The sun hung low over Kurosaki's broken field, casting long shadows across the diamond. Ryoma stood in the middle of it, watching the scene unfold. It wasn't much of a practice—more like an exercise in chaos.
Yuuto was trying to catch fly balls, but every time the ball left Ryoma's hand, the glasses-wearing boy tripped over his own feet, his arms flailing in the air. It was almost comical if it weren't so tragic.
Jiro was somewhere between third base and the outfield, staring at the ground as though he were trying to remember what he was supposed to be doing. When a grounder finally rolled toward him, he froze. It bounced off his shin and veered into the dirt like a confused animal.
Shin was at bat, gripping the bat like it was a hammer. When he swung, the bat cracked the air—no contact.
Takumi, ever the skeptic, was leaning against the dugout, his arms folded. "See? Told you this was gonna be a disaster."
Ryoma stood quietly, watching it all unfold. For a moment, he almost felt a little... disappointed. But the more he observed, the more something clicked in his mind.
They're not bad...
He let out a breath, walked up to the mound, and gripped the ball again.
"What are you doing?" Takumi asked.
"Making a mess of my perfect game."
Ryoma turned toward the team.
"Alright, gather up."
No one moved.
Takumi sighed. "You gotta be kidding me."
But after a moment, everyone stumbled over to him. No one really knew what was going on, but no one wanted to argue either.
Ryoma threw the ball to Jiro, who caught it this time—just barely.
"I'll teach you how to not screw up," Ryoma said, his voice sharper than he intended.
Takumi raised an eyebrow. "You think that'll work? These guys can barely stand on their feet."
Ryoma ignored him and turned to Jiro.
"Alright. You've got one job: keep your glove low when the ball comes to you. Don't try to be fancy. Just stop it from rolling past."
Jiro nodded, unsure.
Yuuto was next. "You're gonna need to focus on timing. It's not about speed right now. It's about being in the right spot. Just keep your eyes open."
Yuuto blinked, a little confused, but nodded anyway.
Shin? Ryoma turned toward him, expecting the bodybuilder to be distracted. Instead, Shin was watching him closely, gripping the bat a little too tightly. He clearly wanted to impress Ryoma.
"Shin," Ryoma said, his tone softer, "focus on your follow-through. Don't just swing blindly. There's no point in a hard hit if it goes nowhere."
Shin hesitated, but Ryoma could see the wheels turning in his head.
"Okay," Ryoma continued. "I'm not gonna hold your hands through this. But if you want to keep playing, you'll listen. The moment you stop thinking, that's when you start losing."
There was a brief silence. Even Takumi looked a little more interested than before.
Ryoma took his place on the mound again and gave Takumi a look. "Catch this."
Takumi raised an eyebrow. "Really?"
Ryoma didn't answer. He just threw a pitch.
The ball zipped through the air. Takumi reacted a fraction of a second too late, but still managed to catch it, his mitt snapping shut.
Takumi let out a low whistle. "Damn. You're serious about this."
Ryoma nodded. "If I'm gonna do this, I'm gonna do it right."
Later that evening, on the train ride home, Ryoma couldn't shake the feeling that the day had been... different. They hadn't done much—just a few grounders, some tips, and a lot of awkward moments—but for some reason, he felt like something had shifted.
It wasn't just about baseball. It was about the fact that, for the first time in a long while, he was seeing the potential in someone else.
Takumi had been right about one thing: these guys weren't pro material. Not yet. But maybe, just maybe, they had something more than raw talent. They had heart.
And that, Ryoma thought, might be enough to build something.