Rain had fallen the night before, leaving the school field a quagmire of mud puddles and slick grass. Haruto Shinozaki stepped onto the mound with trepidation, his cleats slipping on the wet clay. The sky above was a flat gray, hanging low as if watching and waiting for the game's first crack.
He glanced toward the bleachers where two folding chairs sat under an umbrella—Reina Fujimoto and one of the local farmers, their silent support as familiar as his own heartbeat. Beyond them, a handful of classmates—more now, after three consecutive wins—huddled in raincoats, umbrellas bobbing in the drizzle. On the far side, the announcer's booth crackled to life:
"Good morning, folks! Welcome to Round 4 of the Middle School League—Shirakawa versus Nishihara North! I'm Suzuki-san, hoping you're as excited as these wet but willing players. Let's see if the Miracle Nine can keep their streak alive!"
Haruto closed his eyes. Keep the streak alive. He'd thrown more innings than he should have this season. More than his shoulder trusted him to. But with their survival on the line—if they lost one more, the club would vanish—the idea of stepping down never crossed his mind.
He took a deep, shaky breath and nodded to Sōta Mikami, crouched behind home plate in his borrowed catcher's gear. Sōta's eyes glinted under the brim of his cap. No words passed between them—just the silent promise that they'd face each pitch together.
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First Inning: A Warning in Every Throw
Haruto's windup felt heavy. His left shoulder, the one he relied on for downward snap on his curve, had sent a sharp twinge through his arm during warmups. He'd shrugged it off—an amateur's mistake—but now, standing on the rubber, he could no longer ignore it.
First batter, a lanky left-hander from Nishihara, dug in. Haruto gripped the ball, feeling each seam press into his fingers. He wound back—step, turn, snap—and released. The fastball cut inside, brushing the batter's shoulder. Strike one.
A hush fell over the small crowd.
Haruto's pulse quickened, sweat chasing cold rain down his neck. He shook his arm out, silent, trying to work the ache out of his muscles. Sōta tapped his glove: curve. Haruto hesitated—curve hurts—but he'd given the signal. He wound and threw. The slider dropped awkwardly, landing in the dirt. Ball one.
Tension thrummed.
On deck, the batter from their first big win—Takeshi's rival—shouted encouragement. Haruto blinked, refocused. His next fastball was low, just across the plate. Strike two.
He tried to loosen his wrist, but another jolt crawled up his arm. He swallowed hard. One more pitch.
He delivered a changeup that trembled on the edge of his release, drifting over the heart. The batter swung and missed. Strike three.
Haruto exhaled, relief and pain mingled in his chest. He jogged to the dugout, arm hanging stiffly at his side. Coach Inoue met him there, concern flickering in his eyes. But the bell rang—time for batting practice—and Inoue fell back, pretending to adjust his clipboard.
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Player's Lament: A Rookie's Realization
In the dugout, Haruto massaged his shoulder under the sleeve of his gray pinstripe jersey. Jun Yamazaki, the rookie outfielder, peeked at him.
"You okay, ace?" Jun asked quietly. "You didn't grimace that hard last game."
Haruto forced a laugh. "Just weird weather."
Jun frowned but didn't press. He'd learned: when Haruto hid something, it was serious.
As they took the field, Haruto steeled himself. He would not show weakness. Not now.
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Second Inning: Cracking Under Pressure
Shirakawa's turn to bat brought a spark of hope. Jun dropped an awkward bunt that should have been an easy out—but Nishihara's shortstop tripped, allowing Jun to reach first. Takeshi followed with a powerful line drive to left field—just enough for a single.
Coach Inoue, watching from the fence, allowed himself a half-smile. The team's strength wasn't in skill. It was in chaos—their homemade plays, their willingness to risk everything.
Back on the mound, Haruto chased the ball again. His shoulder's ache had become a dull roar. He shook it off—rolled his arm, slammed the ball into his palm. If it got worse, he'd switch, let the backup pitch. But then the crowd rose as his batter stepped in—a hulking seventh grader famed for his home runs.
Haruto breathed. One pitch at a time.
He threw his best fastball. The batter cracked it into foul territory.
He threw a curve—slid too slowly. Ball one.
He snapped an inside heater—batter missed. Strike one.
Pain lanced through his arm as he threw the next.
He saw the seams wobble—felt the hitch in his release. The ball came in high and wild. Ball two.
He swallowed bile.
Sōta flicked two fingers: fastball outside. Haruto's nod was almost imperceptible.
He wound once more. But as he released, a sharp pop echoed in his shoulder—the pitch flew, but it lacked bite. The batter connected. A screaming line drive into center field.
2–1 Nishihara.
Haruto watched Takeshi scamper home, arms raised in triumph. His own shoulders slumped—embarrassment stung more than the injury.
He peeled off his glove and stalked to the dugout. His uniform was plastered to him, but sweat wasn't from effort alone.
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Behind the Scenes: The Silent Counsel
Coach Inoue intercepted him, voice low. "Haruto—sit out the next inning. Let the junior take over."
Haruto shook his head before the words fully sank in.
"No. I can finish this."
Inoue's eyes narrowed with worry. "At what cost?"
Haruto glared, then turned away, climbing the bench steps with stiff grace.
From the fence, Reina watched, heart clenched. She sprinted to his side with an ice pack. Without a word, she pressed it to his shoulder. Cold seared through him—good. At least it numbed the pain.
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Third Inning: The Unraveling
Haruto took the mound still grimacing. The cold pack wrapped around his arm, but every motion reverberated with ache. He tried to focus on the sign from Sōta—a simple fastball—but his mechanics betrayed him. His elbow lagged, his torso leaned forward too soon.
He delivered a pitch that should have been a strike. Instead, it floated above the zone. Ball one.
The next, he tried a slider—but with his arm in revolt, it hung. The batter didn't hesitate. He crushed it—a towering fly ball to left.
The stand erupted. Nishihara took a 4–1 lead.
Jun and Takeshi chased the ball in the outfield, but the grass was slick. Takeshi's glove slipped. The ball bounced past him. Two more runs scored.
Haruto sunk to one knee. The mound seemed to tilt beneath him. He opened his glove to hide his face, but only silence greeted him—no cheers, no jeers. Just the hum of distant cicadas.
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A Teammate's Stand
Rising from the bench, Jun stormed onto the field.
"You okay, Miyazaki?" he demanded, voice breaking decent barrier.
Haruto looked up, ashamed. "I'm fine."
Jun's eyes burned. "That's not fine. You're hurting, and we're losing—both because you won't ask for help!"
Haruto's pride cracked. He opened his mouth, then closed it. Words failed him.
Sōta appeared, standing beside Jun. He peered at Haruto, concern etched deep in his eyes.
"Listen," Sōta said, voice gentle but firm, "we're a team. If you can't pitch, we'll field. We'll bat. We'll do whatever it takes. But you're not doing this alone."
Haruto's jaw unknotted. He exhaled a long, ragged breath.
"...Okay."
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Fourth Inning: A New Pitcher
The junior kid, a quiet boy named Hayama, trotted onto the mound, trembling but determined. Haruto jogged back to the dugout, every step a reminder of the hurt he'd tried to hide.
In the dugout, Reina reached for his arm and squeezed it. No words. Just strength.
Haruto nodded and sank onto the bench. Coach Inoue handed him a towel and a bottle of water.
They watched Hayama pitch—awkward, wild, but filled with raw willingness. One run scored on a passed ball. One more on a wild pitch. Then the lineup turned over, and Hayama struck out their first batter with a surprising inside fastball.
The crowd, sensing a story, clapped politely. Support was growing.
Haruto leaned back, closed his eyes, and let the tumult of the morning wash over him. Pain, pride, fear, relief—all tangled.
He realized then: being a team meant sharing every cost.
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Aftermath: The Quiet Resolve
The final score read 6–2. Another loss. Their worst yet.
But after the game, something unexpected happened. Instead of walking off in shame, the team huddled at the mound. They didn't cheer—there wasn't energy for that—but they stood together, breathing in the humid air, shoulders squared.
Reina stepped forward, handing Haruto the broken ball he'd pitched in the first inning. "You did well," she said softly. "That first inning was the best I've seen."
Haruto looked at her, then at his teammates. He saw Sōta nod, Jun's respect-filled gaze, Takeshi's proud grin.
His chest filled with warmth.
"Next time," he said, voice steady, "we'll show them every inning."
And in that promise lay their true miracle—not in flawless play, but in unbreakable unity.
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End of Chapter 36