The scoreboard showed a tight, low-scoring game: 1-0, with both teams locked in a grueling pitcher's duel. It had been 9 innings of fierce battle, both aces—delivering pitches with precision and speed, refusing to allow any momentum to build for the opposing team. But now, as the game approached its final moments, the pressure had reached its boiling point.
Kenji Tadeka, Nehimon Seimei's captain, stood on first base. He had been intentionally walked after Aoki decided not to risk pitching to him directly, knowing Kenji's ability to change the game with a single swing. As Kenji dug his cleats into the dirt, he glanced back at the dugout. His jaw clenched in frustration. Shinjiro would be next after Daiki. Shinjiro hadn't even swung at a single pitch in his last at-bat.
With 1 out in the top of the eighth inning, Daiki, had just struck out swinging at a nasty sinker. The pressure now rested squarely on Shinjiro's shoulders. He stepped up to the plate, bat in hand, his expression serious, but there was something different in his demeanor this time—something steely in his eyes.
"Damn it, Shinjiro," Kenji muttered under his breath, remembering that moment. "Do something this time."
The crowd was a roar of noise, but it all seemed to fade into the background as Shinjiro focused on the mound. His mind was calculating every factor: Aoki's delivery, the spin on the fastballs, the way the ball seemed to rise at the last second, making it harder to catch the sweet spot of the bat.
Mori, Minatogawa's catcher, crouched behind the plate, his eyes studying Shinjiro carefully. He had seen how passive Shinjiro had been in his last at-bat, and his instincts told him that the key to getting Shinjiro out was to make him doubt himself.
"He didn't swing last time because he couldn't catch up to Aoki's fastball," Mori thought, the gears in his mind turning. He signaled to Aoki, his fingers dancing in front of his glove. A fastball low and away.
Trust your fastball. He won't even touch it. He doesn't have the confidence.
Aoki's eyes flickered toward Mori, and he nodded, though the slight frown on his face betrayed a flicker of uncertainty. The game was tight. He couldn't afford mistakes here, but he had to trust his battery mate. He settled into his stance, his body coiled like a spring, ready to unleash another of his signature fastballs.
From the dugout, Coach Nakamura watched intently, his hands resting on the railing, fingers tapping nervously. He knew this was the pivotal moment of the game. Aoki had been dominant all day, and Ryoichi had matched him pitch for pitch, but now, with Kenji on base, they needed something—anything—to tip the balance in their favor.
The count was 2-1. Shinjiro's heartbeat thudded steadily in his ears as he watched Aoki begin his windup. Everything else faded away—the noise of the crowd, the tension of the moment, even the importance of the game itself. All that existed in Shinjiro's mind was the ball, the spin, and the timing.
"This guy's fastball moves," Shinjiro thought, analyzing every detail. "But the spin is a bit off. I've got the timing now."
Aoki's arm came over the top, and the ball left his hand like a bullet, hurtling toward the plate at 148 km/h. The pitch barreled toward Shinjiro. Shinjiro's swing was already in motion—adjusted perfectly to catch the fastball at the apex of its rise.
PING!
The sound of the bat connecting with the ball echoed through the stadium like a cannon shot. The crowd fell into a brief, stunned silence as they watched the ball take off. It soared into the sky, rising higher and higher, making a sharp arc toward left-center field.
Shinjiro's heart pounded in his chest as he watched the ball take flight. He started his jog toward first base, but his eyes never left the ball. "The contact was solid," he thought, a flash of satisfaction washing over him. "But i could've hit it better...."
The outfielder for Minatogawa took off, sprinting toward the wall, their eyes wide as they chased the ball. He sprinted as fast as his legs could carry him, but even as he reached the warning track, he could feel it—it was too late.
The ball kept rising, kept flying, and as it reached the apex of its arc, the entire stadium seemed to hold its breath.
And then it dropped—over the fence.
HOME RUN.
The stands erupted in a deafening roar. Nehimon Seimei's fans jumped to their feet, screaming, shouting Shinjiro's name. Even Kenji, who had already rounded second by the time the ball cleared the fence, raised his fist in triumph as he jogged toward home plate.
From the dugout, Daiki shouted at the top of his lungs, punching the air in celebration. "Let's go, Shinjiro! That's what I'm talking about!"
Shinjiro, however, remained calm as he rounded the bases. His expression was almost casual, his face betraying none of the excitement that was spreading through the rest of the team.
But as he reached home plate, Kenji was there, waiting for him, He clapped Shinjiro on the back as they crossed the plate together.
"You did it!" Kenji said, his voice filled with a mixture of relief and triumph. "You finally swung that goddamn bat."
Shinjiro gave a small nod, still too caught up in his self-assessment to fully absorb the moment."Yeah but it wasn't perfect."
Kenji stared at him for a second, then burst out laughing. "You hit a game-changing home run and you're worried about it not being perfect? You're something else, rookie."
The rest of the team swarmed around them as they made their way back to the dugout, players shouting Shinjiro's name, high-fiving him, patting him on the back. Even Coach Nakamura, usually composed and reserved, allowed himself a smile of approval.
"That's the kind of hit we needed," Nakamura said, nodding to Shinjiro as he passed. "Good job out there."
As Shinjiro sat down on the bench, his teammates still buzzing with energy around him, he allowed himself a brief moment of satisfaction. He had turned the tide. Nehimon Seimei now led 3-0, and they were just three outs away from winning the game.
On the Minatogawa side, the reaction was a stark contrast. Aoki stood frozen on the mound, his chest heaving from the exertion of the pitch. He stared out at center field, where the ball had disappeared over the fence, his mind racing to catch up with what had just happened.
"How??" Aoki thought, disbelief flooding his senses.
Mori, crouched behind the plate, slowly stood up, his glove hanging at his side. He turned and walked to the mound, knowing he had to calm Aoki down before things spiraled further out of control. As he approached, he could see the frustration on Aoki's face.
"You threw it well," Mori said quietly, his voice low enough that only Aoki could hear. "He just....he timed it. There was nothing wrong with the pitch."
Aoki clenched his jaw, his eyes narrowed. Mori put a hand on his shoulder, trying to steady him. "It's not over yet. We're still in this. We just need to get out of the inning, and we'll have our chance."
Aoki nodded, though the sting of the home run still lingered. He couldn't let this shake him. Not now. He took a deep breath, resetting his focus. 2 outs—that's all they needed to stay in the game.
As the crowd continued to roar in the background, Aoki walked back to the mound, the weight of the game heavy on his shoulders.