The notice board outside the gym was cracked at one corner, water-stained from last season's rain, but that morning it held something new—something important.
A yellowed paper, stamped with the prefectural league's red seal, was pinned under a single rusting tack.
Sōta was the first to see it.
He had shown up early, with his usual bedhead flattened by a beanie, slinging the team bag over one shoulder and humming some off-key tune.
His footsteps slowed. The bag slid from his shoulder with a heavy thump. A gust of spring wind rustled the paper.
Haruto arrived a few minutes later, jogged up the slope path to the gym, still tying the last knot on his worn laces. He stopped when he saw Sōta frozen in place.
"What is it?"
Sōta turned.
He didn't smile. He just pointed.
Haruto stepped closer and read the top of the page aloud:
"2025 Middle School Baseball League – Official Team Listings"
There it was.
Buried among the names of better-funded schools, urban academies, and baseball powerhouses... was theirs:
Yamakoshi Third Middle School
They had made it.
Not because of reputation. Not because of any sponsor. But because of a petition from the town council, a flood of signatures, and a quiet nod from the league committee.
"We're... really on the list," Haruto said.
Sōta finally smiled. "That means we play. No more practice games. No more rumors. It starts now."
---
By midday, the rest of the team had gathered.
Jun ran a lap around the gym when he saw the listing, fists in the air.
Takeshi tried to downplay it with a shrug but kept peeking at the list every five minutes.
Even Reina arrived, out of breath from the sprint between classes, clutching a stack of old uniforms she'd borrowed from neighboring schools.
Coach Inoue stood at a distance, arms crossed. He hadn't said much since the principal's warning last week. He still wore his math teacher's cardigan, frayed at the elbows, but his eyes studied the list like it was a map to something lost.
"Now that we're listed," Reina asked, tugging Haruto aside, "what are you going to do about your control issues?"
Haruto blinked. "What do you mean?"
"You throw like your body remembers something your mind doesn't. But sometimes... you aim at ghosts."
He didn't answer. He couldn't.
She handed him a wrapped rice ball. "Eat. Your metabolism's shot. I can tell."
---
The first match was set for the weekend.
Their opponent: Tokushima North, a disciplined team known for their pitching battery and clean infield.
During practice, tension hovered like fog.
They had no team bus. They borrowed gloves. Their catcher's mask was still missing a strap. Reina tried to mend the cracks in their cleats with glue.
But when Haruto stood on the mound, with Sōta crouched behind the plate and Jun shouting from third base, something clicked.
"Top of the first!" someone in the sparse crowd called.
An old man from town brought a folding chair and an umbrella. Two kids held hand-painted signs: "Go Thunder!" and "Miracle Nine!"
From the dugout, Inoue spoke just loud enough to hear: "No pressure. But your school club lives or dies on this game."
Jun whispered, "Real motivational speech, coach."
Takeshi cracked his knuckles. "Let's give 'em a countryside welcome."
---
Commentary was informal.
Reina had brought a mic and a speaker from the school festival.
She stood near the field with a clipboard, half-commentator, half-medic.
"First pitch by #1, Haruto Miyazaki. Batter up: Tokushima's captain, Kaito Minami. Known for inside corner hits."
Haruto closed his eyes.
No whispers. No flashes. Just the wind and his heartbeat.
Sōta flashed a sign: inside fastball.
Haruto nodded.
The pitch flew. Crack!
A grounder to short.
Jun fumbled, recovered, and threw to first. Just in time.
Out.
Cheers erupted, small but sincere. The umbrella man clapped like it was the finals.
---
They played not perfectly, but with grit.
Takeshi dove for every ball.
Sōta called daring pitch sequences that confused the batters.
In the fourth inning, Haruto struck out two in a row, sweat blinding his left eye. His arm throbbed, but he didn't stop.
Bottom of the sixth: tied 2-2.
Tension hummed.
Jun walked.
Takeshi bunted.
Sōta got hit by a pitch.
Bases loaded. Two outs.
Haruto came up to bat.
Reina's voice crackled over the mic: "Batter: Miyazaki, Haruto. Pitcher vs pitcher. Let's see who blinks first."
He adjusted his helmet, stepped in.
First pitch—curveball. He swung late. Strike one.
Second pitch—fastball high. He let it go. Ball one.
Third pitch. Time slowed.
A memory surfaced: his grandfather, tossing a baseball under a pink sakura tree.
"If you're going to swing, swing like you trust yourself."
He did.
Crack.
The ball sailed past the second baseman.
Jun scored. Takeshi rounded third.
Throw to the plate. Not in time.
Cheers exploded.
The Miracle Nine led, 4-2.
---
They held the lead.
Final inning.
Haruto pitched with everything left in his shoulder. Each throw sharper than the last.
A pop-up. Out.
A grounder. Out.
Final batter. Two strikes.
He looked to Sōta.
No signal. Just a smile.
Haruto exhaled.
The ball flew.
Swing. Miss.
Game.
---
They dogpiled near the mound, laughing, breathless.
Reina nearly dropped her mic running over.
From the edge of the field, Coach Inoue nodded once. Then turned away before they could see the shine in his eyes.
Later, as the sun set behind the mountains, Haruto sat alone by the dugout.
He opened the rice ball Reina had given him that morning.
Still warm.
And for the first time in months, he smiled without hesitation.
They weren't ghosts anymore.
They were players.
And the season had truly begun.