"Keep your eyes open this time!"
"I am keeping them open!" Sōta yelled, ducking again as the ball zipped past his glove and clanged off the fence behind him.
Haruto exhaled, shoulders sagging. "Sōta, you're supposed to catch the ball, not avoid it like it's a meteor."
"I'm not avoiding it! I'm just… recalculating my hand-to-eye ratio." Sōta adjusted his glasses with a sheepish look. "Besides, it's not like I've been training since birth like you."
They were on the makeshift field again—broomed clear by Haruto that morning—wearing faded uniforms, shoes caked in dirt, and hearts too stubborn to quit.
They had no coach.
No proper equipment.
But they had a ball. And each other.
And a very… painful learning curve.
Aoi stood by the fence with a first-aid kit in hand, trying not to laugh too loudly. "Maybe you should throw slower, Haruto."
"He's the one who said, 'bring it on.'" Haruto sighed and walked over to Sōta. "Let's try short distance. Just toss-and-catch. No full-speed pitches."
Sōta nodded in gratitude. "Deal. If I go blind, I want to remember your face… so I can sue your future MLB contract."
Haruto snorted, tossing him the ball underhanded. This time, Sōta caught it. Then another. Then a third. A rhythm formed. Their breathing synchronized. The countryside wind carried the sound of the ball snapping into glove leather.
"Not bad," Haruto said.
"I'm a genius when it comes to pattern recognition," Sōta replied, puffing his chest.
Haruto picked up a bat. "Great. Now let's see if your reflexes match your ego."
Sōta's eyes widened. "Wait, what—!?"
Before he could finish, Haruto gently lobbed a slow pitch. Sōta panicked and closed his eyes, swinging his glove up blindly.
Thwack!
The ball landed square in his mitt.
He peeked through one eye. "...I caught it?"
Aoi clapped from the sidelines. "Sōta! That was actually cool!"
Sōta turned redder than a foul tip. "Y-yeah? I mean, of course I did."
Haruto walked over, patting his friend's shoulder. "Congratulations, Captain Avoido. You're officially catcher #1."
"Wait—was that a promotion or punishment?"
Before Haruto could answer, a voice called out from behind the fence.
"You guys always this noisy after school?"
A tall boy leaned over the rusty gate, one headphone dangling from his ear. He looked like a first-year high schooler, but wore the same Kamiyama Middle uniform.
"Who's asking?" Haruto challenged.
The boy smiled lazily. "Name's Riku. I used to be in the track team… until they cut the budget. You guys forming a baseball club?"
Haruto stepped forward. "We are. And we'll take anyone willing to work hard."
Riku glanced at Sōta's trembling glove. "...Even if your catcher looks like he's about to cry?"
"I'm not crying!" Sōta snapped. "Just… sweating emotionally."
Riku chuckled. "Alright. I'm in. I can run bases. Maybe steal a few."
Haruto's eyes lit up. Another player.
Their team was still just a handful of misfits, with no field, no funding, and no wins.
But it was growing.
Slowly.
Silently.
Like a seed pushing through cracked earth.
"Let's build something they'll remember," Haruto said, gripping the bat. "Right here. From nothing."
The three of them stood under the fading sun, the wind rustling the weeds like whispers of a forgotten dream.
---
End of Chapter 2