The first few weeks at Seido were a brutal awakening. I quickly realized that watching Ace of Diamond was a far cry from actually living it. The training regimen was relentless, the competition cutthroat, and the pressure immense. But I was determined to prove myself, to show everyone—and myself—that I belonged here.
Mornings started before the sun even thought about peeking over the horizon. The biting cold of early dawn would seep into my bones as I stumbled out of the dorm, joining the other players for our daily run. We'd pound the pavement, our breath misting in the air, pushing ourselves to the brink of exhaustion.
After the run, it was straight into fielding practice. Coach Ochiai, with his sharp eyes and even sharper tongue, would drill us relentlessly. Ground balls, pop flies, throws to the infield—every movement had to be precise, every reaction instantaneous. My hands were constantly bruised and aching, but I refused to let it show.
The afternoons were dedicated to batting practice. Standing in the batter's box, facing the likes of Tanba-san and Kawakami-san, was a terrifying experience. Their pitches were fast, their control impeccable, and their experience undeniable. I swung and missed more times than I could count, my arms burning with fatigue. But with each swing, I learned something new—a subtle adjustment to my stance, a slight change in my timing.
The evenings were reserved for pitching practice. This was where I truly felt alive. Standing on the mound, the ball in my hand, the catcher's mitt a distant target—it was a feeling like no other. I worked tirelessly on my form, trying to replicate the techniques I'd seen in the anime, but it was much harder in reality. My pitches lacked the speed and power of the established pitchers, but I focused on control, on hitting my spots, on developing a deceptive delivery.
Miyuki, with his insightful observations and strategic mind, became my unofficial mentor. He'd spend hours with me after practice, analyzing my form, suggesting improvements, and pushing me to think about the game in a different way.
"You've got a good arm, Alex," he'd say, "but you need to use your head. Baseball isn't just about throwing hard; it's about outsmarting the batter."
He taught me about pitch sequencing, about reading batters' weaknesses, about setting them up for the final strike. He challenged me to think like a pitcher, to anticipate the game, to be one step ahead of the opposition.
But it wasn't just the physical and mental challenges that tested me. The social dynamics of the team were just as complex. As an outsider, someone who had suddenly appeared out of nowhere, I had to earn the respect of my teammates.
Some were welcoming, like Sawamura, who was always eager to practice and learn from anyone, regardless of their background. Others were more reserved, like Furuya, who seemed to communicate mostly through grunts and nods. And then there were those who were openly skeptical, questioning my motives and doubting my abilities.
One of the most challenging relationships was with Tanba-san, the team's ace. He was a proud and dedicated pitcher, and he saw me as a threat to his position. He rarely spoke to me, and when he did, it was usually with a dismissive tone.
"You think you can just walk in here and take my spot?" he once said, his eyes cold and challenging. "You've got a lot to learn."
I knew he was right, but I refused to be intimidated. I respected his experience and his talent, but I wasn't going to back down. I was here to compete, to improve, and to contribute to the team in any way I could.
As the weeks turned into months, I slowly started to earn the respect of my teammates. They saw my dedication, my willingness to work hard, and my genuine love for the game. I started to fit in, to become part of the Seido family.
One afternoon, during a practice game, I got my chance to shine. Tanba-san was having a rough day, struggling with his control and giving up a few too many hits. Coach Kataoka decided to make a change.
"Carter," he called out, "you're up."
My heart leaped into my throat. This was it. My opportunity to prove myself. I walked to the mound, trying to keep my nerves in check. I took a deep breath, looked at Miyuki behind the plate, and nodded.
The first batter was a tough one, a seasoned veteran with a reputation for hitting home runs. I went through my mental checklist, remembering everything Miyuki had taught me. I started with a fastball, low and inside, trying to establish the inside corner. The batter fouled it off.
Next, I threw a curveball, breaking away from the plate. The batter swung and missed. Strike two.
I knew I had him on the ropes. I decided to go for the knockout punch. I threw my best changeup, a pitch that looked like a fastball but slowed down dramatically at the last moment. The batter swung way too early, completely fooled by the change of pace. Strike three!
A wave of exhilaration washed over me. I had done it. I had struck out the batter. I looked at Miyuki, who gave me a subtle nod of approval.
The rest of the inning went smoothly. I retired the next two batters with ease, relying on my control and my deceptive delivery. As I walked off the mound, I could feel the eyes of my teammates on me, their expressions a mixture of surprise and admiration.
That day, I earned more than just a few outs. I earned the respect of my teammates. I proved to myself that I belonged here, that I could compete at this level. And I knew that this was just the beginning.
The road ahead would be long and challenging, but I was ready for it. I was a part of Seido now, and I would give everything I had to help this team achieve its goals. Blood, sweat, and Seido—that was my new mantra. And I wouldn't have it any other way.