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Tetsuya Yuki ought to be headed home soon; the sun has already set. Lights which shine through the windows of the buildings are candles snuffed out by an unseen hand, going out one by one. The stars above him cast a dim glow on the grass beneath his feet making crisp leaves look sleek. The bat is already in his hands, calloused fingers wrapped around the familiar grip. Though his muscles ache from the day's earlier practice, he hefts the bat just above his shoulder, the metal hovering above the skin of his neck as he prepares for his first swing.
It's the whoosh of a heavy wind, the sound of a door closing, a guillotine crashing down. That satisfying rush of air which cools the back of his neck as he counts "one" to himself in his head, lifting the bat up once more. That first one was practice, a warm up. For his next swing he corrects his posture, ensures his knees are bent, legs set in the proper position.
He swings again. Two.
That one was much better, it would've been a hit in a game, sending the ball all the way into left field, though as he is now, no one would believe it. All anyone believes he has right now is dedication; it was even like that in junior high, Tetsuya watching the other, stronger players from the bench, his desire to join them a flame which cracked and sputtered and breathed beneath the surface. Even now, he's still off on the sidelines, having yet to prove himself; but while he has dedication, the young man also has patience.
Thirty-one... thirty-two...
He continues to swing, over and over again, the pain in his hands, in his arms, long since faded away at this point. As the air rushes past his ears, behind him the lights from the Seidou facilities continue to flicker out, until the only light he has are from the stars, the sole witnesses to his determination and struggle. If he were to stop, take a break, maybe he'd lie down on his back and count as many stars as swings he was planning on executing before tucking in for the night. But allowing for even one distraction would ruin it, the foundation he's set since the bat first made contact with the space in front of him that evening - at this point to stop for even a few moments would be to quit entirely.
One hundred fifteen... one hundred sixteen...
He supposes most would simply give up, there was no one here to prevent him from stopping, this exercise was not required, and in fact some may consider him a fool for adding on to the stressful workout willingly and deliberately, and idiot who was doing unnecessary, unrewarding tasks. His diligence was a trait that didn't belong to someone who hadn't even made first string, wasn't he satisfied with how he was now?
In his head he can hear it - the smack of a hardball against the bat, a sound he'd heard numerous times from the dugout. He's sure it's different, hearing it up close, in a real game and not in the batting cages. More than anything he wants to hear it, that satisfying whoosh of air which gave way to that distinct clink! of the bat making contact. Shooting stars are what come to mind when he pictures it, that streak of white against the sky going up and up and up, then down in an arc which reached high above the heads of the players, the spectators.
He's nearing it now, the final swing before he heads home, the trek to his residence the only break he gets during his training. Up until now he's been keeping rhythm, power, posture consistent but now he rolls his shoulders a little, loosening up the muscles, replants his feet in the grass as if to mimic stepping up to the plate for the first time. When he lowers the bat and brings it back up, he feels the burn, the ache of his upper arms momentarily, but ignores it, readying for his final swing, grip on the bat as tight as it was from his very first swing.
Tetsuya sees it in his mind's eye: It's the top of the ninth inning, his team's last opportunity to score. The bases are loaded, score is tied with two outs. He and the pitcher are cornered - two strikes, three balls. This next pitch is the final, determining factor - he either swings or he doesn't. Hits or misses. He can't rely on the slim chance that the pitcher will throw a ball. Tetsuya's imaginary pitcher winds up, brings their arm back as their leg makes contact with the hypothetical turf on the hypothetical mound. And then the ball is released from the pitcher's grasp, a bullet racing towards him, threatening to tear through him, but at his last opportunity to swing -
Whoosh!
His ears heard it clear as day, the sound of the bat making contact with the invisible ball, a shooting star which races through the night sky he looks up at for the first time that evening, the stars an audience to his game-winning swing. It's a scene so vivid he almost feels as if he was momentarily pulled into the future, but then the numbness in his arms, in his legs, subsides, as if on cue, bringing him back to reality, making him realize how late it is. The sun has already set; Tetsuya Yuki ought to be headed home soon.