Dranred stepped back onto the mound, his breath steady but his body screaming in protest. Across the field, the batter tightened his grip on the bat, his confidence visible even from a distance. Dranred glanced toward the runner on first base — no signs of a steal attempt. He's waiting for his teammate to send it flying, Dranred thought grimly.
"I could really use my medicine right about now," he muttered under his breath, forcing a wry smile. He flexed his fingers once, feeling the dull ache crawl up his arm. "Let's end this as quickly as possible."
He raised his glove, wound up, and unleashed the first pitch.
Strike!
The umpire's voice echoed across the field. The crowd gasped — the pitch had sliced through the strike zone cleanly, faster than anyone expected. In the dugout, his teammates clenched their fists, silently rooting for him. They all knew Dranred was pitching through pain. They had seen the huddle on the mound earlier. No one said it aloud, but every one of them feared the same thing: his arm was giving out.
Still, he stood there — unwavering.
The second pitch came, a changeup that dipped at the last second. The batter swung hard, but missed.
Strike two!
The crowd roared, and the tension on the field thickened. The basemen behind Dranred allowed themselves a brief breath of relief. One more strike, and they'd retire the batter.
Then — crack! — the third pitch flew off the bat and veered into foul territory.
Then another.
And another.
The rally began again, an endless rhythm of foul balls cutting through the air. The count climbed: two strikes, two fouls, two balls. The entire stadium fell silent, waiting.
Dranred inhaled deeply. His fingers trembled as he gripped the ball. His arm was numb now — heavy and uncooperative — but his eyes burned with focus.
"I can't let you stand in that box forever," he whispered. "Why don't you take a rest?"
He wound up for the seventh pitch. Every ounce of strength he had left poured into that motion. The world seemed to narrow — the field, the crowd, the noise — until it was just him, the ball, and Nathan's mitt.
The pitch left his hand like lightning.
The batter swung. Missed.
"Strike! Batter out!" the umpire bellowed.
The ball slammed into Nathan's mitt with a force that made him flinch. The catcher blinked, glancing at the speed meter.
102 miles per hour.
The number flashed on the board, and the entire stadium erupted. The crowd stood to their feet, cheering wildly, the echo of their voices shaking the stands.
Dranred exhaled slowly, lowering his arm. He couldn't feel his fingers anymore — but a faint smile curved on his lips. For that one pitch, for that single, perfect moment, he was unstoppable.
Dranred's teammates came alive after his blazing strikeout. Seeing him throw such powerful pitches reignited their confidence — maybe they didn't have to worry after all. He still had fire left in him.
In the bottom of the eighth, the American team's first batter sent a grounder toward third, but the fielder scooped it cleanly. A sharp throw to first — out! The runner who tried to advance was tagged out for a double play. Three outs. Their turn to bat.
If they could score here, there was still hope for the ninth inning.
The leadoff batter stepped up but was quickly retired on a grounder to third. Then came Dranred — his third at-bat of the game. He gripped the bat, but his hand barely held firm. Just like when he pitched, he could hardly feel his arm anymore.
He swung weakly at the first pitch. Missed. If he hadn't swung, it might've been called a ball. One strike.
He wasn't thinking about home runs or heroics — he just needed to create a chance for the next batter.
The second pitch came in low and fast. Dranred swung — crack! — the ball sailed into center field. The crowd erupted as he sprinted toward second base, sliding safely in. His teammates in the dugout shouted his name, fists pumping in the air.
The next batter made contact, sending the ball toward right field. Dranred dashed to third, safe again — but the batter was thrown out at first. Two outs.
Now it was up to their fourth batter. The entire stadium held its breath. Two outs. Dranred at third. One swing could tie the game.
The first two pitches — balls. The count was in their favor.
The third pitch came. The batter swung with everything he had — and connected. The ball soared toward left field, dropping into the grass.
Dranred ran. He exploded off third base, the crowd rising to their feet as one. The left fielder snatched up the ball and hurled it toward home plate. The entire stadium gasped — the ball was right behind Dranred, chasing him as he dove for home.
The stadium held its breath.
Dranred was rounding third, dirt spraying beneath his cleats as the crowd rose to its feet in a single, deafening wave. The left fielder scooped up the ball cleanly and fired it toward home with everything he had. The white leather streaked through the air like a bullet—perfect aim, perfect timing.
Nathan shouted from the dugout, "Go, Red! GO!"
Dranred's heartbeat thundered in his ears. His legs screamed, his chest burned, but he didn't slow down. The roar of the crowd blurred into silence. All he could see was the glint of the catcher's mitt waiting at the plate.
The ball and Dranred arrived at the same time.
Dust exploded across the diamond as he dove headfirst, twisting his body midair. The catcher lunged down, glove extended—sure he had him out—but at the last instant, Dranred curved his slide, his right hand stretching toward the edge of the plate like a spark in the dirt.
Thwack!
Leather met ball. The catcher's glove slammed shut.
But Dranred's fingertips brushed the home plate—just a whisper of contact, but enough.
"SAFE!" the umpire roared, his arm slicing through the air.
For a heartbeat, no one moved. Then the stadium erupted. Cheers, screams, and applause collided into one overwhelming sound. The dugout exploded in celebration as Dranred lay flat on the ground, chest heaving, sweat and dust mixing on his face.
The catcher looked down, disbelief etched on his face. He'd caught the ball—on time. But he hadn't tagged him. Somehow, Dranred had slipped past him like water finding its way through stone.
Dranred exhaled, a shaky laugh escaping his lips. His whole body trembled from exhaustion, but a faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. He had tied the game. From the stands, Rosette pressed both hands to her mouth, eyes shining with tears.
James laughed softly beside her and ruffled her hair. "Such a crybaby. He's giving it everything he's got—why are you crying?"
She quickly wiped her tears but couldn't hide her trembling hands. "I can't help it. He looks like he's in pain... and I can't do anything."
When Dranred returned to the dugout, his teammates greeted him with cheers and backslaps. Their confidence had been reignited by his fearless play. The next batter stepped up with new determination—but the opposing pitcher struck him out in three pitches, leaving the runner stranded on second.
The score remained tied as they entered the ninth inning. One more chance.
But Dranred had to hold the American team at zero. If he could strike out the next three batters, Nathan would lead off their offense, and they still had a shot at victory.
Then—shock rippled through the stadium.
Dranred's first pitch hit the opposing batter square on the shoulder. The crowd gasped. His teammates in the dugout fell silent, worry spreading across their faces. Dranred stood frozen on the mound, his hand gripping his shoulder. The truth was undeniable now—he was no longer in good condition.
And yet, he'd been pitching since the very first inning.
Because of the hit-by-pitch, the runner advanced to first base. The game—and Dranred's endurance—were both hanging by a thread.