It's perfectly fine," the coach said, still cheerful. "You know baseball isn't that big here. Unlike basketball, our players can't go professional unless they get picked up by foreign leagues. Think about it— if you can grab their attention, it might be the opportunity of a lifetime. Why waste that—"
He stopped mid-sentence when he noticed the subtle tension on Dranred's face — the clenched jaw, the tightening of his grip on the baseball glove.
Charlie caught it too.
"Coach," he said calmly, "let me talk to him for a bit."
The coach nodded and left to inform the rest of the team about the scouts.
Once they were alone, Charlie stepped closer. "I know what you're thinking," he said. "But you have to face reality, Dranred. Baseball here won't take you anywhere. The sport isn't respected enough in this country. You joined the national team for experience, not to spend your career here."
He placed a hand on his nephew's shoulder. "You're good — better than most players your age. I watched your first game. You could easily match the level of minor league players. If you play it right, you'll reach the majors in no time."
Dranred didn't respond. His gaze was distant, his expression unreadable.
Charlie sighed and continued, his tone softening. "This was your dream, remember? You've already lost ten years playing basketball. Don't waste another ten chasing something that'll never grow."
That last line made Dranred's head snap up. His voice was calm, but his eyes burned.
"Waste?" he repeated.
Charlie froze, realizing his mistake.
"To you, maybe," Dranred said quietly. "But those ten years— they weren't a waste to me."
He took a deep breath, his voice steady but edged with emotion. "Basketball was my father's unfinished dream. Playing it wasn't just about the sport — it was about repaying a debt, carrying a name that people stopped believing in. It was my way of making things right."
Charlie didn't speak. For a moment, the sound of baseballs hitting gloves echoed faintly from the field — a reminder of the game waiting to start.
Dranred looked away, his tone softening again. "I know baseball is my passion now. But I'll never call those years a waste. They built me into who I am."
Charlie nodded slowly, his earlier confidence melting into quiet understanding. "You've grown up," he said finally, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "You sound more like your father every day."
Dranred smiled faintly in return, gripping his glove tighter. "Maybe. But this time, I'll play my own game."
"My bad. I didn't mean it like that," Charlie said, rubbing the back of his neck. He leaned closer, voice steady. "Think about what you really want. You didn't join baseball just to be stuck in a team that'll never play internationally. Even if you win today, the national team won't necessarily get international slots. Some of your teammates are already catching scouts' eyes. They have families and dreams — do you expect them to stay on a team with little sponsorship or exposure?" He let the truth land. "I know it sounds harsh, but that's the reality."
"Did you come here just to tell me that?" Dranred asked, incredulous.
Charlie shook his head. "No. The truth is — I'm one of the scouts."
"What?" Dranred blurted.
Charlie glanced down at his hand for a second, then met his nephew's eyes. "I can't play anymore, Dranred."
Dranred frowned. He'd heard Charlie had been moved to a Triple-A club, but never that he couldn't play. "What are you saying? Moving to Triple-A doesn't mean your career is over."
Charlie gave a tight smile. "Being in Triple-A wasn't the problem. The problem is my arm. I can't throw like I used to."
For a beat, Dranred's confusion widened into alarm. "You're injured? When did this happen? I didn't know —"
"Before a big game," Charlie said. "I got hurt. I kept playing because I wanted to see a fire pitch live — one last time. I sacrificed my arm for that game." He looked away, then back. "I don't regret it. But the damage meant I couldn't perform at the majors level anymore."
"You played while injured?" Dranred snapped.
"If I hadn't, I wouldn't have seen it either," Charlie said, voice soft. "Don't look at me like I need your pity. That's the last thing. If you want to honor it, then do something with your talent. Play in the majors and kick their butts with that pitch of yours." He managed a wry smile.
"You talk like it's easy," Dranred muttered.
"Listen to yourself," Charlie countered. "You aren't called a sports genius for nothing. You dominated basketball with your own hands. You can do this." He shrugged. "I believe in you — so you should believe in yourself."
"Where are you getting this confidence?" Dranred asked, half-amused.
"From knowing you," Charlie said simply. "If I'm confident in your talent, you should be, too."
"So basically, you want me to replace you since you can't play?" Dranred said, a smirk tugging at his lips.
"Does it sound like that?" Charlie asked, then chuckled. "Well, that's how life goes sometimes."
Dranred stepped away, folding his arms. "Then do your scouting job properly, or else you might sell me to another team." He turned back toward his teammates. "Watch me. I'll make sure none of them hits my pitch." He walked off, the words half threat, half promise.
Charlie watched him go, a small smile on his face. "If it's you, it'll happen," he said to himself. "I'll be waiting for that performance." Then he straightened and walked toward the scouts' seats, certain that many players would be recruited today — and certain, too, that Dranred had the raw skill to stand out.
As Dranred walked back toward the field, the noise of the stadium faded behind the rush of his own heartbeat.
He still felt the weight of Charlie's words—half challenge, half plea. Replace me.
He clenched his fist. He didn't want to replace anyone. He wanted to stand on his own, to prove that his choices, his pain, and his years away from the game all meant something.
The leather of the glove felt warm against his palm, almost alive.
If he can give up everything for one last pitch, Dranred thought, then I can give everything for the next one.
He looked up at the diamond gleaming under the lights and exhaled.
This wasn't just a game anymore.
This was his chance to rise—or fall—on his own terms.