Chapter Text
“Akimitsu-senpai, am I going crazy or are Seido losing?”
“They’re four runs down.”
Kobayashi’s jaw drops as Akimitsu peers through the viewfinder of his camcorder. “Tanba was pitching well until the sixth inning, but Yokohama figured him out by the seventh.”
“Still, six runs is usually nothing for Seido - are their batters having problems with Yokohama’s pitcher?”
Akimitsu wouldn’t know. The Kanto Tournament was not just a way to test new makeups of teams or different types of gameplays; it was a way to size up other teams before the Summer Qualifiers. And from what it looks like, Seido was going to struggle.
“It’s a pitcher’s game.” Akimitsu states. “If they lose to Yokohama’s pitcher, they lose the game.”
“What a shame.” Kobayashi sighs. “Guess there’s nothing new to scout about then, Seido’s problem will always be the same. They don’t have a good enough pitcher.”
“It’s good for us though.” Akimitsu says. “They won’t be much of a challenge, and I doubt Tanba can improve in time for the Qualifiers.”
“Top of the eight, Seido High has called for a change in players .”
“Woah!” Kobayashi leans forward over the railing. “A pitcher change? Does Seido even have a pitcher other than Tanba who can fare well against Yokohama?”
Akimitsu shakes his head, frowning. “If they put Kawakami in, they’re just asking for Yokohama to take it home. He’s got worse nerves than Tanba.”
“ Switching out Tanba for the pitcher, Furuya-kun .”
“...”
Kobayashi and Akimitsu turn towards each other, confusion mirrored in every cravat of their facial expression.
“Furuya?” Akimitsu rolls the unfamiliar name across his tongue. “Who the hell is that?”
“Senpai, you don’t think he’s a first year, do you?”
“Seriously?” Akimitsu moves away from the camcorder, leaning over the edge of the railing to get a better look at Seido’s dugout. The boy was unfamiliar, tall for a first year, but where he had height, his limbs looked lanky and brittle. Akimitsu wouldn’t be surprised if the light May breeze would snap him in half.
“They’re putting a first-year in this kind of situation?” Kobayashi looks towards him, dumbfounded. “Are they trying to lose the game?”
“It’s a bad bet all around.” Akimitsu says. Although, he thinks, what else could they do? Tanba was falling to pieces under the pressure of Yokohama and Kawakami had played yesterday. There was no other pitcher who could step in - well, except for this so-called first year.
When he received the scouting offer for Inashiro Jitsugyo, Akimitsu believed it was the beginning of the start of his life. Book deals, nationwide fan clubs, love-calls from the MLB - he could see his future spanning out before him. Reality was like an arrow through the chest; he was average at best, feebly incompetent at worst.
He never really did recover from the hit to his ego, but it was this self-awareness that meant he was the best candidate for heading the scouting missions. He might not be making waves on the mound anymore, but he would help the team, one way or the other.
Akimitsu knew things, he could read people as easy as it was for Narumiya to throw a pitch. And he knew that there was something strange in the air. Maybe it was the low pick-up of wind, countering the warm May sun, or maybe it was the way Miyuki Kazuya was kneeling behind the home plate, nonchalance seeping out of every pore of his skin.
That couldn’t be it - Miyuki Kazuya was the one person Akimitsu could never read - it was why he was such a good catcher - but then what was it? What was making every single hair on Akimitsu’s skin raise up like Sadako was watching his every move? He hands the camcorder over to Kobayashi, and peers further down at Seido’s dugout.
There’s nothing amiss, so to speak. There were the three coaches, and the rest of the regular string. Coach Kataoka was speaking to Furuya, who had the number 10 on his back - shocking, because that was Kawakami’s number, and Akimitsu swore the other pitcher had worn the number on his back yesterday. So what was up with Seido’s numbering? It was weird to say the least. Furuya didn’t look nervous, but that could be chalked up to first year bravado - it was a canon event, and Akimitsu knew he was going to watch that boldness break apart in minutes.
It’s then that Akimitsu sees it. There’s another unfamiliar player, tall like Furuya, but also nothing like the pitcher. Where Furuya is thin, this player looks more lean , well-built almost, filling out his jersey in the same way a third year would. He didn’t have the muscles of one of Seido’s main batters, but he did look studier than the other pitcher. That wasn’t what put Akimitsu off - it was the fact Akimitsu did not recognise him .
If he was a first year, then Akimitsu was intrigued, but it was more than likely he was a second year or third year player bumped up to the regular team. The problem came from the fact that he did not know who he was. He spoke with Coach Kataoka with ease, before turning towards Furuya as if directing him to do something. He pats the other pitcher on the back, sends him a thumbs up, and Akimitsu can’t help but think who he is and why does the coaching staff put so much weight into what he says. Kataoka doesn’t even say anything to Furuya, letting the other player speak instead.
He had to be a third year, a hidden player that maybe had only just made it to first string. But that would mean he bypassed the second string entirely, and in his third year no doubt. The whole thing seemed preposterous.
He goes to grab the camcorder back from Kobayashi, when he notices Miyuki make a gesture towards the strange player in the dugout. It’s just the low tilt of his head, a private acknowledgement between the two of them, but the dugout player sticks his tongue out , and Akimitsu just gives up trying to figure out who this person is. Miyuki has the audacity to laugh , as if they weren’t being destroyed by Yokohama, and Akimitsu just shakes his head. He’ll never understand geniuses, but what he does understand is that he needs to focus on Furuya now.
Kobayashi hands him the camcorder, and Akimitsu settles into his position. The game begins again.
It’s barely a minute later that Akimitsu realizes they’re fucked .
***
“So, let’s debrief.” Takashima says. “Of course, we knew Yokohama was going to be a tough team, they were at the Senbatsu(*). Still, we lost 12-9. Despite coming back and earning eight runs in the last two innings, the six runs we lost in the first half was the deciding factor.”
The cafeteria was quiet at Takashima’s words. Filled with the entire regular team, Eijun could see the back of Tanba’s head, sat next to Yuuki near the front. Miyuki was close by, Furuya on his right. Eijun could move close up towards them, there were empty seats lined ahead, but he stays back. He hears the scrape of a chair by his left, and Chris hunkers down next to him.
The two of them share a look, one that Eijun knows means business, and settle by the back door. Takashima rolls a whiteboard to the front of the dining hall, helped by the second-year Watenabe, someone Eijun knew of in passing but had never actually been introduced to. The writing on the board was clear to everyone - there was no refuting the numbers.
Seido was good, but they weren’t great.
Eijun squirms in his seat, almost knocking into Chris’ thigh. His brother stays stoic by his side, eyes trained on the whiteboard, but the low tilt of his chin towards him makes Eijun freeze up. The silence continues, and Takashima sighs, leaning back against the board.
It’s Boss who cuts through the silence.
“Are you satisfied with this loss?”
He does not sound angry. No, there is almost no emotion in Boss’ voice. No coldness, but no warmth either. Eijun can feel his heartbeat out of his chest. No , he wants to scream. No, I'm not satisfied . No, because you didn’t even let me play .
“We went into this tournament, not to win, but to test ourselves against the best of the nation. Yokohama were Top 8 at the Senbatsu only a month ago. They won their qualifiers, and then almost made it to the semi-finals. And you had a three-run difference with them, whilst they were hot off their momentum.”
“I am proud of how you played.” Boss says. “But it does not change the fact that we lost.”
Eijun swallows, even though his throat feels dry. He knows, he knows . Furuya’s debut, despite ending in a loss, was spectacular. He knows, because people were clamoring outside the entrance for a glimpse of his friend, it was because there were alumni already waiting when they came back to Seido despite the game ending only two hours ago. And yet, they still lost .
This wasn’t a matter of patching up Seido’s hole - they had become too reliant on the batters to make up their difference. Tanba had done his best, but even then, the batters had not helped. Eijun knew the team’s offensive power was probably the best in the nation, he has the notes to prove it, and yet, why ? Why did it take a few innings before they could blast through Yokohama?
Was it a matter of gameplay? The batters had decided to focus on one pitch, losing a few innings to lull the pitcher into a false sense of security, before hitting off his winning pitch. It worked, except for the fact that they were already in a 3-run deficit.
“I’m not saying the gameplay was wrong.” Boss says. Going crazy off the start wasn’t a good idea either - they would’ve striked out more often than not. But still, Eijun knew there were a few batters on this team that could do it, could play by the ear rather than follow the framework Boss and the other gamemakers on the team created.
“It did work. But the runs we lost early on was the deciding factor.” Boss admits. “Tanba. This is what you must shoulder, if you are to be the Ace. If this matchup happened in the qualifiers, we would be out.”
Eijun sees the tension rise in Tanba’s shoulder. It’s not nice to be singled out. And yet, that was his burden to carry - as the previous Ace, as the only third-year pitcher. The question was, can he hold it up long enough for Seido to gain their footing.
“Furuya had a good debut, perfect even.” Boss says. “And yet, we still lost. This is not an individual sport, it is a team one. Just because we have a star player, does not mean we will win. It’s our job as a team to support them, to match their speed.”
Eijun can feel the sound of his heartbeat rise up to his ears. Even though he wears his sunglasses (inside, like a weirdo!), Eijun swears he can feel Boss eyes on him.
“Starting today, we will train using the fall schedule.”
Like the coming of winter, the temperature in the room drops to below zero. Chris winces, and there is an immediate uptick of murmuring. Eijun doesn’t want to know what it entails, if the reaction by the upperclassmen mean anything. It turns out that wasn’t Boss’ only shocking announcement.
“And from now on, the jersey numbers will be disregarded. All jersey numbers.”
Now that certainly caused an uproar.
***
“Is Tanba-senpai okay?”
Kazuya looks down at Sawamura, sprawled across his bedroom floor, with amused annoyance. It was an hour before curfew, and yet, the first year made no move to leave. If Kimura wasn’t such a good roommate, Kazuya would have had to deal with an annoyed roommate from how many of the regular team walked in and out of his room. Eijun decided to take that as full-blown permission to come as he chose, even after the lashing they’d received in the cafeteria.
Still, Kazuya contemplated his words.
“He has to be.” He says, finally.
If it was any player, they’d be distraught. But Tanba had been their ace for a whole year. If the verbal chastise, (and it was a mild one too! Kazuya knew other coaches were way harsher than Boss) was enough to ruin his self-esteem, then he shouldn’t be the ace to begin with.
Sawamura pauses, before flopping onto his back. He scratches the back of his neck, shaking his head as if to throw whatever thoughts were in his head out. Stretching up, he rises up off the floor, sitting crossed leg and turning his body towards Kazuya.
“Was it weird, or did you think Boss was directing some kind of message to me?”
“You know, you’re surprisingly adept at figuring out implicit messages.”
Sawamura glares at him, but they both know this isn’t time for jokes. “I don’t understand why he didn’t put Furuya in earlier.”
Of all things Kazuya thought Sawamura would say, it wasn’t that. He expected a complaint. “Not why he didn’t put you in?”
Sawamura looks up at him, and despite Kazuya sitting on his desk chair and thus a few inches higher than the first year, Kazuya has the distinct feeling that he’s looking up at Sawamura, not down. It’s dizzying, uncanny even. He feels like he’s out of his body.
“No.” Sawamura says, and he means it. “He chose correctly. Furuya needed the experience, but most importantly, he was the best match-up for the Yokohama batters.”
“Oh?” Kazuya raises an eyebrow. “Do tell.”
“Well, they’re ranked Top 8 in the nation right? They’re gonna over complicate matters. Furuya is simple, and they weren’t expecting that. They’re gonna look back on the tape and realize how high his balls actually were and you know what that’s going to do to them?”
“It’s gonna mess with their depth perception. They’re gonna think there’s something wrong with them. Satoru’s pitches are scary because they’re unpredictable. It’s not just Yokohama either, the scouts that were watching, they’ve got to be wondering why some of the best batters in the nation were swinging at obviously high balls.”
“So what, it’s all about the mystery of it?” Kazuya scowls.
“We’re all human, Miyuki-senpai.” Sawamura shrugs. “We’re going to be affected by gossip and rumor as it is. You know what they say about Seido? That we have a pitcher drought. In just one game, Boss has told every team that it’s now ended.”
All of a sudden, Kazuya understands. The fact that Sawamura had figured it out before him makes him both astonished and mad. “And he did all that without playing you or Chris.”
Sawamura stands up on his feet, stretching his hands up above his head. “I always knew I was going to be a hidden card, senpai. The question is, are you guys gonna use me correctly?”
***
If Eijun thought the previous training was hell, this was just brutal .
Still, the ache in his body is a welcome respite.
“Welcome to Golden Week Training.” Kuramochi cackles as he passes by Eijun. Sticking his tongue out, Eijun continues on his lap, speeding up to pass by his roommate.
He’s tired, but the good kind of tired, the kind that lets him know his body is growing. He can feel it already - some of his old T-shirts are stretching out, and he’s sure he’s grown a few inches since starting term. Lessons aren’t bad either, sure Eijun isn’t going to be top of his class, but he’s getting by well considering everything is taught in his second language.
Overall, Eijun feels comfortable . He likes Seido, more than he ever thought he would.
Satoru falls somewhere behind him, and whilst Eijun would usually slow down to keep his friend company, he had to put himself first. No more half-assing. No, now is the time for Eijun to stretch his wings.
Pregame season is something entirely different in Japan. Of course, Eijun has little to compare it to - middle school baseball was no way near as intense as their Japanese counterpart. For one, vacation was a funny word meaning more training. Students who were commuters would stay over the entire week and continue their training alongside those that boarded. It was a time for intense preparation. He loves it.
Golden Week training, filled with hours long practices and 1-on-1 coaching with the staff, was like Eijun’s training menu on crack. He finally gets enough time to practice his batting, much to the detriment of other players who gape at him for his hour-long session.
“If you don’t train more, you might get replaced by Sawamura of all people, Miyuki.” Haruchi’s brother ribs the catcher.
“Not much competition, onii-san!” Eijun calls out. “When Miyuki can get on base without a runner, then we can talk.”
The burst of laughter piling out of Ryosuke’s mouth is almost good enough to tide over the pain of the headlock Miyuki tackles him into. The rest of the training goes on well, a mix of situational games and practice matches that fill his time up.
The rumours that Boss had forgone the string numbers had spread like wildfire. Everywhere Eijun went, there were players practicing deep into the night. Haruichi did well in the second-string’s game against Tokyo Met, good enough that Eijun hopes he’ll be bumped up to first string before the summer tournament. Kanemaru and Tojo are still struggling with the other first years, but the extended time in the dorm means Eijun can meet with them longer. It’s Kanemaru who grudgingly asks if they could work on their batting together, and Eijun takes that as a win.
He falls into step with Chris, who keeps the momentum up. “So, excited?”
“Extremely.” He says, deadpanned.
“You finally get to play, niichan! Against Teito of all people too!”
“Only for the first few innings though."
“Hey, if anyone has a right to be upset, it’s Miyuki-senpai. I don’t think he’s ever not played a full game his entire career at Seido. You’re upstarting him.”
Chris huffs out a laugh. “Don’t let him hear you sound so gleeful.” He slows to a stop as the rest of the first string begin to wind down from their warm up.
“I do agree that it's for the best if I started - and no, not because of some ego-trip, but..." Chris breathes out, “It's a failsafe, you know? In case we need to switch over earlier than expected."
Eijun could see where his brother was coming from. Miyuki was a well-oiled machine, the best catcher in high school even. It would make sense for him to come in and clean up any messes Chris’ first match would leave behind. Still, that doesn’t mean Chris is right.
Reaching up, Eijun thwacks the back of his brother’s head.
“Stop worrying. It’s a practice match. And besides, you’re supposed to clean up my mess, I’ll get jealous if you start cleaning up someone else’s or leave me to someone else.”
“Oi! Who do you think you are, hitting your big brother?”
To anyone else, the sound of Chris’ dark, murderous voice would send chills down their spine. It's countered by the fact he calls himself 'niichan'. Evidently, the other first string members must think the same.
But Eijun has lived his entire life getting on Chris’ nerves. Ignoring the worried glances off the other members, he sends his brother an impish grin.
Chris stares at him for a moment. It’s long enough for Eijun to make a runner.
The surprised shouts and grunts from the upperclassman are drowned out by his bursting laughter, as he runs in a bid to escape his brother’s hulking figure.