Checking the Level (2)
“Please…”
“…”
Crack!
Damn.
A cleanly struck ball—and a line drive with a high probability of becoming a hit.
“Huh?”
Yet the ball flew as if it had every intention of finding a fielder, heading straight for the right fielder.
“We won!”
“Waaaaah!”
“…”
Seisho 10, Sunpu 8.
With two outs and the bases loaded in the bottom of the ninth, the batter’s ball was caught for the final out, and we claimed victory on the first day of the four-school tournament.
“Thank goodness.”
Nagasawa Haruka, sitting beside me, pressed a hand to her chest in relief. It was only a high school practice game, yet the tension had felt almost identical to a professional championship final.
We had scored five runs in the first inning only to face an immediate, ferocious comeback. Every time we pulled ahead, they closed the gap; every time we pulled ahead again, they closed it again. In the end, Seisho High School took the win.
But.
The fact that this was practice rather than a real match was precisely the problem.
Even from here, Head Coach Maeda Katsuyori’s anger was plain to see.
The batting lineup was undeniably strong. Ten runs had not been a fluke. Against a team that had reached the quarterfinals of the spring Koshien and was fielding its full strength, a performance like this meant Seisho’s offense was already at a national level.
The problem was the pitching staff.
Third-years Maejima Genta and Nakayama Junichi had both gone the distance into the ninth, yet neither had delivered a clean outing.
You could look at it another way.
You could simply say that Sunpu’s lineup was every bit as strong as Seisho’s. But any team that actually intended to achieve something could never allow itself that kind of mindset.
The pitching staff was clearly going to be a major assignment.
“Huh? Hongo-kun?”
“The game’s already over.”
Leaving Nagasawa behind, I stood up. We hadn’t come together in the first place.
As a club member I would have to come watch tomorrow’s games as well, but this wasn’t a group outing, so I decided to leave first.
I can’t just sit still.
The school was open on weekends.
I would get there quickly and spend even a little more time refining my pitching form.
The next day.
Tokyo Four-School Practice Tournament Final.
Seisho High School versus Utsuno High School.
Pop!
“Strikeout!”
The batter’s bat swung through empty air on a high pitch, producing the third strike.
“Nice, Enatsu!”
“Enatsu-senpai!”
“Nice ball!”
Clap! Clap! Clap! Clap! Clap!
“Hmm.”
When Seisho’s pitcher Enatsu Akira retired the side in the top of the third, cheers erupted.
I had trained hard at the school practice field the day before—Saturday—and today I was watching the final from the stands with the rest of the club members.
“Was he looking for the slider?”
I muttered the analysis of the last pitcher-batter duel without thinking.
“That’s right. But a fastball came in at eye level and the bat came out.”
“Huh?”
“Whoa!”
Someone suddenly speaking from my right made me turn my head.
“I’m sorry! I have a habit of talking to myself.”
“It’s fine.”
I do the same thing, so whatever.
A first-year? Sitting a little farther back than yesterday had apparently put me among the first-years.
“I’m Yamada Tetsuya, Hongo-senpai.”
“Yeah. Nice to meet you.”
Since he already knew who I was, I didn’t bother introducing myself.
He had a decent build for a baseball player, but the easygoing smile made him look rather ordinary.
“I wanted to greet you during training yesterday, but you seemed so focused. I’m sorry.”
“No need to apologize.”
“And… ah, no, it’s nothing. Haha.”
“…”
Yamada looked as if he wanted to say something more, then stopped. It didn’t particularly matter.
A first-year, huh.
The original Hongo Yukihisa had half-quit the baseball club during his first year, so there was no way he would know any of the current first-years.
Naturally, the same went for me.
Still, first-years were in the stage of focusing on individual training, so we probably wouldn’t interact much for a while.
Crack!
“Huh?”
Just as I tried to turn my attention back to the game, an incredible crack of the bat rang out.
“Ooooh!”
“Go!”
Expectant eyes from every club member.
I was watching the left-field fence as well.
“It’s gone!”
“Home run!”
The members erupted in cheers.
A solo home run from Seisho’s cleanup hitter, Matsuda Masahiro.
From a 3–3 tie he had put us ahead 4–3.
Second-year starter Enatsu Akira was putting up a less-than-impressive outing, but Seisho’s batting lineup was exploding for the second straight day.
“Amazing.”
“Matsuda-senpai really is strong.”
“…”
Yamada beside me added another comment.
“It’s a good thing he’s a third-year. If there had only been a one-year difference, I think I would have had a pretty hard time.”
“Oh?”
This guy.
Even though the other was the team’s cleanup catcher, was he saying he would have competed for the spot if they were only a year apart?
Talking about competing with Matsuda-senpai suggested he was a catcher himself, and he seemed to have considerable confidence in his own ability.
Now batting, number five, right fielder, Sanada.
Crack!
The next batter, Sanada Atsushi, squared up the pitch perfectly.
“Second! Second!”
“Yes!”
The result was a double.
A go-ahead home run followed by a double had Seisho’s dugout roaring.
“As expected of Sanada-senpai. From the fall onward, Sanada-senpai will take the cleanup spot.”
“Probably.”
Purely in terms of hitting, cleanup Matsuda-senpai and fifth hitter Sanada formed an overwhelming one-two punch. Overall our second-year class was short on standout talent, so the fact that Sanada was a second-year had to be counted as a major plus.
Are we going to take it easy today?
They had called it a practice game that was as close to real as possible, so the pitchers who had thrown yesterday might appear again. I wondered how it would unfold.
Pop!
“Strikeout!”
“…”
Seisho’s seventh batter, first baseman Okada Shugo, froze in place.
“No way.”
“Ahh…”
Sighs rose from every direction.
Well, damn.
The expression on first-year Yamada beside me had darkened as well.
Utsuno High School 9, Seisho High School 8.
We had lost to Utsuno by a single run. Even if it was only a four-school tournament, the result was second place.
Plenty to worry about.
To rescue a shaky Enatsu in the middle innings, ace Maejima-senpai had taken the mound. He seemed to be holding them for a while, only to surrender a go-ahead three-run homer that became the decisive blow.
Because it was practice, there was no need to celebrate wildly over a win, and no need to sink into gloom over a loss.
What ultimately mattered was the content of the games.
The problem was that the content had been poor both yesterday and today.
The batting was strong; the pitching was weak.
The strengths remained strengths, the weaknesses remained weaknesses.
In other words, we were stuck in place, unable to move forward.
“If we could just suppress the opposing lineup a little more, we would definitely make Koshien this year.”
“If you start attaching ‘if’ to baseball, every team would not only reach Koshien—they’d win the whole thing.”
“Huh?”
“…”
I had answered Yamada’s remark without thinking.
Problems never solved themselves. I was curious how Seisho intended to break through.
Of course.
Separately from all that, I still had to give everything I had.
“Hongo-senpai!”
“Huh?”
“I knew you’d come straight to practice.”
“I have no intention of just hanging around.”
Evening, after the game.
When I arrived at the school practice field, Yamada Tetsuya was already there.
As expected.
Players who appeared in games needed rest and had their own routines.
But the first-years were practicing with real intensity, without a single day off.
In Japanese high school baseball—especially at a national-level powerhouse like Seisho—only elite middle-school players gathered. Among them, the ones who even appeared in a single game, let alone claimed a starting spot, were a tiny minority. From a first-year’s perspective, sitting still was simply not an option.
“Hey, Yamada.”
“Yes.”
“Date-senpai didn’t come out today. Can you catch my pitches in the bullpen later?”
“It would be my honor!”
“Really?”
I felt a little bad about it.
I had felt guilty about taking up his practice time, so I was grateful he accepted so readily.
“All right, let’s go.”
“Yes!”
After we each finished a certain amount of individual work, we headed to Seisho Baseball Club’s pitching practice area.
Yamada, already in catcher’s gear, slapped his mitt.
“Fastball.”
I showed him the fastball grip and set my stance.
Pop!
“Nice ball!”
“You don’t have to flatter me.”
“No, it’s a really good, strong pitch. As expected of a second-year—no, as expected of Hongo-senpai!”
“…”
I was doing everything I could to perfect the best possible pitching form for myself.
The original Hongo Yukihisa’s form had been far too dynamic, and the form I had used in Korean high school baseball simply didn’t fit this physique.
Still.
The current form was clean, and the balance between upper and lower body wasn’t bad. All that remained was to build more flexibility and strength.
“Splitter.”
“…”
I wedged the ball between my index and middle fingers and spoke.
From a catcher’s perspective, a sharply dropping splitter was difficult to handle. I could see Yamada tense for a moment.
Even so.
A pitcher couldn’t throw while worrying about the catcher’s feelings. I threw without hesitation.
Thud!
“Huh?”
“Ah!”
Yamada failed to glove the dropping splitter and let it skip past him.
“I’m sorry!”
“It’s fine. It was hard to catch.”
As expected.
My splitter had always been difficult for catchers to handle. Now that the ball was even faster than in those days, it would be that much tougher. Especially against a first-year catcher. Had I asked too much?
“Just now you should have focused more on blocking than on catching it cleanly.”
“Huh?”
“Ah!”
A deep, resonant voice came from behind us.
“Matsuda-senpai!”
“…”
Yamada spoke in surprise, and I was startled as well.
Third-year catcher Matsuda Masahiro had appeared.
“I saw the lights on and wondered who was out here.”
“Ah… yes.”
A strange tension made me tense up without meaning to.
It wasn’t simply because the original Yukihisa had been afraid of this man; the man himself carried a peculiar weight.
“Your splitter’s gotten quite sharp.”
“Yes.”
I nodded at Matsuda’s words.
The original Yukihisa had possessed nothing special beyond his fastball. He had thrown a splitter, but it had been little more than a secondary pitch to the fastball.
Huh?
Matsuda was silently putting on catcher’s gear.
“Excuse me for a moment.”
“Huh? Y-yes!”
Yamada seemed to understand exactly what was meant and stepped aside.
“Throw it just like before.”
“Yes.”
Matsuda-senpai took the spot Yamada had vacated. I nodded.
Well now.
My relationship with Matsuda-senpai had been awkwardly uncomfortable ever since my return. Yet here we were, forming a battery this quickly, even if only for a moment.
I gripped the ball the same way I had for Yamada and threw the splitter.
Pop!
“Whoa!”
“…”
Once again the splitter dropped on one bounce.
But Matsuda-senpai gloved it cleanly so that it never got past him.
“That’s incredible! It drops almost like a fastball even on one bounce. From a batter’s perspective the bat has no choice but to come out, doesn’t it?”
“You’re throwing a pretty scary pitch.”
“Yes.”
A well-executed splitter.
Matsuda-senpai had caught it without any real difficulty.
“Next, fastball.”
“Understood.”
I began throwing exactly as the catcher ordered.
“I’m curious about your thoughts on the results of this tournament.”
The Monday after the four-school tournament ended, inside the Seisho baseball club’s coach’s office.
Head Coach Maeda Katsuyori had summoned captain Shirakawa Satoru and starting catcher Matsuda Masahiro.
“Shirakawa.”
“Hmm…”
Satoru’s brow furrowed.
This practice tournament had been nothing short of a mess.
As captain he had to choose his words carefully.
“Everyone is practicing extremely hard, but with the Koshien preliminaries approaching, I think they’re getting tense.”
“Tense?”
“Yes…”
Satoru’s choice had been protection.
It wasn’t entirely wrong. Simply enduring Seisho Baseball Club’s brutal training all the way to the third year already spoke of extraordinary tenacity.
“If you get tense at a critical time and can’t perform, doesn’t that simply mean that is your true ability?”
“…”
Satoru clamped his mouth shut.
He himself had recorded multi-hit games in both contests, fulfilling his role as leadoff hitter, and had played error-free defense at shortstop. Still, as captain he had to take responsibility.
The lineup had scored plenty of runs, yet in Sunday’s game they had collected even more hits and walks and still lost. In the end it meant they had been outdone in cohesion.
“Matsuda.”
“Yes.”
Coach Maeda turned his gaze to catcher Matsuda Masahiro.
“The pitching staff’s confidence has dropped across the board.”
“Is that so?”
“…”
Satoru was startled by how frankly Masahiro spoke.
“If Maejima can gain a little more confidence in his own pitches, he can perform well enough. Nakayama can handle his role in short outings. Enatsu still needs more growth.”
“Needs more growth, you say.”
Saying growth was still needed at this stage essentially meant he could not be trusted as a reliable option for this summer’s Koshien preliminaries.
Second-year left-hander Enatsu Akira was a solid southpaw who threw a 145 km/h fastball, but his repertoire of breaking balls was limited; once opponents adjusted to the fastball, they tended to solve him quickly.
“No choice, then.”
“Huh?”
Coach Maeda closed his eyes.
It’s a drastic measure, but…
Tomorrow they would hold an internal scrimmage—regulars versus non-regulars, first-years included.
“Huh?”
“Regulars meaning…?”
Satoru was surprised; Masahiro asked the question.
“Of the players who appeared even briefly in the last Tokyo spring tournament, thirteen excluding Enatsu will form the Blue team. Everyone else will be the White team. Only members who have recently shown potential will take the field for White.”
“…”
Coach Maeda’s decision was internal competition.
No matter how hard they worked, he never expected high school students to possess a professional mindset. He was simply injecting competition so that it might become growth—or an awakening.
“Is Enatsu the starter for the White team?”
“That’s right.”
Coach Maeda answered Masahiro’s question.
“What about Hongo, who recently returned?”
“Hongo?”
“Matsuda.”
When the name of the person of interest, Hongo, came from Masahiro’s mouth, both the coach and Satoru were surprised.
“Whether Hongo plays will be decided after I see him tomorrow.”
“I see.”
Masahiro nodded.
Undeniable talent—yet actions during his absence that had disappointed many club members.
In more ways than one, Hongo Yukihisa was stirring up the baseball club.