Bottom of the ninth. Two outs. Full count.
I stood on the mound, the dirt loose and dry under my cleats. My legs burned with a lactic fire. My lungs heaved, gasping for air that felt too thick to breathe. I was exhausted, having thrown over a hundred pitches in this game alone, but I refused to show it.
I looked toward home plate. The batter was a monster of a high schooler, a cleanup hitter who had already smashed a homer off me in the fourth inning. He was digging his cleats into the dirt of the batter's box, grinning at me like a shark smelling blood in the water.
My dad taught me this visualization. Block out the noise. Block out the heat. Block out the fifty thousand people screaming my name. There is nothing in the world except the catcher's mitt.
I opened my eyes. The catcher flashed the sign. Fastball. High and inside.
A risky pitch. If I missed, it was a ball, and they walked. If I left it hanging, it was a home run, and we lost. But I didn't hesitate. I grinned, feeling the sweat drip down my nose. I wound up.
I channeled every ounce of adrenaline, every hour of practice in the backyard, every late-night conversation about mechanics, into my right leg. I pushed off the rubber plate. My body uncoiled like a whip, the kinetic energy traveling from the earth, through my hips, into my shoulder, and finally to my fingertips.
The ball left my hand with a snap.
It was a laser beam. Ninety-four miles per hour. It cut through the humid air, rising slightly as it neared the plate, a white blur of violence. The batter swung. He put everything he had into it, a swing meant to end the game.
WHIFF.
The sound of the ball hitting the mitt was like a gunshot, sharp and final.
"STRIKE THREE!" the umpire's voice cracked through the air, his fist pumping into the sky.
For a second, there was silence. A total, absolute vacuum where the world stopped turning. Then, the stadium exploded.
My catcher rushed the mound, ripping his mask off, tackling me in a hug that nearly knocked the wind out of me. Seconds later, I was at the bottom of a dogpile of cheering bodies and dust. I laughed, staring up at the blinding blue sky, feeling the weight of my teammates crushing the air out of my lungs, tears streaming down my face mixing with the dirt.
I scrambled out of the pile, my hat missing, my hair a mess. I didn't look at the scoreboard. I didn't look at the trophy being brought out. I looked up at the stands behind home plate.
There he was.
My dad. He was standing with his arms raised high, that goofy, lopsided grin plastered across his face. He looked ridiculous in his faded team cap, cheering louder than anyone else, his face red with pride. He caught my eye across the distance and gave me a thumbs-up.
I pointed back at him, grinning until my face hurt.
I did it, Dad. We did it.
Thirty minutes later, the locker room was pure chaos. Sparkling cider was being sprayed like champagne, sticking to the floor and our uniforms. Reporters were shoving microphones in faces, asking generic questions about "team spirit" and "grit." I sat by my locker, tuning it out, checking my phone.
One new text from "Dad."
"Incredible game, kid. You looked just like a pro out there. Better than I ever was. Go celebrate with the team, take your time. I'm heading home now to get the Sukiyaki started. Tonight, we feast like kings."
I smiled, typing back: "See you soon, Dad. Make sure you don't burn the beef this time."
I didn't stay long. The party was fun, but I wanted to be home. I wanted to sit at our small dining table, eat sukiyaki until I couldn't move, and break down every single pitch of the game with the old man. I wanted to hear him tell me I was great.
I packed my bag, draping my heavy gold medal over my neck, and slipped out the back exit of the stadium.
The weather had turned. The oppressive summer humidity had finally broken into a heavy, rhythmic rain. I didn't mind. I walked to the station, took the train, and walked the final mile to our house. The rain beat against the pavement, washing away the sweat and the dust of the game. I felt light. I felt like my life was just beginning.
I turned the corner to our street.
The house was dark.
That was strange. Dad usually left the porch light on when he knew I was coming home late. And if he was cooking sukiyaki, the kitchen light should have been blazing, casting a warm glow onto the driveway.
I walked up the driveway, the gravel crunching under my wet sneakers. A cold knot formed in my stomach, tightening with every step.
"Dad?" I called out.
Silence.
I unlocked the front door and stepped in. "Dad! I'm home!"
The house was silent. There was no smell of soy sauce and simmering beef. The air felt stale, cold, as if the house had been empty for hours.
"Dad?"
I walked into the kitchen. It was empty. The pot was on the stove, cold and empty. The vegetables were still in the fridge, chopped and ready in bowls, but untouched. He never made it home.
I pulled out my phone, my wet fingers slipping on the screen. I dialed his number.
Ring... Ring... Ring...
Beep. "Please leave a message after the tone."
"Dad, where are you? I'm home. Call me back."
I hung up. The silence of the house pressed in on me. It was deafening, amplified by the drumming of the rain on the roof.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
The sound made me jump. I spun around, relief flooding my chest.
"Dad?"
I rushed to the door and threw it open.
It wasn't him.
Two police officers stood on the porch, water dripping from the brims of their hats. They looked grim. They looked... sorry.
"Are you the son?" the older officer asked, his voice gentle, practiced.
"Yes," I said, my voice trembling. "Where is he?"
The officer took off his hat, clutching it to his chest. "Son... there was an accident on the highway. A multi-car pileup. A drunk driver swerved into oncoming traffic."
My ears started to ring. The sound of the rain faded into a dull, distant hum.
"No," I whispered.
"He was pronounced dead at the scene," the officer continued, the words sounding like they were coming from underwater, distorted and slow. "I'm so sorry."
"No... that's bullshit... no."
I looked down at my chest. The gold medal was still there, heavy and cold against my hoodie. It mocked me. I just texted him. He was making sukiyaki. We were supposed to feast like kings.
"Son, is there anyone we can call?" the officer reached out a hand to steady me.
I slapped it away.
"Don't touch me!"
Panic seized my throat. I couldn't breathe in here. The house felt like a tomb. Every picture on the wall, every piece of furniture, it all screamed of him. The silence was choking me.
I turned and ran.
I pushed past the officers, sprinting out into the rain. I didn't know where I was going. I just ran. I ran until my lungs burned, until my legs gave out, until the roar of the Koshien crowd in my head was replaced by the roar of my own grief.