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He isn't going to lose.
He breathes in, centering himself on a breath of popcorn and fresh-cut grass. His grip on the bat tightens, and he sinks lower into his stance.
The pitcher winds quickly and snaps forward even faster, his arm whipping out like a snake.
The ball soars.
The bat swings.
Sapnap sprints half a step before he clocks the distinct lack of cowhide cracking against wood.
Miss.
The pitcher doesn't look any happier than a second before, like this was the only expected outcome.
"Don't beat yourself up too much," Dream had said before he'd gone up to bat, "That guy's a fucking monster."
Dream hadn't gotten a single hit on the pink-haired guy, striking out seven innings in a row before the coach had finally pulled his head out of his ass and started putting in pinch hitters.
Dream swapped with Sapnap with a pat on the back and collapsed on the bench with a resigned sort of exhaustion.
"Don't beat yourself up," he had said, like Sapnap couldn't possibly win.
Like Sapnap was doomed to fail.
Fuck that.
He grits his teeth and blood rushes in his ears. The wood under his gloves feels cold in the summer sun.
He isn't going to lose.
The catcher tosses the ball back to the pitcher and the pink-haired pitcher drops his knees in a familiar motion. The ball slides into his grip with ease, but the pitcher doesn't come all the way out of the strange stance. He hasn't, actually, since the game began.
Sapnap swings a half-second early and he can feel the ball brush past the bat.
He doesn't bother to run this time.
The catcher throws the ball back again and the pitcher sinks.
Sapnap sinks back, slipping into a subtle mimicry of the pitcher's knees.
The ball snaps like a whip and Sapnap's bat cracks into the ball, sending it hurtling into the stands.
"Foul!" someone shouts and Sapnap stares. A man in a bucket hat picks up the ball with a bewildered look on his face and he tosses it back onto the field.
Sapnap locks eyes with the pitcher.
The pitcher looks pissed.
Another game, another victory.
Technoblade's team pummels the orange-jersey kids into the dirt.
Dream is off his game, that much is obvious.
Usually, they can go more toe to toe, but today isn't a battle. It's an execution.
Seven innings of non-stop misses, of Dream's coach snapping something loud between failures.
"Yelling gets you nowhere, Techno," Phil had told him when he'd screamed at Niki for a succession of his own mistakes, "If you need to tap out, tap out. We've got relief pitchers for a reason."
Techno would've pulled in a pinch hitter after the second inning, when Dream had thrown his bat down and made it clear he wasn't going to bounce back from whatever was going on.
Dream's coach doesn't pull the pinch hitter until the eighth inning and Techno has to wonder what the hell is wrong with him.
The boy, all sharp angles and fiery glares, seems to pick Techno apart. He misses the first hit because if Dream couldn't do it in seven innings, this kid sure as hell isn't going to do it in one.
He misses the second hit, too, but it feels different than the first. Techno shifts uneasily before throwing himself back into the game.
On the third pitch, the bat cracks against the ball and it flies into the crowd.
"Foul!" the umpire calls before the kid can even start running.
Phil tosses the ball back to the umpire in a graceful arc, but he seems just as surprised as Dream's sputtering coach.
"It's just a fluke," Niki tells him reassuringly as he moves to the fence "dugout." She lines up to bat as the teams switch places and Techno keeps his eye on the fiery pinch hitter who's been moved back to the bench.
"Just a fluke," Techno thinks, watching the kid laugh and climb over Dream like he's a jungle gym. He'd missed the fourth pitch, like the first two, but Techno isn't convinced.
He's smaller than Dream, enough that it's noticeable, with a white ribbon tying back black hair.
He catches Technoblade's gaze and scowls, something determined in the set of his brows.
The eye contact burns uncomfortably, but Techno holds the kid's gaze as long as he can so he can watch the sparks behind his eyes.
This kid, he thinks, without a doubt in the world, This kid's going to win.
The pitcher's name is Technoblade.
Sapnap laughs for what feels like forever before Dream tells him that's the guy's actual name. Like, the name on his school ID and stuff.
It's funny as hell for some pitcher to nickname himself Technoblade but it's fucking terrifying to be named that for real.
He'd almost ask the guy what kind of parents would name a baby Technoblade, but he'd asked Dream the same thing last year and ended up crying when he'd gotten some cutesy answer about NICUs and just a little dream come true.
Sapnap, which is a perfectly normal name for an eleven-year-old boy, had been named in the back of a van while his parents had gotten as baked as Bad's famous muffins.
Neither of his parents are here now, watching him step up to home plate to kick Technoblade into the grass. Bad is in the third row with the worst sign ever made and the worst dog ever born. It is definitely not the nicest thing anyone's ever done for him. He also definitely didn't tear up when he first saw it.
Sapnap holds the bat, falls into stance, and locks eyes with the pink-haired pitcher.
Bring it, he tries to say with his glare.
I will, he thinks Technoblade responds, winding and pitching like lightning.
Sapnap brings the thunder and the ball booms into the air.
It's a foul; he knows before it even hits the ground. He hit it at an angle and sent it careening too far from the field.
"You got this!" someone shouts and, whether it's for him or for Technoblade, Sapnap absolutely does got this.
The second pitch passes before he can even swing, flying an inch or so past his face, and Sapnap freezes.
He hasn't gotten hit in the head in months, but the dizzying confusion and his mother's "oh, stop acting like a baby" ring through his head like the ball hadn't missed at all.
"Hey!" snaps through the air and the ringing pulls back like a curtain. The catcher, a shorter kid with is that a fucking sonic onesie under his jersey? takes a step toward him.
"Are you okay?"
Sapnap breathes in, shakes out his arms the way Skeppy showed him, and breathes out.
"I'm okay," he says after a second, a little more sure of that now and he gets back into place for the last pitch.
He can foul it as many times as he needs to, 'cause it's his last strike. He's determined to make it count.
The pitcher looks at him and nods, pulling back to throw.
Sapnap steps into the hit, lets unstoppable force meet immovable object, and the ball soars.
He barely even registers that it's in, in, in, it's in! before he's taking off. There's no one else on the plates, no one to slow him down, and he bolts to first plate. There's an opening and no one's caught the ball yet, so he runs to second plate.
Someone's fumbling far outfield and he races to third.
They're still fumbling, out by the end of the grass, and Sapnap rushes to home plate with victory on his tongue.
In the stands, Bad stands up and cheers so loud it startles Rat awake.
Sapnap grins until his face hurts, meeting Technoblade's eyes with accomplishment teeming from every pore.
Take that! Sapnap thinks and the pink-haired pitcher's lips twitch up into an almost-smile even though he lost.
Well, technically, Sapnap's team has definitely lost. By a lot. But, semantics. Sapnap just hit Technoblade's pitch and nobody else on his team except Dream and George--even though that was by accident--can say that.
"Nice home run," the catcher calls and Sapnap pauses.
"Home run?" He tries out the words on his tongue.
The catcher flaps his hands with a grin. "Yeah, dude, that ball freaking flew !"
Connor, whose name and the promise of exchanged numbers Sapnap managed to score before heading back to the lineup, described the ball crossing past the ends of the field.
In the stands, Bad looks beyond excited and he's happily chatting with the bucket hat man from earlier. The other man looks pleasantly surprised.
Sapnap buzzes in the line, vibrating out of his skin in excitement. He can't wait to hit Technoblade's pitch again.
Luck is not on his side and George is up to bat next, despite having begged the coach to be off the designated hitter list, and he strikes out in a quick and underwhelming end to the game.
"It's okay," Sapnap tells him, walking with him back to the dugout to grab their water bottles, "You did good."
George laughs at him. "I didn't. But, I'm not really a hitter. It's no skin off my back."
Whatever the hell that means. As long as George isn't sad about it, Sapnap does not care.
Dream, waiting in the Dugout, almost tackles them in a hug.
"You hit a home run!" he shouts, "You hit a home run against Technoblade!"
Sapnap kicked ass.
He knows.
Still, it's nice to be appreciated, even if he has to let Dream mess up his hair. The older boy's hands catch on his ribbon and Sapnap bats his hands away.
"I'll fix it," George offers when it pulls loose in Sapnap's hands and he looks at the crowd already making their way onto the field.
"We can do it in here, if you want," Dream offers, watching the swarm with a similar distaste.
"Yeah," Sapnap agrees, "Okay."
Despite the growing buzz of the crowd outside the fenced-in area and the congratulatory shouts of his teammates grabbing their stuff, Sapnap sits on the floor with one of his best friend's hands in his and the other's in his hair.