Chapter Text
The late afternoon sun slowly spilled across the dusty of Akagi Middle School. Most of the clubs had already begun packing up to head home, but at the far end of the field, the steady sounds of baseball practice still echoed.
Thud.
A white ball slammed straight into the trunk of an old tree. Wakana sighed. With her empty glove, she trudged over to the bushes, picked up the ball, and tossed it back to the brown-haired pitcher.
“Sawamura! You missed again,” Wakana complained.
The pitcher caught the ball, his bright grin radiating an almost unstoppable energy.
“Sorry, sorry! Just one more, Wakana! I swear, just one more!”
“You said that eight throws ago.”
“This time I mean it!”
Despite her grumbling, Wakana returned behind home plate. It was hard to refuse Sawamura when he looked at her with those shimmering amber eyes.
Thud. Thud.
Two more balls buried themselves into the poor old tree.
Sawamura knew well that every pitch he threw was slightly different. That inconsistency made it nearly impossible for him to repeat the same throw twice, even though he tried to focus on every detail—the grip, his footwork, the twist of his body.
But the more he paid attention, the weaker and more awkward his pitches became.
So, he chose to stop overthinking it. That unpredictability, at least, worked in real games—opposing batters often lost sight of the ball, swinging at empty air. Of course, it also meant his own catcher sometimes missed it too.
Seeing that Wakana was getting tired, Sawamura decided to take a short break.
He wandered slowly around the pitching area, rolling the ball between his fingers, lost in thought—so much so that he didn’t notice a boy standing quietly at the edge of the field.
“If you keep throwing without a plan,” a calm voice spoke, “you’ll waste all that potential.”
Sawamura spun around.
The boy looked about his age—maybe a year older. His dark hair was neatly kept, and he carried himself with the kind of composure of someone who had never needed to rush for anything. There was a quiet focus about him, a calmness Sawamura had only ever seen in novels. He wore a crisp blue shirt, collar perfectly straight.
“I’m Dekisugi,” he said with a slight nod. “I used to play as a catcher back in the U.S.—though I only recently moved back to Japan, so I’m not sure if you—”
“Whoa?!” Sawamura’s face lit up like a window thrown open on a summer morning. “You played in the U.S.?! Like, real American baseball?!”
Dekisugi blinked, caught off guard by the interruption. “Well, it was a youth league, so—”
“That’s amazing! Seriously amazing!” Sawamura pointed at him with both hands, nearly dropping the ball. “So you know a lot, right? Like, baseball techniques and stuff?!”
Wakana blinked, suddenly realizing something. “Wait… Dekisugi? Are you the one who just moved into the house at the end of my street?”
Dekisugi gave a small nod. Thanks, MiniDora, for the perfect cover identity, he thought. “Yeah. I came back to Japan for high school. Right now, I’m just here for the summer.”
By then, Wakana had already walked over. She’d seen enough of Sawamura’s enthusiasm to recognize that look instantly.
He looked exactly like a puppy begging for a treat, his eyes darting between Dekisugi and the worn-out catcher’s mitt hanging from Wakana’s hand.
With a sigh that was equal parts relief and amusement, Wakana turned to the newcomer. “Hey, Dekisugi… if you don’t mind, could you catch for Sawamura? My hand’s already starting to bruise.”
This was exactly the opportunity Dekisugi needed.
“Sure,” he said. “I don’t mind.”
At that, Sawamura let out a sound Wakana could only describe as a victory howl.
—
Dekisugi took the worn glove from Wakana and slipped it onto his left hand. It was slightly loose, the leather thinned from long use, but still usable. He stepped up to home plate in front of the tree, crouched down in textbook form, and tapped his fist lightly into the pocket of the glove.
“Alright, Sawamura,” Dekisugi called out, his calm voice instantly drawing the attention of the overly excited pitcher in front of him. “Just throw straight into my glove. Let me see what you can do.”
Sawamura grinned wide. “Alright, Dekisugi-from-America! Get ready for my masterpiece!”