The next morning.
A light warming workout and breakfast later, I was back in the car with my Dad, heading towards the training grounds for the second and last day of tryouts.
"You don't seem nervous today." Dad said in a questioning tone.
"What?"
He glanced at me slightly, "You actually had a slight nervous look yesterday but today you seem normal, relaxed even. What changed?"
I stared at him for a long second.
'Dad really knows me too well. Probably better than myself.'
I really was a little nervous yesterday both before the tryouts and during them as well. But today, there was no such knot in my stomach. I was calm. More excited than anything else.
"Haha! You really are my father." I chuckled.
"Oh, so you were doubtful until now?" He smirked back.
"No no... Anyway, you're right Dad. I was a little tense about everything yesterday. Even during the drills. Mostly because I didn't know what to expect in the tryouts before, and purely physical aspect might be my weakest point right now. Wish I can grow up faster!"
"So you're confident about today's drills? Is that it?" He smiled, asking, as we entered the field's parking space.
"You can say that. I've worked my absolute best on my skills these past few months. I know I should be good enough to be picked on to the team at the very least."
He just smiled and didn't say another word until we were inside the field.
I expected to see the same sight as yesterday, but the field looked transformed — raked dirt, neatly placed cones, and the faint white lines marking the diamond.
Dozens of players were already there, stretching in small clusters like yesterday but the total number was much fewer.
Maybe fifty left.
The ones who'd made the cut.
The ones fighting for a chance at the roster.
Coach Okabe stood near home plate, arms crossed, clipboard in hand, his voice crisp against the cold air. "Morning, everyone. Yesterday, we tested your bodies. Today, we test your game."
The chatter died instantly.
"Your throws, your catches, your hits — everything that tells us if you can play good enough to be on my team. I don't care how perfect your form looks in drills. If you can't perform when it counts, you're not ready. Understood?"
"Yes, sir!" echoed back in perfect unison.
Just like before, we were divided into groups — five members in each. Everyone was supposed to be tested at every single position.
I was sent to start with infield drills. With 3 other groups. One at each position — First Baseman, Second Baseman, Shortstop and Third Baseman.
As I was nearing the mound, a guy from behind me spoke up. "What do you think the drills will be like?"
"I'm sorry?" I said, turning around.
He was a whole head taller than me, with blonde hair and blue eyes. Not at all looking like a Japanese.
'A foreigner?'
He gave me a bright smile and spoke up, "Hey! I'm Shiro Anderson."
It took me a long couple of seconds to register what he had said but immediately after I wrapped my head around it, I burst out laughing so loud that the whole infield began looking.
'Shiro!? His name is Shiro!? There is no way that is real!'
Composing myself after what seemed like eternity, I looked at his confused face and whispered, "That's your actual name? You're really not kidding?"
"Oh!" He exclaimed, followed by a sigh. "Yeah, it's my real name."
"And you do know what it means right?" I quipped.
"Yeah." He sighed again, "My mom is Japanese and has a weird sense of humor."
"I never thought I would ever meet a white guy named white." I offered my hand, "Hi, I'm Riku Tanaka."
He shook it, grinning. "Nice to meet you, man."
Fwiiiiii!
The whistle signaled us to take positions.
My first drill was at first base, with Coach Nakano—a wiry man with a cap pulled low and a whistle perpetually in his mouth—hitting grounders all over the infield.
"Listen up!" he barked. "I'll hit, I'll call, and you'll react. Don't think—move."
The first hit went screaming toward shortstop. "Double play! Second and first!" Coach Nakano shouted.
The shortstop fielded, flipped to second; the second baseman pivoted and fired to me.
The throw was slightly wide, instinct kicked in. I stretched far to the right, glove just catching it before it could hit dirt.
"Good reach!" Coach Nakano called. "Next!"
The next ball came straight to me—low and spinning fast. I scooped, tagged the base, turned, and fired to third where another player had just reached for a fake rundown.
By the end of the round, my arms were warm, my reflexes sharp. Riku the twelve-year-old might have been small, but Riku the player wasn't out of place.
When we rotated, I caught Shiro watching from second base. He flashed a thumbs-up and mouthed, nice pick.
At second base, the plays got faster. Coach Nakano hit two balls in quick succession; one rolling toward my left, the other skipping to shortstop.
"Second to first! Short to third!" he yelled.
I dove, trapped the first ball mid-slide, twisted on my knees, and threw to first in one motion. It wasn't pretty, but it was on target.
Shiro, now at shortstop, moved like a natural—fluid, confident. His throw was a bullet to third base.
"Good!" Coach Nakano shouted. "You two—Tanaka and Anderson—stay sharp."
We shared a quick grin before continuing.
The balls kept coming and I was soon shifted to shortstop. That's where the real test began.
The balls came hard and unpredictable—some line drives, some slow rollers, some bouncing awkwardly off divots in the dirt. I missed one, recovered another, nailed the throw to second, and then finally pulled off a clean diving stop that drew a small whistle from the sideline.
"That's how you stay low!" Nakano barked.
Shiro, now on third, clapped once. "Yo! You're amazing with those reflexes. Just a little too tiny."
"Tiny, huh?" I shot back, smirking. "Don't you mean more compact and efficient?"
Finally, at third base, the "hot corner," things got a little wild.
The coach increased the pace—hard hits one after another. Reaction time was everything.
One ball nearly took my cap off, but I caught it on instinct, the sound of leather snapping echoing through the air.
"Good glove!" someone yelled.
But right after that, the ball went near the guy on second base, and he threw it over my head. I jumped as hard as I could, but it was all for naught. The ball just kept soaring and rolled over out of the field.
"What type of a throw was that!? Is it your first day in a baseball field!?" Coach Nakano looked incensed.
*****
By the time we rotated out, both Shiro and I were caked in dust, breathing hard but laughing.
"This was way more fun than I expected," he said, stretching.
"Fun's one word for it," I replied, wiping sweat from my forehead. "I'm just trying not to lose a limb."
Next came the outfield drills.
We jogged across to the grass as Coach Hattori—a tall man with mirrored sunglasses—set up near the plate with a machine spitting out fly balls.
"Eyes on the ball!" he barked. "Track, call, catch, throw home!"
The first few went to deep left. Shiro sprinted under one, his long legs eating the distance easily, glove snapping shut. His throw home was laser-straight, bouncing once before the catcher's mitt.
"Nice arm!" someone muttered nearby.
When my turn came, the ball climbed high into the blue winter sky, sunlight glinting off it. For a moment, it vanished. I squinted, tracked the faint rotation, moved under it, and caught it clean.
"Throw to second!"
I pivoted, crow-hopped, and fired. The ball hit the coach's glove just short of the bag.
"Alright, Tanaka!" he shouted. "Good control, more follow-through next time."
We caught a few more—pop flies, line drives, cross-field relays. Shiro and I started calling for balls in tandem, yelling "Mine!" like we'd been teammates for years.
By the end, both of us were laughing breathlessly again.
"You ever think about playing outfield full-time?" he asked.
"Nah," I said, shaking my head. "Too much running. I like being closer to the action. And to be honest, the throwing action from the outfield feels a bit weird since I'm used to pitching."
Shiro stared at me for a long second and then just smiled and walked away.
After a quick water break, came batting practice.
Two batting cages side-by-side. Pitching machines whirring like angry cicadas. Each player getting ten pitches at random speeds.
When it was my turn, Coach Okabe who was personally overseeing this drill noticed my wooden bat and questioned, "A wooden bat? You clearly don't have the power for it. Why don't you take a metal one?"
"Sorry Coach but I would prefer to use a wooden bat anyway." I insisted.
He didn't continue and just nodded.
I stepped in and took my stance, tapping the bat once on my helmet like a ritual.
The first pitch came fast—mid-height. Crack. It popped up for a fly ball.
Second—inside corner. Crack. Straight to right field.
I didn't try to crush the ball, just meet it cleanly every time. The rhythm took over.
I hit a couple of foul balls and pop flies but majority of my hits went back towards the machine.
Coach Okabe watched silently from behind the net, clipboard in hand. He didn't look away even once.
When I finished, Shiro clapped. "Dude, your timing's unreal. if only you were using a metal bat, there could have been some homers in there..."
"You're up next. Why don't you show me how it's done, big guy?" I said, grinning.
He walked in, winking. "Watch and learn, Chibi-chan."
I just rolled my eyes and watched as he got in place.
His swing was pure power. The first few went foul but then—boom! One flew deep into the netting. Another followed, then another. His raw strength was on display, even if his form wasn't as tight.
The coach scribbled something down without comment.
Next was the reaction batting drill.
We stood in a line as a coach tossed softballs painted in three colors — red, blue, and white.
"Swing only at red!" he shouted. "Blue and white, let 'em go!"
The trick wasn't power—it was decision-making.
The first ball zipped in—white. I held.
Next—red. Crack.
Then blue—held again.
It was chaos around me, bats swinging at every color, shouts filling the air. But I stayed calm, watching the rotation, reading the colors early.
When I stepped out, Shiro gave a low whistle. "Man, how'd you see that red so fast?"
"Years of dodging Maki's flying pencils," I shrugged.
He blinked. "Who's Maki?"
"My cute little sister."
"Ah, say no more."
After batting drills were finished, they separated the pitchers and catchers and sent everyone else for lunch.
"Pitchers, bullpen! Catchers, gear up!" Coach Okabe called.
I followed the pitchers, while Shiro surprisingly jogged to the opposite side with the catchers.
The bullpen mound was set up with a single catcher crouched behind the plate and two assistants watching closely. Each of us got 20 pitches after warming up our shoulders.
"Whenever you're ready," said the assistant.
I exhaled, set my stance, and threw.
The first ball thudded low and inside. The next — perfect, clean pop right in the glove. My fourth pitch cut a little late, but the spin felt right. By the fifth, I could feel my rhythm clicking into place.
"Good arm," one of the coaches said. "Keep your release higher."
Across the field, I saw Shiro behind the plate—his glove snapping loud, stance steady. His movements were clean, confident. He'd definitely been catching for a while.
When our eyes met, he gave a mock salute. I grinned and returned it.
By the time we wrapped up, the sun was high, and it was time for the lunch break. Everyone was sweaty, tired, but buzzing from the excitement.
Before we could leave the field, Coach Okabe blew his whistle, silencing the chatter.
"Listen up! Half of you will not return after lunch."
A ripple of tension spread instantly.
He glanced at his clipboard, scanning the names. "I'll call those dismissed now. The rest—be ready for the scrimmage this afternoon."
One by one, names were read. Some kids sighed, others cursed under their breath. One even stomped away in tears.
I stood frozen, heartbeat pounding. Shiro beside me had gone silent too.
After a dozen names, then two dozen… he stopped.
Neither of us were called.
'Still in.'
I exhaled quietly, exchanging a quick fist bump with Shiro.
Okabe closed his clipboard. "Those who remain—eat well, hydrate, and come back ready. After lunch, we play real baseball."
As we walked off toward the benches, Shiro stretched and yawned. "Looks like we survived another round."
"Obviously," I said with a smirk.
He grinned, patting my shoulder. "Then let's cruise through the next one as well."
The wind picked up, carrying the faint scent of dirt and grass. The field gleamed under the midday sun, and for the first time that day, I allowed myself to breathe.
The scrimmage would decide everything.