The moment the ball left his hand, Kanzaki Ryou felt something was off.
This pitch was different from the Sliders he had thrown before; its speed wasn't as fast, and it lacked spin—likely due to his body's fatigue.
However, unexpectedly, the pitch steadily entered Chris's mitt.
"Good. Now throw here." Chris tossed the ball back, then positioned his mitt low and outside.
Kanzaki Ryou caught it, nodded, and once again put his full strength into the throw.
If it had been before, throwing a pitch with full strength—especially an unfamiliar Slider—could have been disastrous. But now, the ball seemed guided, landing precisely wherever he aimed.
"Very good. Again."
This time, Chris positioned the mitt inside, and Kanzaki Ryou threw again.
"That's strange… my Slider was never this accurate before," he murmured, slightly delighted.
Chris stood, threw the ball back, and said, "Don't overthink it. You can throw like this now because you're tired. In a few days, when fully rested, full-strength throws will behave as before."
"Then… what should I do?" Kanzaki Ryou asked earnestly.
"I don't know."
Unexpectedly, Chris said this.
"I just think doing this helps you master the Slider."
Kanzaki Ryou smiled wryly. After all that, even Chris couldn't fully explain it. But this method seemed useful.
After three throws, Kanzaki Ryou felt something different—just as Chris had said. Some things can only be felt, not put into words.
"Again, don't rush the rhythm. Feel it with your heart," Chris advised.
They stayed in the bullpen for nearly an hour, yet Kanzaki Ryou threw fewer than thirty pitches. Each one required careful preparation.
After practice, they sat and discussed the throws at length.
"Chris-senpai, the Summer Tournament is in a few days. Should I try this Slider in the game?" Kanzaki Ryou asked eagerly.
Chris shook his head, chuckling. "Whether you can use it, whether you should—that's for you and Miyuki to decide. He's your partner, not me."
"Understood."
That evening, in Seido High School Baseball Club's Coach Kataoka office, the team members who had rested all day began self-training.
Under dim lights, figures swung bats. Coach Kataoka stood by the window, watching them sweat. For a moment, he felt dazed, as if returned to his own high school days.
He was clear about these young men's dreams: Koshien, the place that ignites all of Japanese high school baseball.
To get there, especially in a fiercely competitive region like West Tokyo, one needs both skill and luck.
Semifinals were particularly brutal. If two powerhouse teams met, a fierce battle was inevitable. The team in the other bracket, if they reached the finals, would have the advantage of rest.
This wasn't to belittle other schools—similar situations had occurred many times. Whether Seido faced Ichidai Third High or Inashiro Industrial, it would be tough. Even with favorable circumstances, they often lost in the finals. This partly explained Seido's recent struggles to reach Koshien.
Declining performance made recruiting top talents difficult. Yet young Coach Kataoka could still build a formidable team every year. West Tokyo was fiercely competitive, with three major powerhouses—but Seido wasn't without chance.
Still, Seido had never fully seized such an opportunity.
In other regions, mature tactical systems and development methods could have built stronger teams with better chances at Koshien. But not in West Tokyo. A team without a true Ace—even Seido—struggled to break through Ichidai Third and Inajitsu.
Now, Seido wanted Koshien. Change was necessary, especially at that crucial position.
Coach Kataoka felt conflicted. Third-year Nanjo Taishi was in form and had performed well in practice. But in pure pitching, Kanzaki Ryou's mound performance was more striking. Though young and slightly immature, his potential stirred Coach Kataoka's yearning for a true Ace.
Nanjo Taishi was experienced, had better chemistry with the team, and his high-speed slider and cutter ball made him competitive. Choosing him was safe. But Seido had played safe for years, rarely surpassing semifinals.
Coach Kataoka picked up Kanzaki Ryou's training data. Perhaps it was time for a change.
Thinking of Kanzaki Ryou's 155 km/h top speed, the hidden Changeup with a massive speed differential, and his confidence and drive, Coach Kataoka finally made his decision.
The next evening, after afternoon training, Coach Kataoka gathered the team.
Under the setting sun, the young men stood silently. Beside the Coach, Manager Takashima Rei held a thick stack of white fabric—the uniform numbers.
The first-string players in the front rows could see the numbers clearly, and their hearts beat faster.
Kanzaki Ryou turned to Nanjo Taishi, who was a few spots away. Both were strong contenders for the Ace number. Nanjo had prepared for Kanzaki to take it, yet he still wanted a perfect summer—hence all the effort with his cutter ball.
Smiling at Kanzaki Ryou, Nanjo adjusted his mindset and looked at Coach Kataoka.
The Coach's gaze swept over the first-string players, pausing at Nanjo, then he called out:
"Starting now, I will distribute the uniform numbers. Those whose names are called, step forward!"
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