The mound.
The pitcher's palace.
Finally, I was standing atop it.
Not just because the game had shifted, but because it was finally my turn. My turn to show what I got.
The dirt was cool under my cleats, the faint imprint of Kentaro's steps still visible. I crouched down, brushed the rubber once with my fingers, and breathed in deep. My glove fit snuggly, my heartbeat even, everything eerily silent. There was no crown, no cheers, no spectators.
'Time to lock in.'
I narrowed all my senses to the steady sound of Shiro thumping his mitt behind home plate.
He crouched low, mask glinting under the sunlight, then gave me a quick nod. "Let's have some fun, partner."
I smiled faintly. "Yeah. Let's."
Coach Nakano shouted from the dugout, "Alright, settle in! Two innings left. Don't make me regret this decision!"
Shiro shot me a grin from under his mask. "No pressure."
"None at all," I muttered back, taking my stance.
The first batter stepped up — tall, muscular, older than me by at least three years. He looked like the kind of kid who lived for fastballs.
Shiro raised one finger and tapped the inside corner with his glove — fastball, inside edge.
A simple beginning.
I nodded. Wind-up, step, throw.
The ball zipped in, thudding right into Shiro's mitt with a satisfying pop.
"Strike one!" the umpire barked.
The batter blinked, surprised by the speed. It wasn't anything amazing, but he didn't expect a small kid like me would throw anywhere near 80mph.
'Good start,' I thought.
Shiro gave a tiny signal again — two fingers, curved slightly. Curveball, low outside.
I took a breath, rolled my wrist, and threw.
The pitch arced smoothly, dipping just as it neared the plate. The batter swung too early, the ball disappearing under his bat.
"Strike two!"
Shiro tossed the ball back and said loud enough for everyone to hear, "You're too fast for him! Keep going!"
I raised an eyebrow but trusted him. But when he crouched down and signaled for a changeup, I knew he loved toying with the batters.
'Haha! I like him more and more with every second.'
I wound up and threw exactly like I would any other fastball, but it was a changeup, middle-out.
The swing came again — desperate, wide, and late.
"Strike three!"
A clean start.
As the next batter approached, Shiro jogged to the mound. He squatted beside me, lowering his voice. "He's crowding the plate. Let's make him step back early. One high and tight, then go for the outside."
I just stared for a second, half impressed, half amused. "You sound like you've done this before."
He smirked. "You'll see."
The next pitch — high fastball, inside, right into his chest — forced the batter to stumble back.
Shiro was right. The guy hesitated on the next one, giving me an opening to drop another low curve.
He swung and barely made contact. Hitting it straight up in the air for Shiro to catch.
"Two Outs!" "Two Outs!"
I could feel my confidence growing. My rhythm settling. Every time Shiro flashed a sign, it was like we were already on the same wavelength. He didn't just call random pitches — he read the hitters, adjusted to their body language, anticipated how they'd react.
The third batter was tougher. Left-handed. Waited out the first two pitches — a fastball and a curveball — both just off the zone.
Shiro called for another fastball next, motioning subtly toward the outside.
I delivered.
The batter connected — a hard hit, right outside the foul line.
Another fastball to the outside — another foul ball. Next one high into his chest but yet another foul. After hitting a couple more into the foul territory, I knew he had a good read on most of my pitches.
Shiro signaled for a low changeup. The perfect pitch to throw the batter off.
'As long as I keep it low, he won't be able to touch it.'
I got in motion and wound up. Pulled in my left arm and threw the pitch. My arm swinging with full force, but the ball travelling much slower. The changeup gliding around waist height but dipping more and more as it travelled towards the batter. Fading into the knees of the batter, the ball taking the best trajectory possible.
'Strikeout!'
Twong!!
The ball bounced straight to second who lasered it to first for the last out.
'He still made contact.'
I was wondering where I had gone wrong when I felt a tap on my shoulder. "Your changeup was perfect. You just need a better, faster fastball." It was Shiro while pulling off his mask.
"I might be too old to for that sh*t."
"Hey!! Aren't you too young for such words!?" Shiro stared flabbergasted.
'That slipped out... I'm just a 12 year-old now!'
"Oh yeah, sorry, it was a joke."
He just looked at me suspiciously but then turned back to walk to the dugout. I followed silently.
'Anyway, I need to focus on batting now. My fastball will improve as I grow up more.'
As we reached the dugout I shook my head. "Honestly, your leads make it so much easier to pitch. You're like a mind reader."
He shrugged. "Nah. Just been catching since I was six. You pick up things. And besides…" he leaned closer, whispering, "…you've got that scary calm face on the mound. It makes them nervous. Even with that small size."
"Fake it 'til you make it," I said, bumping his shoulder with my glove.
When our turn to bat came, I found myself fifth in the order. Shiro was right before me.
We were still trailing 3–1, but the momentum had shifted. The dugout that was silent before now had players moving with purpose.
The innings started with the third batter.
Even after fouling out the first two pitches deep into foul territory, and looking like he might hit a big one, he struck out chasing a changeup.
Shiro stepped up, rolling his shoulders as the previous batter walked back with a sulking figure. The pitcher — a lanky right-hander — had been dominant all game. First in the infield as the short and later as the pitcher, but fatigue had started to show in the dip of his elbow and the slower windup.
First pitch — a curve that hung just a little too long.
Twong!!
The sound echoed across the field.
The ball sailed over the shortstop's head, bouncing into left field. A solid single.
The Red Team cheered.
"Nice one, Mr. White!" I called with a smirk as he took his lead off first base.
He smirked back at me. "Your turn, Chibi-chan."
I gripped my wooden bat and walked to the plate. My heart was steady. All those months of training — the endless swings, the cold mornings, the drills — had led to this.
"He is definitely gonna get hurt trying to swing that wooden stick around!" I heard from my own team's bench.
Who else could it be but Kentaro Nakano.
'Still trying to mess with me, I see... I am much older and should be calmer but damn it, this guy is annoying!'
I took my stance and knocked the bat on my head. Focused myself and zoned everything out.
The first pitch was fast, outside. I let it go.
I readied myself for pitch two but from the edge of my vision I noticed Shiro taking off, stealing the base.
The second — a little lower. Another ball. But I swung, exaggeratedly. Missing the ball by a wide margin and pretended to stumble across the plate to block the catcher's view.
He took a step to the side and threw a rocket fast throw over the mound, but it wasn't enough.
"Safe!"
Now with a runner on second, the pitcher and catcher had a short timeout before deciding on any further strategies. The catcher walked back giving me a side-stare.
Shiro, on the other hand, was beaming brightly, grinning and waving at me like a giant idiot.
'I'm bringing him home for sure!' I laughed to myself and focused on the pitcher.
The third pitch came — middle-in, fastball.
Perfect height.
Perfect path.
I swung.
The bat met the ball with a clean, sharp crack that resonated deep in my chest. It shot over the first baseman and bounced a few times before reaching the corner. Probably the furthest distance it could have been from any fielder.
Shiro was already sprinting past third, his long legs eating up the distance. I ran through first, towards second, as the fielder picked up the ball, adrenaline coursing through me. The ball reached the second base right after I slid into it, feet first. The shortstop didn't even bother tagging me.
"Safe!" the umpire called.
Shiro had already hopped past home plate for our second run.
3–2.
One run. Just one run between us now.
Just one out and a batter on second. We had the momentum. The next batter tried to keep things going and bunted to advance me to the third base but now we had two outs.
The pitcher however suddenly put on a solid display of control to paint the corners and got the seventh batter to hit a grounder to the shortstop.
We didn't score again that inning, but the mood was electric. When I stepped back onto the mound for the top of the sixth, my pulse was steady.
The White Team wanted insurance runs, and I wasn't about to let them have any.
The first hitter tried to bunt. I reacted fast, charging in and throwing to first for the out.
The next batter fouled off two fastballs before grounding out to second.
Two outs.
Shiro signaled again — one finger, then a fist.
Fastball, high and tight, followed by curve low.
The batter swung through the high one, then lunged for the curve.
I was pitching for contact, and the batter followed the script by hitting it straight into the glove of Fujii at first.
The inning was over.
When we came off the field, Coach Okabe was standing by the fence, arms crossed. His expression, unreadable. His thoughts, unknown.
Shiro noticed too. "You think he liked that?" he said quietly.
"I don't know," I replied, exhaling deeply. "But it's not over yet."
Our last chance at bat came and went quickly. Two groundouts and a pop fly ended the game before we could tie it.
Final score: 3–2.
But as the whistle blew, there wasn't disappointment in the air.
Coach Okabe gathered both teams near home plate, his gaze sweeping over us. "Good game. Some of you surprised me today. Some of you still need work. But that's the point of this — to see who can rise when it matters."
His eyes landed briefly on me and Shiro. Just for a second. But that was enough.
As we walked off the field, Shiro elbowed me lightly. "You think we did enough?"
I looked back at the diamond, glowing under the sinking sun, the chalk lines catching the last bit of light. I even noticed Kentaro being his smug self, surrounded by a few others.
I looked back at him, "Yeah," I said quietly. "I think we did."
And I wasn't just saying that to console myself, I actually believed it.