The alarm went off before the sun even rose.
I blinked at the ceiling for a few seconds, letting the quiet hum of early morning fill my ears. No rush, no panic. Just the familiar rhythm I'd built over months.
Another morning run. Another step forward.
I slipped out of bed, laced up my running shoes, and climbed down the stairs careful not to wake Maki. The air outside was cool and sharp, still tinted with dawn. The streets were mostly empty except for a few cyclists and the distant whirr of delivery trucks.
I felt a little sore from the tryouts the past couple of days, but my feet hit the pavement in a steady rhythm and soon enough, the world around me blurred into movement. Each breath misted in front of me, each step a reminder of how far I'd come since that first awkward jog months ago.
I wasn't just running anymore. I was training.
By the time I got back home, the sun was up. Familiar scents drifted from the kitchen where Mom was preparing breakfast.
"Morning, Riku," Mom said, smiling as I stepped in sweat dripping from my temple. "Not gonna rest even after the tryouts?"
"Can't skip routine," I said, grabbing a towel.
Dad was already gone — a client meeting in Yokohama — but he'd left a note on the counter:
"Good luck today, slugger. – Dad"
That alone was enough.
*****
Mom looked back from the kitchen with a huge knowing smile, "Big day today, huh?"
"Yeah," I said, sitting down for breakfast. "First practice."
She nodded, pride flashing in her eyes. "When will you be back?"
"Considering the travel time, I might be back around nine."
Maki squealed from the side, half asleep but still ready in her uniform. "9 P.M. at night!?"
"No no, I will be back at nine in the morning tomorrow." I shook my head.
Maki yawned in her seat, taking spoonfuls from her bowl like a robot. "You're gonna be famous before I even get to middle school," she muttered sleepily.
I laughed. "Then you better start painting now. Can't have my sister lagging behind in fame."
*****
School passed in a blur.
Math, English, History — all felt like background noise compared to the constant pulse of anticipation in my chest. The only one who noticed was Shinji.
He leaned over during lunch, eyeing me suspiciously. "You've been zoning out all day. What's up?"
I smirked. "Tryouts were this weekend."
His eyes widened. "No way! The Setagaya Little League?"
I scoffed sarcastically. "No, The NPB tryouts."
"RIKU!! Did you make it?!"
"What do you think?" I said, looking up with a small grin.
He slammed his hands on the table. "You did, didn't you?! Dude, that's insane!"
A few nearby students turned to look, and he lowered his voice. "That's like... the top team in the whole ward! You actually made it?"
"Guess so," I said, shrugging. "Though someone almost screwed me over."
"What do you mean?"
I shook my head, smiling faintly. "Long story. Tell you later."
He grinned. "Man, I knew you were serious about this baseball thing, but this is next level. You're gonna leave us behind."
"Relax," I said. "I'll still let you copy my math homework."
"Yeah, right. Instead, you'll be signing autographs before finals."
I chuckled, "Maki said the same thing."
The rest of the day went by in a blur of half-focused lessons, lingering excitement, and the occasional whisper from classmates who'd somehow already heard about the tryouts.
By the final bell, I could barely sit still.
*****
Dad was still tied up at work, so I was on my own — and honestly, I preferred it that way.
I slung my bag and everything over my shoulder after changing into my training gear and left the school by 3:30. Soon I reached the Meguro station and followed the familiar sound of the JR Yamanote Line platforms.
I could clearly hear that dingy metallic tone followed by the gentle voice of the announcer: "Yamanote-sen… bound for Shibuya. Doors closing."
I slipped into the car just before the chime ended, my gear bag slung over my shoulder. Mom had offered to drive me, but I told her I'd take the public transport instead. It felt right — like something I should be doing on my own.
The ride was quiet, filled with the low rumble of the tracks and the occasional announcement in the background. Outside the window, the gray buildings of Meguro blurred into motion — Ebisu, then the tunnel stretch, then finally Shibuya.
When I got out at Shibuya, I realized something.
'I had forgotten what chaos Shibuya was back in the day.'
It all hit me like a train — the walls plastered with music ads, students in uniforms laughing near the Hachiko exit, and waves of office workers flowing through ticket gates.
I squeezed through the crowd and followed the green signs and boarded the next express bound for Futako-Tamagawa.
The train was newer and cleaner than the Yamanote — white walls, green stripes, bright LED lights. The city thinned out with each passing station and by the time I got off, the skyscrapers had turned into low suburban homes, and the air outside smelled faintly of rain.
'Now to the bus.'
After about a twelve minute ride in the bus that I took from the Tokyo Bus Stop, I saw the long awaited scenery of the stands and parking space surrounding my team's field.
My Team.
When I finally entered the Setagaya Little League Grounds after travelling for about 50 minutes, the golden light of late afternoon was spilling across the diamond. A few kids were already there, tossing balls, stretching, or chatting in groups.
I spotted Shiro first — cap hanging sideways, waving like a maniac.
"Chibi-chan! Over here!" he shouted, loud enough to turn every head.
I jogged over. "You ever not yell?"
"Not when I'm excited," he grinned. "Can you believe this? We're actually here. Officially."
Before I could answer, another voice chimed in. "You two again."
Rento Saito walked up, easygoing as ever, his cap tilted back. "Looks like the Red Team reunion's in full swing."
"Guess so," I said, grinning. "You made it too."
He chuckled. "Thought they'd cut all the outfielders this year. Guess someone up there likes me."
Shiro nudged him. "Or maybe Coach Okabe liked that diving catch you made."
Rento smirked. "I'll take either."
As more players gathered, the field began to fill with energy — mitts snapping, cleats grinding into dirt, the low chatter of introductions. Some faces from the White Team, some from the Red. Most I had seen before with the captain last evening.
Coach Okabe's whistle cut through the air. "Alright, form up!"
We lined up quickly, the senior players — including Ren Iwasaki, the captain — standing near the front, arms crossed.
His tone carried the same weight it had during tryouts. "Welcome to the team. Some of you are new. Most returning. But from this moment, you're all part of the same roster. Starting today, you're all part of Setagaya Little League. That means you represent more than just yourself. You represent this team, this district, and the name on your jersey."
He scanned through our faces, pausing for a long second. "Training isn't going to be easy. But you made it here because you earned it. Don't waste that."
Coach Okabe nodded once and ended with a loud yell. "Warm-up jog, then stretching! Captain's lead!"
Ren simply nodded once and started running, the rest of us following.
The rhythm came naturally — footsteps, breathing, the thud of the field beneath us. I matched my pace with Shiro's, who was already complaining about the length of the run.
"Does he think we're training for a marathon?" Shiro gasped.
I grinned. "You can catch a hundred pitches but can't jog a few laps?"
"I save my energy for the important stuff."
Rento laughed from behind us. "Important stuff like talking nonstop?"
"Exactly!" Shiro replied proudly.
We heard a snicker from the back of the group. "The new guys seem fun."
I turned slightly to notice it was the same gays from yesterday who were laughing while Coach Okabe lost his temper.
By the time the drills started — fielding, throwing, base running — I could feel the difference already. The tempo was higher, sharper. Mistakes weren't scolded, but they weren't ignored either. Every throw, every swing mattered.
During fielding practice, I was paired with Hiroto Shimizu, the shortstop who'd made that amazing diving catch during tryouts. He was quiet but sharp — the type who didn't talk much but whose throws never missed. Every grounder I sent his way came back perfectly chest high. We didn't need to speak. Just nods, reflex, and rhythm.
Still, amidst the sweating and panting, something about it felt right — like this was where I was supposed to be.
During a short break, I found myself catching my breath beside Shiro and Rento under the shade of the dugout.
Shiro nudged me with his elbow. "So, how's it feel? Day one on the team."
I looked out at the field, at the players still tossing balls across the diamond, at the white jerseys shining in the late sunlight.
"…Feels like the start of something big," Shiro said quietly.
Rento nodded. "Yeah. It does."
I just grinned. "I'm definitely not going to miss you guys when I get to the Majors"
They both looked at me pretending to be hurt.
The whistle blew again. We stood up, gloves ready, the next drill already waiting.
And as I jogged back onto the field, the words of Coach Okabe from the day before echoed in my head.
'This jersey doesn't mean you've arrived. It means you've started.'
I tightened my glove.
'Then let's start.'