No Matter How Many Times (1)
“...”
Not bad.
I had poured everything into recovery. I worked to keep my feel sharp while doing everything possible not to load any extra damage onto the shoulder. Skipping the semifinals and saving myself for the final would have been one thing, but Coach Maeda had made it clear I was part of the bullpen arsenal for the semis as well. The whole team was going all-out, so I figured my chance would come. And here I was, taking the mound in the sixth.
POP!
“Strike!”
I had the count in my favor. Top of the sixth, two-run lead. Not exactly comfortable, but not desperate either.
Still.
I dropped the next pitch cleanly below the zone.
POP!
“Strikeout!”
“...”
Even with a two-run cushion, I didn’t want to give up a single run.
First batter down on strikes. Showing the fastball and then burying the splitter still worked beautifully. After that, with two strikes, it became a simple either-or between fastball and splitter. They might have stepped in fully aware of me, but once the count reached two strikes it was hard to see the ball cleanly. Layering in the slider and curve for variation—that was my pitching right now.
“...”
Growth is fine and all, but right now the priority is sharpening the weapons that are already working.
POP!
“Strike!”
I painted the outside corner with a curve to the next hitter and took the count. Unless a batter came up determined to sit on nothing but curve from the first pitch, a curve that dropped that cleanly into the zone was nearly impossible to square up.
POP!
“Ball!”
“...”
A fastball that never even threatened the zone. I sent the catcher a silent apology for the garbage pitch. Whether the message actually got through was another story. The mitt shifted toward the hitter’s hands. I locked in and let the arm fly.
POP!
“Strike!”
Outside this time.
POP!
“Strikeout!”
Good.
The low outside corner had been painted perfectly. Velocity was something you built in the bullpen, not during a game. In live competition, even if the radar gun didn’t climb any higher, locking down that knee-high corner work was what mattered.
“Huuuh...”
We had flipped the lead in the bottom of the fifth. If I could cleanly retire the side here in the top of the sixth, the entire momentum would swing our way.
POP!
“Strike!”
Outside slider to a right-handed batter—another pitch I could lean on all day.
Inside.
POP!
“Strike!”
The batter called time. I didn’t care, and Matsuda-senpai looked just as unbothered. One pitch that could bury him. I gripped the ball between index and middle finger and threw it like I meant to drive it through the plate.
POP!
“Strikeout!”
Clap! Clap! Clap! Clap! Clap!
“You’re incredible, Hongo!”
“Seisho’s ace!”
“Let’s go to the final!”
“...”
Yeah. Baseball is something you have to play yourself.
Watching the pro game at Meiji Jingu had been interesting, but standing on the mound myself was a completely different dimension. It felt like I had become the main character. Coincidentally, the opposing pro team last time had been the Osaka Tigers, who called Koshien Stadium home. Fine. I would win today, win the next one, take Meiji Jingu, and then go smash Koshien.
“Only in Tokyo, huh? Another pitcher like this just pops up out of nowhere.”
“Topped out at 155? The stuff looks even better than the number.”
“The build is absolutely ideal.”
“Still only a second-year. If he entered the draft right now he’d be a first-round lock.”
Meiji Jingu Stadium, site of the West Tokyo semifinals. Today there were more scouts than usual sitting with radar guns in hand, and they weren’t here for any draft-shaking starter. They were here solely for Hongo Yukihisa. Maejima Genta was starting, but everyone had expected Hongo to appear on a stage this important.
“This game’s already Seisho’s.”
“Sugano only managed two runs through nine. No way Wasena cracks Hongo.”
“When do final tickets go on sale?”
“Is Seisho finally heading to Koshien?”
“Looking at Hongo plus that lineup, a national title isn’t just a dream.”
The murmur never died. Seisho’s bottom of the sixth was about to begin, yet the crowd’s hearts were still completely stolen by the pitcher who had just finished the top half.
“It’s amazing. The whole atmosphere of the stadium just changed.”
“Yeah.”
Second-year manager Nagasawa Haruka’s quiet observation drew a nod from third-year lead manager Fukada Riko.
Incredible, Hongo-kun.
Riko was still staring at Yukihisa in open astonishment. He had come back, earned the trust of every teammate, and turned even the spectators into his personal fan club. The roar that had erupted the moment he appeared still sent a shiver down her spine—even as a third-year.
“Would be nice if we could add on.”
“Right.”
“Go, Okada!”
CRACK!
“Out!”
A mishit, but a tough angle. Still, Wasena Industrial’s shortstop handled it with room to spare. Wasena Industrial High was considered the weaker side compared to Seisho’s quarterfinal opponent, Sugano High. Their lineup was strong but a step below Seisho’s, and—just like before Hongo’s arrival—they lacked an ace you could fully trust with a game. Yet they too had once been a powerhouse that swept West Tokyo. There wasn’t a high-school baseball fan in Japan who didn’t know that white uniform.
POP!
“Strikeout!”
“Damn.”
“So close.”
Wasena’s third pitcher of the day, throwing with a form that looked ready to burn his entire body, retired Seisho in order.
“It’s fine. Next inning starts with Satoru, and looking at Hongo-kun’s form, he won’t give up runs easily.”
“...”
Haruka listened to Riko in silence, eyes fixed on the mound. Walking out there with that same unbothered stride was, of course, the boy who had turned himself into the main character the instant he took the ball—Yukihisa.
POP!
“Strikeout!”
Nice.
I usually tried not to show much emotion, but the moment a fastball put a hitter away always sent a jolt through me. And strangely, the tighter the schedule got, the hotter my body seemed to burn.
POP!
“Strikeout!”
The final out of the inning came on the splitter. I finished the sixth and seventh clean and walked off.
“Nice ball!”
“You’re the best.”
“Great work.”
“Yes.”
I took the praise from the upperclassmen and the coach’s encouragement and sat down on the bench. Starter Maejima Genta-senpai had solid bat skills too, so he had been hitting sixth. This bottom of the seventh started with Shirakawa Satoru-senpai, and I hoped my turn would come as well.
“All right—if we add on here it’s a knockout punch! Let’s go!”
Captain Shirakawa-senpai said it with full confidence and immediately started preparing to hit.
CRACK!
“Hmm...”
A well-struck ball. The dugout flinched for a second, then settled. The line drive carried farther than expected and settled into the right fielder’s glove.
POP!
“Strikeout!”
“Tch.”
Kazuma Junpei-senpai had reached base, but Matsuda Masahiro-senpai went down swinging. A curve that filled up the outside corner completely; Matsuda-senpai never even got the bat off his shoulder.
“...”
Doesn’t matter.
I didn’t need insurance runs. If anything, a tight lead only sharpened my focus. Without a word I climbed back onto the mound.
POP!
“Strikeout!”
The consecutive-strikeout streak ended, but I still added one more K in the eighth and kept the inning clean. Still perfect. If I could throw the ninth the same way, we were headed to the regional final.
CRACK!
“...”
I glanced toward the left-field wall just in case, then shook my head.
Doesn’t feel that hard from the box, though.
Whatever the sensation at the plate, the truth was I still wasn’t contributing nearly enough with the bat. That couldn’t continue into the final.
“That was close.”
“If it had carried just a little more...”
I accepted the well-meant but empty consolation and came back to the dugout.
“Out!”
“Waaaaaaaaaah!”
“Finish it, Hongo!”
“You’ve got this!”
“You’re the strongest!”
“...”
Last game I had thrown over a hundred pitches for a complete game. A few days’ rest, then straight into the bullpen. I had zero intention of complaining, but the schedule was undeniably brutal.
POP!
“Strike!”
“Waaaaaaaaaah!”
“155!”
The feel of this mound under my feet. The way the baseball settled into my hand. The roar of the crowd gave me strength—no matter how many times.