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Hongou Masamune quits baseball in the winter of his first year at university.
He’d wanted to back in the fall, but had imagined what his high school coach would have said, and clung onto that thought for three months.
He quits on a Thursday. That fact doesn’t matter, but he chooses to remember it anyways. The day doesn’t matter, but what he did does.
It’s been three weeks, five days, and. . . 17 hours since he threw in the towel.
Nearly all of his baseball equipment and his bag sit in the crowded wardrobe in his dorm. He’s taking it home for the winter break and he intends to leave it there. If he twists just right on his bed, he can see the glint of his metal bat through the crack in between the two doors. He’s spent quite a while staring at that spot.
His mitt sits on his desk, splayed open and collecting dust. He hasn’t even moved it to do his homework, opting for his bed.
Maybe, he thinks, maybe if Renji had come to the same university as him, he would have stayed. The chances are slim though, he realizes.
After high school, his life had become a long line of fine, of decent, of okay, alright. He’d found it mind-numbingly boring.
Numb. That’s how he feels now. Or, well, he’s lacking in feeling anything.
What had made his high school life so exciting? So thrilling?
Masamune doesn’t know if he wants to find out.
The ceiling of his dorm has 23 and a half rectangular tiles. He memorized this three weeks and three days ago.
The wall of his dorm is 11 and a quarter bricks tall. The gap between his bed frame and the floor is exactly the length of his left foot. His right foot is an entire half shoe size bigger. If he reaches far enough, he can grab his mitt from his desk.
He does. The leather is worn and the logo is fading. He’d gotten this mitt in his final year of junior high. His hand fits perfectly in it, but he hadn’t been expecting anything different.
Masamune lets his gloved hand fall against his chest. He thinks about what Coach Nitta would say if he were here. Something that would light a flame under him, no doubt.
The baseball coach at this university is nice. He’s nice, and he wants to have a good relationship with every player on the team.
Coach Nitta had always just scolded him. Insulted him, pushed his buttons. Which had in turn pushed him to pitch his very best.
He pitches with his anger. Or, well, he pitched with his anger. He pitched with his anger for so long that he’s forgotten what it’s like to pitch without it.
Masamune almost fell apart completely in his first game. He knew he had gone too hard and too fast with the bottom of the opposing teams lineup. But his coach had just lightly told him to take it easy next time. There was no scolding, no insulting, and no pushing of his buttons. The anger that usually would have been burning bright and hot was flickering in the breeze, threatening to blow out.
It’s the opposite of burning out. “The opposite of it,” he says aloud to no one but the radiator humming near the door.
Instead of pushing himself too hard, he hadn’t pushed himself enough. He hadn’t pitched with anger, so it was like he was pitching with nothing at all. No emotion, no strength.
They’d lost that game. The second and final time he’d lost a game.
The coach had been willing to give him another chance. “Just cool down properly today, and practice hard tomorrow,” he’d said. Nitta would not have.
Masamune should be mad at himself for failing. But he can’t find it within himself to care about losing.
Like the rest of his life, baseball had turned into a long line of fine, and he thinks he might have grown sick of it, or something akin to that.
There’s nothing to keep him angry, to keep him fired up and raring to go. His coach and his teammates are too kind to insult him to get his engine blazing.
He’d never took Nitta’s insults to heart, but he thinks if he heard one now, he wouldn’t be able to handle it.
Without the anger behind his pitching, he feels like he can’t pitch at all.
He squeezes his free hand into a fist and gingerly places it into the mitt, the leather smooth against his knuckles. There are no more calluses on his hands, no more tough skin from holding a bat or a ball. His hands feel too soft, too pliant, too malleable. The rest of him hasn’t changed though; hard muscles and bones and expressions.
Gently punching the inside of his mitt, Masamune wonders if he should start swinging his bat again. He thinks it would be nice; a good way to pass time. Playing baseball is a good way to pass the time, but he’s given that up.
Renji found out he quit a week ago. His school had come over for a practice match and Masamune hadn’t been there. They met up for coffee afterwards.
Mainly, what he’d seen in Renji’s face was confusion, but that had morphed into disappointment.
“I was looking forward to playing against you,” he’d said, and Masamune had sighed.
“I’m not taking it back.”
“I don’t expect you to.” And that had been the end of their conversation.
If he moves his hands just right, he can quietly mimic the sound of a ball hitting the glove.
Squinting, he figures you could fit six of the bricks off the walls onto one tile on the ceiling.
He figures he’ll start swinging his bat again so his hands don’t feel so soft. It feels like a sign of weakness, and he hates feeling weak. For now, he’ll keep the callouses until he can stand the idea of living without them.
Maybe he’ll join a co-ed baseball team down the line to keep himself busy. He doesn’t think he’ll be able to play at a higher level.
Really, Masamune thinks, he shouldn’t be this quick to give up baseball. He should have given it another chance, he should have tried harder to regain his former pitching but with something besides anger pushing him. But he’d tried that for three months and he’d gotten nowhere.
He’d dissed the bystanders, and now he’s one of them.
Nitta had said once that he plays the devil in order to push Masamune to new heights.
He started to free-fall the minute he stepped foot outside of Komadai Fujimaki. He’d hit rock bottom in early September, and he stayed there for three months before climbing out of the hole and abandoning it.
Should he feel relief? Relief that it’s over now? He doesn’t have to try so hard to become better anymore. He doesn’t have to fight with himself to pitch in a game.
Should he feel regret? Regret that he didn’t try to hold on for just a little longer? He could have made a break through two days later had he not quit. He could have regained his skill and gone even higher.
He doesn’t know what to feel, so he feels nothing. His chest is empty, his mind is blank.
Sitting up on his bed, Masamune’s gloved hand falls onto his lap. He slips his hand out of it and sets it aside. He’s got to get ready to leave. Winter break started three days ago and he ought to visit home soon.
His parents have never been fond of him playing baseball because they think too many injuries are caused. They’ll be indifferent that he’s quit, and probably never mention the fact that he played.
He’d gotten into university on a baseball scholarship. He doesn’t think his coach has cancelled it yet, still holding onto the hope that he’ll come back to the team.
His savings will go to tuition. He’s sure his parents will help him. He doesn’t think they wanted him as a baseball player anyways.
Silently, he packs his bag with enough clothes to do him for the rest of winter break. He thinks about baseball, what it’s done for him and what he’s done for it.
Warmth erupts in his chest at the thought of it, startling him so much he has to stop folding a shirt and press a palm to the left side of his chest.
Maybe he’s indifferent on quitting, but clearly he feels something for the sport itself. He wonders if the warmth in his chest would have been enough for him to regain his composure on the team and continue on.
When he’s shrugging on his jacket and toeing on his shoes, he thinks about the way his coach greeted him every day at practice. When he opens the door, he remembers the encouragement and feedback he was given at the end of every practice.
When he closes the door behind him, his baseball equipment still sits in his wardrobe, waiting.