After lunch, the mood was different.
Gone were the casual stretches and chatter from the morning. The remaining players stood in two lines along the dugouts — gloves on, caps down, faces laser sharp with focus. Only about twenty-five of us left. Every single one looked like they belonged here.
Even the sunlight felt harsher, bouncing off the freshly raked infield. Coach Okabe stood at home plate again, clipboard tucked under his arm, his voice booming around us all, demanding complete attention.
"Alright, listen up! We're splitting into two teams — Red and White. Six innings. I want to see how you play when it counts. Not how fast you run, not how pretty your form is. How you think when the game's alive."
His eyes scanned the rows.
"Red Team — Nakano, Fujii, Watanabe..., Anderson… and Tanaka."
I caught Shiro's grin from a few feet away. "Guess we're teammates again."
"Guess so," I muttered.
Coach Okabe smirked faintly. "You'll all get time on the field and at bat. Pitchers and catchers, rotate every two innings. The rest of you—treat it like a real game. No showboating. No laziness. Play ball!"
The assistant coaches handed out colored vests, scuffed balls, and a few words of caution. Coach Nakano was assigned to manage our team and thus we were lined up in front of him. Team Red.
"Choose your starters and batting order. You guys are fielding first. I'll tell you when the battery has to change." We heard his uninterested voice as he barely looked at us before walking away.
Right after he left, one of the kids started giving out orders and positions before assigning himself as the pitcher and the person next to him as the catcher. They were also in the cleanup hole in the batting order.
"Who died and made him king?" Shiro asked as both of us were not part of the team and were left as the substitutes.
"A taller than usual guy from behind him spoke up, "That's Kentaro Nakano."
"Ohkay... and?"
"Coach Nakano's nephew."
"Yeah, so?" Shiro was either an extremely simple guy for not understanding nepotism or he was too dumb to follow the breadcrumbs.
I gave him a light slap on his head. "So, everyone is listening to him to curry favor and maybe increase their chances to enter the team. And even if they aren't, no one wants to antagonize him just to find themselves thrown out of the team.
"Wow! That could actually happen?" Shiro asked with genuine surprise.
I just nodded and spoke, "So we probably shouldn't make it any worse than it already is."
"Wait, what? Any Worse? But it's not even bad yet." Shiro tilted his head not understanding my thoughts.
"He probably noticed us during practice earlier. Look around you... everyone not in the starting lineup was one of the best performers in practices." I sighed before continuing. "He probably doesn't plan to give us any chances to perform and outshine him."
"But that shouldn't be allowed!"
"And who is going to stop him? The coach who is his uncle... or the teammates who want his support to get in the team?"
Although I said this, I still walked over to Nakano. "Hey, I am a pitcher and good in the infield and a good batter. Riku Tanaka."
"Alright, I'll switch you in if I need you." Then like a kid, he turned to his 'lackeys' and whispered, "Like I'll ever need a pipsqueak."
They all snickered as I walked back realizing these are kids.
'I'm gonna kill him if I don't get in because of his antics.'
*****
Soon, my team was spread out across the field — the familiar sounds of gloves popping, cleats scraping, and bats clinking echoed across the diamond.
I was sitting on the bench with Shiro and the others, watching everything from the sidelines.
I could already tell from the first warm-up throws that this was different. Everyone was much more serious and focused. Our team's pitcher, Kentaro Nakano — tall, broad-shouldered — threw hard, easily topping 85 mph. His control wavered, but there was power behind every motion. He probably wasn't the best pitcher, but he had enough skill to reach here on his own.
The first inning began, and we continued to follow the action from the dugout.
The White Team's leadoff hitter jammed the second pitch right to the second base who easily threw it to the first for the out. The second batter fouled out a few pitches before hitting it straight to the shortstop, who scooped it clean and fired to first in one motion.
The pop of the glove reached me before the cheer as the third batter hit a pop fly down the left field to bring the innings to an end.
Kentaro walked back in with a smug smile, with others swarming him, throwing more praises towards him than his ego could handle.
Before long, their pitcher had warmed up, and the leadoff man of our team entered the batter's box.
Ball.
Strike.
Strike.
Fwoosh! Strikeout!
A slider following those fastballs was too much for him and thus went down swinging. Something similar happened to the next two who stepped up to the plate. Both swung without ever making contact with the pitches.
It was a dominant display by the White team's pitcher.
The second innings started with the cleanup crew of the other team, and it showed. The first pitch by Kentaro — fastball in the outside corner — was met with the resistance of a metal bat. Although it wasn't a very pretty hit, it crossed the infield for a base hit.
The next batter followed him with another single straight down the center field.
Now batters on the first and second with no outs and Kentaro was visibly red. It was probably a mix of shame and anger which he was taking out on the fielder nearest to him.
First two pitches to the next batter went outside the zone for balls.
The third pitch — another fastball, high and inside — too close to the batter to get a good hit. But regardless of it all, he swung with all his might and connected, sending it deep in the right field.
The fielder caught it a foot before the wall and threw it to the relay but the players on first and second successfully tagged and advanced to the next bases.
Kentaro strutted back into the dugout like he'd just pitched a perfect game. His chest puffed, smile wide. "See that?" he boasted loudly, tossing his glove on the bench. "Did you see that? Double play! Defense wins games, baby!"
I glanced at Shiro, who was biting his lip — not from awe, but from trying not to laugh.
"Yeah," I whispered, smirking, "defense that someone else pulled off."
Shiro snorted. It slipped out louder than intended.
Kentaro's grin vanished. His head snapped toward us.
"You got something to say, blondie?" His tone dripping with irritation.
Shiro raised his hands, feigning innocence. "Nah, just agreeing with you, man. Great double play. That shortstop really carried the team out there."
I covered my face with my glove, pretending to cough, but it didn't hide the laugh.
Kentaro stood up, face redder than before. "You think that's funny, huh? Maybe if you two ever got off the bench, you'd know what real baseball looks like."
I looked up at him calmly. "We'd love to. Just say the word."
For a moment, his jaw worked like he was trying to chew through his pride. Then he scoffed. "Yeah, right. Like I'd let you two clowns on my field. You'd probably mess up my ERA."
The few boys around him laughed nervously, though their eyes darted between us and him like they didn't want to pick a side.
Shiro leaned closer to me, whispering, "You think his ERA includes inherited arrogance?"
I nearly choked.
That did it.
Kentaro slammed his glove onto the bench. "You got a big mouth, Blondie. Maybe you should save it for your next team. Oh wait—if you even get picked."
Shiro stood up, taller by half a head. "At least I'll get picked for my game, not my uncle."
A sharp silence fell over the dugout. Even the assistant coach at the far end turned his head slightly.
For a long second, Kentaro just glared at him. His jaw twitched, and for a moment I thought he'd actually take a swing.
But then, instead, he turned toward the field, barking, "Next rotation! Change outfielders only. Battery stays the same!"
That was supposed to be the end of it. Even though Coach Okabe said he wanted to switch the battery every two innings, Coach Nakano ignored mostly everything that was happening. Not because of his nephew but looked like he was genuinely just not interested in it.
But fate — and karma — had other plans.
Two innings later, Kentaro's control started crumbling. His fastballs were all over the place — high, low, and once almost hitting the batter in the shoulder. The White Team jumped on every mistake.
By the end of the fourth inning, the score was 3 - 1 in their favor.
Coach Nakano finally got up from the folding chair near the bench, his arms crossed.
"Kentaro!" he called out. "That's enough for now. Take a break."
"But, Coach, I—"
"You heard me. Sit down."
Kentaro's protest died under his uncle's glare. He stomped back to the dugout, kicking dirt the whole way. His teammates looked anywhere but at him.
I kept my mouth shut. Mostly.
Shiro didn't.
"Man," he said softly, leaning toward me, "I thought he said defense wins games."
I couldn't help it — I snorted again.
That's when I felt Kentaro's stare.If looks could kill, Shiro and I would've been buried six feet under the dugout.
Coach Nakano walked over to the bench, scanning the remaining players. "Who hasn't had field time yet?"
I raised my hand.
"Me too," said Shiro beside me.
He nodded. "Good. You two are in. Tanaka, you pitch the last two innings. Anderson, you catch."
Kentaro nearly jumped up. "Wait—what? Coach, you can't be serious! You're putting them in? We're already behind! They'll just mess it up!"
Coach Nakano didn't even look at him. "That's enough, Kentaro. Sit down and watch how others play."
For once, Kentaro had no comeback. He sank onto the bench, jaw tight, fists clenched.
Shiro and I exchanged a look — half disbelief, half excitement.
"Guess we're in," he said quietly.
"Guess so," I replied, slipping my glove on. "Let's make it count."