The cool air settled around them, crisp and silent, as Hiroshi stood in the backyard with a mischievous glint in his eyes. Shinjiro shifted nervously from foot to foot, unsure what to expect from this impromptu late session.
"Alright," Hiroshi began, his gruff voice laced with amusement. "You want to learn how to pitch with your left hand, right? First things first—forget everything you know about pitching. We're starting from scratch. You want to throw with your left? Then your body needs to relearn everything."
With a dramatic flourish, Hiroshi gestured toward a narrow plank of wood he had set up across the grass. It was no more than a few inches wide, wobbling slightly on uneven ground.
Shinjiro stared at it, his eyebrow raised. "Uh, Dad? That's just a piece of wood."
"Exactly!" Hiroshi exclaimed, slapping Shinjiro on the back. "And it's going to teach you more about pitching than any fancy training facility ever could."
Shinjiro opened his mouth to protest, but Hiroshi waved him off, already lost in his own demonstration. "This," he said, pointing to the plank, "Is the Beam of Balance! Your new best friend."
Shinjiro echoed, looking skeptical. "Isn't this about my arm?"
Hiroshi smiled. "Ah, that's where you're wrong son, pitching isn't about just your arm. It's about your whole body. It's about transferring energy from the ground, through your legs, up through your core, and finally, out through your arm. And it all starts with your legs."
To Shinjiro's surprise, Hiroshi hopped onto the plank with exaggerated care, his arms outstretched for balance. He began moving through a slow-motion pitching sequence, wobbling comically on the narrow beam.
"You see, pitching is about stability. If your balance is off, it doesn't matter how strong your arm is—you're wasting all that energy. When you push off the mound, you're creating what we call 'ground reaction forces.' It's like… like…" He paused, thinking hard for an analogy. "Like you're a human spring! You coil up, store all that energy, and then—BOOM!" He leapt off the beam with a theatrical flourish, landing in a pose. "You release it all in one explosive motion!"
Shinjiro tried to stifle a laugh but failed. Seeing his father, usually so composed, wobbling like a baby giraffe on a narrow plank of wood was too much.
Hiroshi raised an eyebrow but didn't seem offended. "Go ahead, laugh it up. But trust me, this is serious business. Come on, your turn. Let's see if you can hold a stance."
Still grinning, Shinjiro cautiously stepped onto the beam, trying to mimic a pitching stance with his left hand. Almost immediately, he began to wobble, his legs shaking as he struggled to stay upright.
"Whoa! Whoa!" Hiroshi called out, chuckling. "Look at you, wobbling like a drunken flamingo! Engage that core!"
"I'm trying!" Shinjiro protested, his voice strained as he fought to keep his balance. "This is harder than it looks!"
"Of course it is!" Hiroshi laughed, barely containing his amusement. "You're rewiring your brain, teaching your body to move in a whole new way. It's like trying to write your name with your left foot while standing on your head!"
Despite his frustration, Shinjiro couldn't help but chuckle at the absurd mental image. "Yeah, thanks for the encouragement, Dad."
Hiroshi grinned, arms folded. "Hey, I never said this would be easy. But I promise, it'll be worth it. Now, let's work on that leg drive."
From the kitchen window, Yumi watched and peeked over the backyard. She could just make out the figures of Hiroshi and Shinjiro, both moving through some kind of strange routine. Shinjiro wobbled precariously on a narrow plank while Hiroshi barked out instructions, his voice carrying through the early morning air. Every now and then, Hiroshi would break into laughter, and Shinjiro, though exhausted, would chuckle too.
Yumi couldn't help but smile, but the smile quickly turned into a sigh as she shook her head.
"This baseball-crazed family…" she muttered under her breath, placing her hands on her hips.
She turned back to her routine, with the sounds of Hiroshi's exaggerated instructions and Shinjiro's groaning protests echoing in the background, filling the house with a comforting, familiar warmth.
For the next hour, Hiroshi put Shinjiro through a series of increasingly bizarre drills. They practiced "flamingo stands" on the beam, holding the balance point of the pitching motion for as long as possible. Every muscle in Shinjiro's legs burned from the effort, but he gritted his teeth and pushed through.
"Feel that burn?" Hiroshi asked, demonstrating a slow-motion leg drive. "That's your power source. Strong legs mean a strong pitch. You're like a human rocket, and your legs are the launch pad!"
Next came the "drunken windmill" drill, where Shinjiro had to rotate his upper body while keeping his lower body still, all while balancing on the beam. He fell off more times than he could count, landing in a heap on the grass, his muscles screaming.
"That's it!" Hiroshi cheered, helping him up again. "Every fall is just another step closer to getting it right."
Then came the most bizarre tool of all—a hula hoop. Hiroshi presented it with a dramatic flourish. "Behold!"
Shinjiro eyed the hoop warily. "Please tell me I don't have to hula hoop while pitching."
Hiroshi shook his head. "No, no! Well… maybe later. But for now, we're using it to work on rotational power. Watch closely."
He held the hula hoop at waist level and demonstrated rotating his hips explosively. "See? Your core and hips work together to generate that twisting force. You're like a human tornado, channeling all that energy up through your arm!"
Shinjiro tried to mimic the movement, but with his awkward left-hand stance, the hoop clattered to the ground.
"Don't worry!" Hiroshi said, patting him on the back. "You'll get it eventually. And when you do, your left-handed pitches are going to throw batters off completely!"
As the night wore on, the drills became even more eccentric, from "pitch yoga" to shadow pitching on wobble boards. Each one was designed to push Shinjiro's balance, stability, and coordination to the limit.
"Pitching is all about the transfer of energy," Hiroshi lectured, wobbling slightly on the board. "You're like a human pinball machine. The ball is the pinball, and your legs are the plunger!"
"Please stop with the analogies, Dad," Shinjiro groaned, his muscles aching as he collapsed onto the grass.
Hiroshi just grinned. "Hey, if it helps, I'll compare pitching to anything. Cooking, dancing, quantum physics—you name it."
As dawn began to creep over the horizon, Hiroshi finally called it a night. Shinjiro lay sprawled on the grass, exhausted but buzzing with a new sense of determination.
"So," Hiroshi said, sitting beside him. "Still want to be a pitcher?"
Shinjiro flexed his left hand thoughtfully. "It's….not what I expected. But yeah. I do. I'm seeing pitching in a whole new way now."
Hiroshi nodded, proud. "Good. It's not going to be easy, switching to your left hand. But I think you might have an advantage."
Shinjiro looked up, curious. "What's that?"
Hiroshi grinned. "Most batters are used to right-handed pitchers. And you know southpaw's are unique."
Shinjiro laughed, though his muscles screamed in protest. "Great. I'll just need about a thousand more nights like this one, right?"
Hiroshi helped him to his feet. "Oh no, tonight was just the warm-up. Tomorrow, we start the real training."
As they headed inside, the first hints of dawn painting the sky in brilliant colors, Shinjiro felt a renewed sense of excitement. The road ahead was long, but for the first time in a long time, he felt like he had the drive to see it through.
"Hey, Dad?" Shinjiro said as they reached the door.
"Hmm?"
"Thanks... for everything."
Hiroshi smiled, ruffling Shinjiro's hair. "Anytime, kid. Now get some rest. You've got a lot more wobbling and falling in your future."
As Shinjiro groaned and shuffled inside, Hiroshi lingered, watching the sunrise. His grin widened as he imagined all the bizarre drills he had planned for his son's training.