On a summer evening, Shota stepped onto the red dirt of the field, gazing absentmindedly at the sky above.
The chorus of cicadas stirred a distant memory.
—That summer, when he dreamed of Koshien.
In his second year of high school, Shota had led his team as the ace pitcher. But in the semifinals of the regional tournament, he injured his right elbow. The dream stage slipped away, and the doctor’s words—“You’ve overused it. You shouldn’t push it anymore”—signaled the end of his baseball career.
Since then, he’d kept his distance from the sport.
In college, he never joined a team, not even for casual games.
As a working adult, his days were consumed by his job.
What pulled him back was a simple invitation from his childhood friend, Keisuke:
“Hey, Shota. How about playing some baseball again?”
And so, Shota joined the Falcons, a local amateur baseball team.
The members varied in age and background—salesmen, teachers, bartenders, convenience store clerks, even a retired banker.
“It’s not a serious league, but everyone has their own reason for being here,” Keisuke had said.
Just as he’d said, they weren’t just playing around. Despite their day jobs, each of them chased the white ball with all their heart.
At first, Shota felt hesitant.
But after a few games, he realized something.
—He still loved baseball.
The sharp crack of bat on ball, the gritty feel of cleats digging into the dirt, the sweat-soaked weight of a uniform—it was all so nostalgic, so comforting.
Then came the championship game.
Their opponents: the league’s reigning champions, the Blue Socks.
By the fourth inning, they were already trailing by three runs.
Keisuke had taken the mound in the third, but fatigue was starting to show.
“Shota, can you pitch?”
His heart wavered.
To pitch again…
Since that day, he’d been afraid to throw with everything he had.
Afraid of the pain.
Afraid of the long gap.
But—
Shota gripped his glove tightly.
“…I’ll do it.”
Standing on the mound, he took a deep breath.
He tested the feel of his right hand, then locked eyes with the catcher’s mitt.
“It’s been a while since we’ve been a battery, huh?”
Tomoya, the catcher, grinned.
“I’ll catch whatever you’ve got.”
Shota nodded, wound up, and threw.
—Thwack!
The mitt popped with a clean, satisfying sound.
No pain.
Pitch by pitch, his arm remembered.
His control returned.
His fastball had its bite again.
Cheers rang from his teammates.
“You got this, Shota!”
“Let’s keep it scoreless this inning!”
Shota laughed.
For the first time in a long while, it was pure joy.
Bottom of the ninth.
The Falcons clawed back two runs.
Bases loaded. Two outs.
Shota was up to bat.
“You can do it!”
Their voices pushed him forward.
—Crack!
A clean hit.
The ball soared deep over the left fielder’s head.
Run! Run!
One by one, his teammates slid home.
The final runner made it.
A walk-off victory.
Cheers erupted across the field.
Shota looked up at the sky, wiping sweat from his brow.
That summer dream, the one he never achieved.
But now, he had faced baseball once more.
“…Baseball really is something special.”
He whispered, eyes on the white ball in his hand.
