On the day of the final, the Natsume family's skies were perfectly clear and blue.
A massive crowd poured into Koshien, slowly filling the entire stadium.
Originally meant to hold 50,454 spectators, the venue had forcibly expanded to hold 55,000. Some seating areas were converted into standing zones.
So many attendees were standing.
When the camera turned to them, many viewers noticed that the standing spectators weren't young people—but largely senior citizens.
Many were old enough to be grandfathers.
Their faces were painted to match the stadium walls in white, with golden leaves drawn on their cheeks.
They held posters of every coach and player from the Aoba team and raised banners that spanned entire sections reading:
"A hundred years forging the sword—just to strike once!"
…
"Hello, I'm Nakano Ichika, temporary reporter from Tokyo TV. May I interview you?"
Wearing a professional business suit and followed by a cameraman, Ichika approached an elderly gentleman with silver hair and a scholarly air.
"Eh?"
Maybe it was too noisy in the stadium, or maybe he was just hard of hearing, but the man looked confused at her question.
Ichika had to raise her voice and repeat herself.
"Sure, just speak a little louder. I'm old—my hearing's not great."
The old man pointed at his ear and waved his hand.
"Okay. May I ask how old you are?"
"Ninety-five!"
Ichika looked at him in shock, as if she couldn't believe he had lived that long.
"What's your connection to Aoba?"
"I graduated from Aoba!"
The man pointed at himself and beamed. "Back when Aoba first made it to Koshien, I was the starting pitcher."
"Really?"
Ichika's eyes lit up in surprise.
She didn't expect her random interview to land one of the original starting nine who led the team to Koshien.
"Really."
"You must've supported Aoba for a long time, then?"
"Ever since I became an Aoba student at fifteen, I've loved this team. I've been to every single Koshien they've played in."
As he spoke, he pulled out a small album from his bag. When he opened it, Ichika saw that it wasn't full of postage stamps—but ticket stubs.
The cameraman zoomed in on the album.
"What's kept you going for so long?"
Ichika's heart trembled with awe—words couldn't describe the feeling.
Eighty years of unwavering loyalty. That's true devotion.
"It's love, and it's also habit."
Love is a habit.
Boys often choose a favorite team in their teens—and love it for life.
For the elderly man, his youthful passion with like-minded teammates chasing impossible dreams was his most treasured memory.
Even after eighty years, he could still clearly recall the excitement of leading his team to Koshien.
"What's your wish?"
"To win the championship!"
His tone was firm.
That had been his dream since joining Aoba's baseball team at age fifteen.
Then he smiled and said, "This is the closest we've ever been to winning the championship. I hope Takashi can help fulfill my dream."
Upon hearing this, Nakano Ichika suddenly began to worry for Takashi.
Expectations are a subtle kind of pressure.
Winning would be one thing, but if Takashi failed to win and looked back, seeing the disappointed and disheartened eyes of those who supported him—how heavy would that burden be?
…
In the VIP box, Eriri frowned at her mother. "Mom, why did you bring me here? Didn't you say we were coming to see Takashi? Where is he?"
Beside her, Utaha remained silent, but her wine-red eyes scanned the surroundings, clearly looking for someone.
Before Sayuri could respond, an impatient voice cut in: "He's not here."
Eriri glanced over to see a beautiful black-haired girl with straight, long hair holding a cup of mango smoothie.
She was slowly scooping spoonfuls into her mouth.
"Where is he?" Eriri asked, narrowing her eyes at Narii.
"He hasn't appeared yet."
Narii took a few bites but found the taste average and set the smoothie down on the armrest with mild disappointment.
Hearing Narii's response, both Eriri and Utaha had no choice but to suppress their impatience and sit back down.
…
In the "Battle at Koshien" live broadcast room, Ohtani Shohei and Sakurajima Mai sat on either side as the makeup artists made final touch-ups.
While being made up, Sakurajima Mai reviewed the commentary script she had prepared over the last few days.
This broadcast couldn't afford any mistakes. Even though she had memorized every version of the script, she kept reviewing it.
The director monitored the intro footage while constantly reminding the commentators how much time remained before going live.
The current footage being aired was a montage of Takashi's incredible performances from the first match at Koshien—his pitching, his home runs—as well as highlights from High School for Advanced Nurturing and other top schools.
…
In the locker room, Takashi was tightly wrapping his right arm with an elastic bandage.
As he flexed slightly, the pain from the torn joint capsule—caused by his previous dislocation—twisted his facial features in agony.
"How's it feeling, Kitahara?"
Katsuta Musashi asked with concern.
Not just him—every player on the team turned to look at him.
Now, Takashi was undoubtedly the heart of the Aoba team.
"I'm not going down here."
Takashi didn't say whether he felt good or not. He simply stated that and threw on his jacket, bouncing in place twice.
Knock knock!
There was a knock on the door. At Amatani Kensuke's "Come in," a staff member pushed open the door. "Aoba, it's time."
"Let's go."
Takashi adjusted his baseball cap and was the first to step out of the locker room.
He was followed by Momodani Kaname, Amatani Kensuke, Okura Kento, Noda Yusei… one by one, each with firm eyes, walking out in an orderly line.
"Good luck!"
The staffer looked at the backs of the nine players including Takashi and couldn't help but call out encouragement.
He knew he wasn't supposed to bring emotions into his work, but looking at this Aoba team, it was hard not to be moved.
They had made it here on sheer willpower and were battered and broken.
"We'll do our best."
As the last to leave, Coach Amatani Kensuke patted the staff member on the shoulder before walking out.
As the final theme music of the championship blared, Takashi walked through the player tunnel.
The moment his foot touched the grass, the thunderous cheers of tens of thousands of fans erupted like a tidal wave.
"Takashi!!!"
"Lord of Tokyo!!!"
"Aoba for the championship!!!"
Takashi listened to the roar of the crowd, his ears filled with the deafening cheers ahead.
Every spotlight in the stadium focused on him and the seventeen other players on the field.
Millions of eyes in front of their TVs were anticipating the kind of show these players would deliver.
Every move he made from here on out would tug on countless nerves.
This was the entrance every young boy dreamed of.
Though Takashi had long passed the age of youthful arrogance, at this moment, his heart was pounding with excitement.
He loved being in the spotlight.
He loved being the center of attention.
This is why I refuse to be anyone's substitute, he thought.
Takashi subconsciously glanced toward the VIP seats.
Some people dreamed of being Hikigaya Hachiman, some wanted to be Shirogane Miyuki, and some wanted to be the object of Shinomiya's affection—but Takashi didn't want to be anyone else.
He just wanted to be himself, the protagonist of his own world.
The field had been groomed, the infield soil soft, the outfield lush with green grass, and the sea breeze stirred the hearts of the young men.
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