To the Battlefield (1)
“Those whose names are called, step forward and receive your uniforms.”
Coach Maeda Katsuyori of the Seisho High School baseball team made the announcement.
Even with more than a hundred sturdy boys standing there, the field remained utterly silent.
Of everyone present, only twenty would earn the right to join this summer’s journey to Koshien.
Every single one of them held his breath, waiting for his turn.
“Number 1! Maejima Genta!”
The first name Coach Maeda called was the third-year pitcher Maejima Genta.
He was the one who had worn number 1 since last fall’s Tokyo tournament.
In the end, he had protected the ace number all the way to the final stage of high school baseball.
He had wavered for a stretch, yet in the recent four-school tournament final he had pitched a strong seven innings, allowing only two runs.
“Here.”
“Thanks.”
“Give it everything.”
“Of course.”
Genta took the uniform and steeled himself.
The one holding the number 1 jersey was the baseball team’s third-year manager, Fukada Riko.
She ran the managers with care and devoted herself completely to the players, earning deep respect throughout the club; that was why she had been given the honor of presenting the uniforms.
“Number 2! Matsuda Masahiro!”
The second name called belonged to the immovable starting catcher and cleanup hitter, third-year Matsuda Masahiro.
No one doubted for a second that he would receive the number 2 jersey.
Names continued to be called.
As long as the single-digit numbers were being announced, there was little real tension in the air.
Everything felt too predictable; everyone could already see that the status quo would hold.
“Number 6! Shirakawa Satoru!”
The sixth name called was the team captain, starting shortstop, and leadoff hitter—third-year Shirakawa Satoru.
Number 6, the shortstop’s number, was naturally his.
“Screw around and you’re dead.”
“Huh?”
“Just go already.”
“Yeah…”
Satoru, longtime friends with Riko, tried to grin and joke as he reached for the uniform, only to get an earful for it.
She had always scolded him for lacking the proper gravity expected of a captain.
“Number 9! Sanada Atsushi!”
The ninth name called was, as expected, the starting outfielder and cleanup man, second-year Sanada Atsushi.
It was already considered a given that he would take over the cleanup spot next year once Masahiro graduated, and professional scouts already regarded him as one of the top high-school hitters in the country.
“Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it.”
Atsushi accepted the uniform with a polite bow. He was the quiet type who simply did what needed doing, so Riko kept a comfortable distance and left him be.
A collective swallow of nerves.
Uniforms had now been handed out for the nine positions that would actually take the field.
Raw ability mattered, of course, but so did the quiet, steady presence a player had maintained all year; both factors decided who received the higher numbers.
“Number 10! Nakayama Junichi!”
Now the two-digit numbers began, and the tension spiked sharply.
Nakayama Junichi, the pitcher who ranked just behind Maejima Genta and had held his place through sheer diligence, claimed his uniform as well.
Unlike the somewhat stiff Genta, Junichi’s easygoing nature and exemplary attitude in practice had earned him genuine popularity among the members.
“Number 16! Sakuragi Hirotaka!”
The number 16 jersey went to third-year outfielder Sakuragi Hirotaka.
He rarely started, yet his chances of making the final roster were high.
Scattered sounds of nervous swallowing and trembling breaths began to rise across the field.
Only four numbers remained.
Up through 16 the results had still fallen within everyone’s expectations. The next few might still be guessable.
But the atmosphere had changed completely.
Every first-, second-, and third-year standing on this field was now a direct rival.
The ones holding their breath the hardest were the third-years.
Most of them had never once appeared in an official game.
The friend who had comforted me yesterday, the teammate who insisted there would still be hope once we reached university—any of them might snatch a uniform right out from under me.
“Number 17! Enatsu Akira!”
“Haaah…”
Akira let out a rough breath.
This time he had truly believed he might not receive a number at all.
Yet he had earned it.
He had run harder than anyone, thrown more than anyone. Even in his dreams he had obsessed over how to lock down his control and disrupt a batter’s timing.
He had decided that simply claiming a uniform number would be enough, regardless of how far he went in the Koshien preliminaries, and only after that single-minded effort had the fruit finally come.
“You worked hard, Enatsu.”
“Yes…”
Enatsu accepted the uniform from Riko while fighting back the tears that threatened to spill from pure emotion.
“Number 18! Hongo Yukihisa!”
An expression that said none of this was any big deal.
Yukihisa walked forward without a word toward Riko, who held the number 18 jersey.
“Give it everything.”
“Yes.”
He bowed his head in thanks and took the uniform.
What Yukihisa was aiming for was nothing less than the Koshien preliminaries themselves. Receiving a uniform was merely a checkpoint along the way.
Eighteen players now held jerseys; only two spots remained.
Not a single member of the club had expected Yukihisa to miss the final twenty.
Now the remaining candidates truly stood with their backs against the wall.
“Number 19! Hoshino Daisuke!”
The moment first-year infielder Hoshino Daisuke received the nineteenth uniform, the reactions of those left empty-handed split sharply.
The first-years stared with surprise and open awe.
The second-years hovered somewhere between regret and admiration.
Among the third-years, several could no longer hold their heads up.
Daisuke approached Riko with a slightly dazed look.
“Hey, snap out of it.”
“Ah—yes! Sorry!”
Despite his massive frame he looked completely lost, and Riko laughed as she teased him.
Before anyone could even finish processing the fact that a first-year had made the twenty-man roster, the next name rang out.
“Number 20! Yamada Tetsuya!”
Another first-year.
Catcher Yamada Tetsuya.
Even with two catchers already on the roster, Coach Maeda had chosen to include the first-year backstop.
“Fight hard.”
“Yes!”
Unlike the flustered Daisuke, Tetsuya stood tall and sharp.
From the day he first put on a catcher’s mask in elementary school he had always been the best. Through third year of middle school he had been the starting catcher and cleanup hitter without fail.
The boy who had dominated the middle-school stage, received countless scouting offers, and finally chosen Seisho now held the right to fight this summer.
All twenty members had been announced. Coach Maeda walked toward the assembled club.
Several third-years could no longer hold back; they hung their heads and let the tears fall.
“I am sorry to those of you who will not share this summer with us.”
Coach Maeda began to speak to the players.
“The sweat and tears you poured onto this field over three years will become powerful weapons for the rest of your lives. Whenever hardship comes, I want you to remember the moments you fought for baseball.”
Normally stern, the coach’s voice now carried a quiet warmth as he comforted them.
In the end high school baseball was not merely a stepping stone to the pros. It was a stage for boys still receiving their education.
This field did not exist to produce major leaguers; it existed to help unfinished boys grow before they stepped out into society. That was what Coach Maeda believed.
“Those of you selected for the twenty—never forget that you now represent this school. Strive even harder.”
“Yes, sir!”
Captain Satoru answered for them all.
“And managers! Thank you for everything you do for the players. I’m counting on you at Koshien as well.”
“Yes!”
Riko answered for the managers, acknowledging the coach’s recognition of their work.
And so some set out for the battlefield that led to Meiji Jingu Stadium and Koshien Stadium, while for others club activities had ended. Yet each individual’s fight would continue long after this day.
“Haru-chan, you seem a little down today.”
“Ah! I’m sorry.”
“There, there.”
Her face had grown slightly dark.
Habit kept her working hard, yet Nagasawa Haruka’s hands moved without any real spirit.
Fukada Riko gently stroked her hair.
“You’re thinking about the members who didn’t get uniforms, aren’t you?”
“……Yes.”
Haruka nodded.
As a first-year manager she had witnessed the same scene last year.
Some received uniforms and joined the most important summer of their lives—the Koshien preliminaries—while others never once took the field and had to abandon their dreams.
Back then she had been too overwhelmed as a new first-year to fully understand how they felt.
But she had now been a baseball manager for more than a year. She had watched with her own eyes how hard these boys practiced, and that made the emotions cut far deeper.
“I understand how you feel, but we still have to give everything we’ve got. After all, every one of them is hoping we make it to Koshien.”
“Yes.”
Haruka could only answer that she understood.
Of course, for every ounce of pity she felt for the players left behind, her own desire to see Seisho’s baseball team walk onto the Koshien stage had grown even stronger since becoming a manager.
Everyone was pouring sweat toward that same stage.
“And it looks like everyone’s been fired up.”
“Huh?”
“Over there.”
Riko, who had stepped out of the equipment shed first, rested a hand on Haruka’s shoulder and pointed.
“Ah……”
Haruka saw the members still training hard in the late evening light.
At this hour they should have finished weight training long ago, yet they were practicing as if the day had only just begun.
She almost worried their hands would fall apart from how many times they were swinging the bats.
“Satoru’s grinning like an idiot again.”
While Riko pointed out the captain’s usual lack of dignity, Haruka’s eyes found someone else.
Hongo-kun.
There was Hongo Yukihisa, absorbing an enormous practice load without ever showing a hint of strain.
Once a highly anticipated talent, he had suddenly vanished and disappointed everyone, only to return.
The Yukihisa who came back was no longer someone who needed encouragement.
In a short time he had become a man who earned everyone’s trust.
The number he had received was 18.
In high school baseball, number 1 was the ace’s number, but in the professional ranks number 18 was the legendary ace number.
Giving Yukihisa 18 had been the coach’s decision.
Maybe…
Haruka thought.
Perhaps it wasn’t simply because he was a second-year with little high-school experience that he had been given a later number. Perhaps Coach Maeda hoped to see Yukihisa wear 18 and perform like the legendary Japanese pitchers who had made that number famous.
“Shio-ring!”
“Aaah.”
Inside a pretty café in Tokyo’s Nerima District famous for its chocolate cake, Hirose Satsuki threw her arms around her close first-year underclassman, Higuchi Shiori.
“It’s been forever!”
“……Hirose-senpai, do people normally call three days ‘forever’?”
Still wrapped in Satsuki’s hug, Shiori spoke with a faintly exasperated expression.
Very few people could pull that kind of face out of the normally expressionless Shiori.
“Higuchi, what do you want to drink?”
“Iced Americano, decaf.”
“Got it.”
In contrast to the noisy Satsuki, Wakui Naomi calmly confirmed Shiori’s order as if this were just another ordinary day.
“So why did you suddenly call me out today?”
“Well, um, about that…”
Shiori cut straight to business.
Satsuki nodded a little more carefully than usual.
“Ah……”
When she heard what Satsuki wanted, Shiori looked startled.
It was a question about whether she knew anything about the second-year boy Hongo Yukihisa.
“I’ve heard people say they’ve seen you two together sometimes.”
“Is that so?”
Shiori scratched her head at Naomi’s words.
“Looks like Sacchan’s interested in him. You don’t have to take it too seriously, but… when I looked into it recently, the girls who’ve been close to Hongo-kun since first year never really liked us much.”
“Ah……”
Naomi spoke carefully to their first-year underclassman.
Shiori roughly understood why they were bringing this up with her.
There simply hadn’t been anyone else who could talk about Hongo.
And…
If they had dug around about him, they had probably also heard about his less-than-admirable past behavior.
“Higuchi, you don’t know anything about Hongo-kun?”
Shiori hesitated over what to say.
Honestly…
Her impression of him was not good.
Even now it was only somewhat diluted.
Not long after enrollment he had harassed her, and he had even made crude remarks in front of her childhood friend Kajima Yusuke, leading to a clash.
Still…
Because Yusuke loved baseball and was a fan of Seisho’s team, she had heard about Hongo’s recent return.
Yusuke himself had clearly been careful about mentioning Yukihisa around her, but from what little she gathered, he seemed to be living diligently these days.
Most importantly, he had not approached her again since that day.
Yet he had still been a rude man toward her.
She wasn’t sure whether, as a fellow girl, she ought to warn her precious friend Satsuki to be careful, or whether she should simply stay quiet.
“Well…”
After thinking it over, Shiori opened her mouth.
“I don’t really know anything, so I think it would be best if Hirose-senpai just talked to him herself.”
“Really?”
Huh?
The moment the words left her mouth, Satsuki’s face brightened, leaving Shiori puzzled.
“Great, decided! I’ll try meeting him tomorrow. Thanks, Shio-ring!”
“Sacchan, the baseball team has a game tomorrow, so Hongo-kun won’t be around.”
“Oh?”
Satsuki nodded at Naomi’s remark.
Impressive.
Listening quietly, Shiori felt a spark of admiration.
As far as she knew, Naomi didn’t know much about baseball. Had she looked into it just for her friend Satsuki?
Yusuke…
Shiori thought of her friend’s name.
The important summer Koshien preliminaries were beginning.
Somewhere, someone was probably holding their breath in anticipation.
Of course, excitement, nerves, and hope for this summer’s Koshien preliminaries filled nearly every student and teacher at Seisho.