Having slept early the previous night, I was up before the alarm and the sun. But for the first time in months, my morning didn't start with the usual run to the riverside or the tiring circuit of drills.
Today's workout was lighter — dynamic stretches, shoulder rolls, a few sprints up and down the street. Nothing that would wear me out. Just enough to feel my body wake up, loosen, and hum with energy.
'Feels a bit weird not to be completely tired.'
The air bit sharply at my face, the kind of cold that made you breathe deeper. My heart felt heavy and light all at once. It was strange—I'd done harder things every day for months, but somehow this morning carried a different weight. A different level of consequences to my every decision.
'It's not just another regular day,' I thought. 'This day has more heft than any other before.'
When I came back inside, the familiar smell of miso soup greeted me before I noticed my mom. She was there in the kitchen, wrapped up in her favorite cardigan.
"You're up early even for you," she said, smiling softly. "Nervous?"
"A little," I admitted, rubbing my hands together to warm them. "It's just… different."
"Good. Means you care." Her gaze had the kindness and pride only a mother could have. "Now dry off that sweat and clean up."
I took my time taking a bath and getting ready in my kit to calm my nerves. When I walked down, Mom had finished preparing the breakfast.
As I settled in my chair on the dining table she handed me a bowl. "Your father already finished his breakfast and is ready to leave whenever you are."
Maki stumbled in a few minutes later, her hair a complete mess, still half-asleep. "Onii-chan's gonna be on TV one day, huh?" she mumbled, flopping into a chair.
"Maybe," I said, grinning. "You can draw the poster."
She giggled. "I already did."
By the time I finished breakfast, Dad was waiting by the door, car keys in hand. His expression was calm but his eyes had that subtle gleam. The same one that Mom had. He'd always been the quiet type, but this morning he looked almost excited.
"Ready?" he asked.
I nodded. "More than ever."
Mom wiped her hands on her apron and came to the door. "Good luck, sweetheart. And remember—hydration, not heroics."
"I'll keep that in mind," I said, smiling. Maki waved a small sketchbook at me like it was a flag.
We stepped outside, and walked over to the car. The cold air crisp but the sun climbing up with every second made it much better than before. The car ride was mostly silent, just the soft hum of the heater and the faint sound of traffic in the distance. My glove rested across my lap like a loyal companion. I ran my thumb across the slightly worn leather, feeling every stitch, every memory built into it.
Dad finally spoke as we neared the field. "You've done the work. Now just show them who you are."
The Setagaya Little League training grounds came into view — a wide expanse of turf lined with chalk, nets already set up, and a crowd of kids stretching, jogging, talking in excited bursts. Coaches moved around with clipboards, the air buzzing with an unexpected warmth of anticipation.
I stepped out of the car, my breath clouding in the morning chill. There must've been at least a hundred of us — boys from every part of the city, most of them taller, older, already built like young adults. My chest tightened a little, but not out of fear, more like awareness. I was the youngest here, the smallest, but I wasn't going to let that matter.
"Tanaka!" a voice called. I turned to see Coach Yamada striding across the field, bundled in his usual windbreaker, grin wide enough to cut the cold. "You made it."
"Of course," I said, bowing slightly. "Wouldn't miss it."
He chuckled. "Your father mentioned you've been training like a soldier. Let's see if it paid off."
Dad and Coach Yamada shook hands warmly before he led us toward another man. A stocky, middle-aged coach with a deep tan and sharp eyes. His name tag read Coach Okabe, Head Coach of Setagaya Senior Division.
"Okabe-san," Coach Yamada called, "this is the kid I was telling you about. Riku Tanaka."
Okabe looked me up and down, his expression unreadable. "Twelve, right?"
"Yes, sir," I said, keeping my posture straight.
"You'll be one of the youngest, then. Don't expect much."
"I've been practicing, sir."
He gave a small approving grunt. "Good. Even if you don't make it in this team, we will consider you for the Junior League team as well."
'He really doesn't think I deserve a spot in his team.'
*****
After another 15 minutes, everyone had stretched and warmed up as well as they could and we were ready to begin. That was also the time I noticed Coach Okabe walk to the front of everyone.
He blew his whistle and turned to the crowd. The sharp sound sliced through the chatter.
"Alright, listen up! Today's about movement. We're not testing your swings or arms yet. We're testing your bodies—speed, endurance, coordination, reaction. Tomorrow we move to skill work. Understood?"
A hundred voices shouted back in unison, "Yes, sir!"
"Groups of ten!" he barked. "Line up at the cones!"
I ended up in group three—nine boys, most at least a head taller than me. They wore matching team caps from their previous schools, their movements confident, practiced. I brushed off the imaginary dust off my clothes and focused on my breathing.
The first drill was the 60-meter sprint. Two cones, a whistle, a stopwatch. Simple.
"On my mark!"
"Set!"
Fwiiiiii!
The ones at the front of every group took off. The trainers at the second cones timing each member. One trainer per group.
Soon it was my turn and with the shrill sound of the whistle I exploded forward. The dirt crunched underfoot. I kept my body low, arms pumping, each stride cutting into the chill air. My breath came in steady bursts. The world blurred to motion and sound — footsteps, wind, the coach's shout.
When I crossed the finish, I didn't even look at my time. I just focused on slowing my breathing. My legs burned, but not painfully, more like they were waking up.
"Good start," Okabe muttered as he scribbled something on his clipboard.
Everyone was given 3 tries to improve on their previous performance.
The next few drills came fast.
Agility cones. Quick sidesteps between markers, testing how well we could shift weight and change direction.
One of the only drills that I might have an advantage in due to my small size. The setup was similar with one trainer timing every member of our group but I noticed they were not just timing us. He was also scribbling some notes for every individual based on their form or maybe something else.
'Maybe I won't have much of an advantage after all.'
I did finish faster than anyone else in my group and honestly, I expected someone to object to my advantage in this drill. That is what would have happened if this were some anime, but no such thing happened. Everyone was just focused on their own performances.
Next came, Vertical jump. A rope hung from a pole; we had to slap it at our highest point. A very simple drill that I was obviously wasn't great at compared to others. But just considering my jump and not considering my short height, I did better than most. I actually wasn't even the last one in my group even after the shorter starting position.
A little rest before we were tested with the Endurance run. Ten laps around the full field—roughly 4 kms.
By the time we hit the endurance run, half the kids were gasping, hands on knees. I focused on rhythm, not speed. Steady strides, conserving energy. When I crossed the finish line near the front of the pack, I caught Coach Yamada's approving nod from across the field.
Unlike the previous drills where we were given 3 tries each, the endurance run was a one and done thing. For obvious reasons.
We were all given a 15 minute break to catch our breaths and ready ourselves for what was coming next: strength tests.
Push-ups, sit-ups, grip measurements...
My smaller frame and still developing body and muscles made it harder to impress here. I still continued with consistency and gave my best but what I lacked in raw strength was not something that could be overcome with just effort. I didn't stop, not once, not until I couldn't physically continue anymore. Every motion precise, controlled, purposeful.
The last drill of the morning was a reaction test. We lined up five meters apart while one of the assistants shouted random commands—"Left! Right! Dive! Sprint!"
The point was to move instantly, without hesitation. It felt chaotic, almost fun, like turning all my months of solitary focus into pure reflex.
When the whistle blew for lunch break, the field buzzed with chatter. I grabbed my water bottle and found a quiet spot under the bleachers. My shirt clung to me with sweat despite the cold, my hands trembling slightly from the adrenaline.
Dad walked over, handing me a towel. "How's it going?"
"Good," I said, wiping my face. "Better than I thought."
He smiled. "You look like you're having fun."
"I am," I said with a bright smile, surprising even myself with how certain it sounded.
The afternoon was slower but tougher. We were tested on balance and coordination—short ladder drills, weighted medicine-ball throws, timed shuttle runs. Some kids were faster, others stronger, but I realized something: while they were panting and slowing down, my endurance barely faltered. Months of morning runs had built a reservoir I hadn't even noticed before. And even after being the youngest, I was somewhere in the top of the group in most drills, apart from the ones that needed pure strength more.
As the sun began to dip, the final whistle blew. The day ended with a slow jog around the field, followed by a short talk from Coach Okabe.
"Good work today," he said, his voice carrying over the quiet crowd. "Tomorrow, we move to actual baseball. Batting, fielding, throwing. That's where we separate potential from players."
He glanced at his clipboard, then at us. "Sorry to say but some of you are not to report tomorrow since there is a certain level of physical capabilities that we require irrespective of how good your skills might be."
Taking a small pause and scanning at the whole crowd, he continued. "I will now name those who we deemed unfit."
Looking down at his clipboard he named off name after name.
'I won't be kicked out so soon, right?' I knew I had performed well but a slight doubt creeped in my mind as he kept reciting names and kids kept walking out with drooped shoulders.
After a few minutes and around 40 names, he stopped.
I wasn't named.
'I passed!' Relief came over me, and I let out an unstable breath.
Unaware of my internal peril, Coach Okabe finished by saying. "Those who are selected for tomorrow... Rest well. Hydrate. And come ready."
The crowd broke apart in small clusters, kids laughing, comparing times, stretching sore legs. I lingered by the fence, watching the last rays of sunlight fade across the diamond. My muscles ached, my clothes clung to me, but beneath it all was a quiet satisfaction.
Coach Yamada walked up beside me. "You kept up with the big kids."
"Barely," I said, half-smiling. Remembering my internal nervous breakdown just a few minutes ago.
"That's more than enough," he replied. "Tomorrow, is the real test."
Dad joined us, his face unreadable but eyes glinting. "Let's go home, champ. You've got another big day ahead."
Tomorrow would test just how prepared I was to compete at this level.
But for tonight, I'd already won something—proof that I could stand among them.