"You knew he could pitch equally well with both hands?"
Suzuki Ichiro turned in astonishment to Otani Shohei after witnessing Takashi throw a 164 km/h fastball with his left hand—directly into the catcher's glove.
"No."
Otani Shohei's eyes were also filled with shock.
"Is that impressive?"
Sakurajima Mai, snapping out of her excitement, overheard their conversation and quickly asked.
Even the two professionals beside her had been stunned by Takashi's pitch.
"It's very impressive."
Suzuki Ichiro asked her, "Are you left-handed or right-handed?"
"Right."
"Okay. Try writing your name with your left hand."
Sakurajima Mai took the pen and paper from Suzuki and tried. Not only could she not write—she couldn't even hold the pen comfortably.
"You can barely hold a pen. Meanwhile, Kitahara just threw a 164 km/h pitch from 18.44 meters away with his non-dominant hand—accurately into a tiny glove."
"Now tell me—which one's harder?"
Hearing this, Sakurajima Mai suddenly recalled something Takashi had once said:
"If you don't play baseball, seeing me is like a frog in a well glimpsing the moon."
"If you do play baseball, seeing me is like a speck of dust glimpsing the heavens."
Back then, everyone had thought those lines were pure arrogance.
But now, they seem more meaningful than ever.
…
Satisfying!
Takashi was thrilled that he'd actually hit the target with his left hand—what a flex!
He hadn't trained in ambidextrous techniques. Naturally, his left-hand pitching couldn't compare to his dominant right.
But after injuring his right arm, he tried pitching with his left and found that out of every ten throws, six or seven would hit the strike zone.
He chalked it up to talent.
Talent—intangible, but undeniably real.
Some people can shoot equally well with both feet in soccer.
Others have explosive leaping ability in basketball and can dunk effortlessly—something most people can't do in their entire lives.
Compared to those gifted monsters, Takashi's talent might seem ordinary.
But this "ordinary" talent was exactly what he needed right now.
It meant he still had one good arm for pitching.
For Advanced Nurturing, this was nothing short of a nightmare.
"Ball—again!"
Futase Rei snapped out of her excitement and tossed another ball over.
Takashi caught it smoothly, raised three fingers toward Sudo Ken with a smug grin, and wiggled them.
Three pitches to end you.
"Whoaaa!!!"
The crowd roared again.
Damn it!
Sudo Ken clenched his molars and glared at Takashi with irritation.
These people in the stands were loud enough to drive him mad.
Just play the game! What's with all the screaming!?
Second pitch—still a fastball from Takashi .
Because he hadn't played for long, fastballs were all he could throw.
At best, he could just barely adjust the drop point a little.
If he really tried to apply any kind of spin to the ball, even he didn't know where it might end up flying.
The wind howled. In an instant, the white ball shot out.
The moment Takashi made his pitching motion, Sudo Ken swung his bat.
He knew there wasn't time to rely on his eyes—since Takashi could only throw fastballs, he decided to take a gamble.
"That's a bad ball—don't swing!"
Nagumo Miyabi shouted at Sudo Ken.
Swish!
Sudo Ken swung and missed.
The ball landed in the catcher's glove, but it had landed outside the strike zone.
It should have been a bad ball—but because Sudo Ken swung, the bad ball turned into a good one.
"Strike two!"
The umpire announced the result.
"Kitahara! Kitahara! Kitahara!"
The cheers rose again from several sections of Aoba's support stands.
"You idiot! Why did you swing?!"
Nagumo Miyabi, uncharacteristically flustered, yelled at Sudo Ken.
"Are you brain-dead?!"
In the summer heat, people easily lose their temper.
And when you're on a field where the crowd cheers your opponent and only hurls insults and curses at you—it's hard to stay calm.
"Shut the hell up!"
Sudo Ken, hot-headed as ever, turned and shouted back at Nagumo.
"Who gave you the right to talk?"
Seeing Sudo Ken act so arrogant even after messing up, Nagumo didn't back down either.
Just as he was about to explode, Horikita Manabu said coldly, "Enough. Haven't you embarrassed yourselves enough?"
Takashi saw all of this unfold and smiled.
That pitch earlier? It was actually his fault.
His left hand wasn't his dominant one—he couldn't expect every throw to hit the zone.
But so what?
He could throw a bad pitch—but would Sudo Ken dare not swing?
No, he wouldn't.
What made Takashi's fastball different from everyone else's was speed.
His pitch was so fast that the batter didn't have time to tell if it was a ball or a strike.
If you swing, even a bad ball becomes a good one if you hit it.
But if you don't swing—what if it's a strike?
Confusion, restlessness, frustration, anxiety…
After the umpire stepped in to give a warning, Takashi balanced on one leg, raising the other high.
This final match didn't begin when the game started.
It began the moment the audience entered the stadium.
Why were there so many people here for Aoba?
Because Takashi had asked Hitomi to gather them.
Takashi didn't understand baseball—but he knew soccer and basketball.
And in those sports, there's a term: home-field advantage.
Every cheer the crowd gave Aoba, every shout of encouragement—greatly boosted the players' confidence.
And every insult, jeer, or discriminatory comment aimed at Advanced Nurturing only made their players more agitated.
Can a child praised every day be the same as one constantly scolded?
Maybe Ayanokoji Kiyotaka and Horikita Manabu could keep their composure—but what about the others?
Takashi had been planning all of this before the match even started.
"Horikita Manabu, the game was over before it even began."
With a stomp that kicked up dust, Takashi launched the ball like a siege catapult.
Is it a ball? A strike? Should I swing or not?!
After the argument with Nagumo, even though he'd been calmed down, Sudo Ken still hesitated as the pitch came at him—uncertain whether to swing or not.
Right now, he was like a rookie writer being told how to write a novel by readers—unsure what advice to follow, lost on what to do.
"Swing the bat!"
Sudo Ken couldn't tell who shouted that. By the time the ball slammed into the catcher's glove, he finally swung.
"Hahahahahaha!!!"
The whole crowd burst into laughter.
"Is this big oaf here just to be a clown?"
"The ball has already landed, and then he swings the bat. What a riot."
"Advanced Nurturing's a circus: one guy walks off voluntarily, another swings half a second late."
The audience's ridicule rang in Sudo Ken's ears. He felt like a monkey in a zoo doing a clumsy performance.
And the worst part—Takashi raised his arm and gestured for them to cheer louder.
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