"Can I do it?"
The young man named Tanba stood near the foul line, his fingers trembling uncontrollably. His throat felt dry, and even his breathing seemed out of rhythm. The blood rushed to his head and then drained away just as quickly, leaving his body cold and stiff. He had waited for a chance like this, yet when it truly arrived, the weight of it pressed down so heavily that he could barely stand upright.
"Just pitch well and show your usual strength."
Coach Kataoka's voice was unexpectedly gentle. He did not bark instructions. He did not demand specific tactics. He did not talk about corners, pitch sequences, or batter tendencies. At this moment, such details would only crush Tanba further.
The most important thing now was relaxation.
If it were possible, Kataoka would not have sent Tanba onto the field in this situation. But there was no better choice. There was no hidden trump card in the dugout. There was no ace waiting quietly for his turn.
Seido High School Baseball Team had reached the limit of its pitching resources.
There was another third-year pitcher sitting in the dugout, and one outfielder who could throw a few innings in emergencies. But their strength had not even been enough to secure absolute dominance during the West Tokyo Regional Tournament. Against Osaka Kiryuu High School Baseball Team, the so-called Cosmic Team with the strongest offense in the nation, sending them out would be no different from surrendering.
Tanba was the only remaining hope.
It was not a comfortable choice. It was not even a good choice. But it was the only one that still carried a sliver of possibility.
Kataoka felt the frustration gnawing at his heart. For a fleeting moment, he even regretted not cultivating Zhang Han as a pitcher earlier. Zhang Han had talent, mental strength, and composure under pressure. Even if he could not become the ace, training him to step in during crises would have been invaluable.
At Koshien, Kataoka had learned a painful lesson.
The more pitchers a team can rely on, the better. Whether they are aces or not is secondary. Depth itself is strength.
In the past, several Seido alumni who had gone on to professional baseball had suggested that outfielders should also practice pitching seriously. It would improve overall player quality and provide more career opportunities. In professional baseball, nearly half the roster consists of pitchers. Even if one cannot become an ace, the ability to pitch opens doors.
Kataoka had never truly taken those suggestions to heart.
Now, he understood.
But understanding did not solve the current crisis.
Tanba clenched his fists and forced himself to step forward. His teammates patted his back. Someone shouted encouragement. He responded loudly, almost too loudly, as if trying to convince himself.
Kataoka observed him carefully.
The more Tanba tried to act brave, the more obvious his insecurity became. True confidence does not need to be displayed so deliberately. Tanba was trying to drown his fear with noise.
Kataoka wanted to say more, but he stopped himself. Words could not eliminate this kind of tension. Only performance could.
If Tanba threw one clean inning, his nerves would ease. If he got the first out smoothly, his heartbeat would settle. But against Osaka Kiryuu, nothing came easily.
The inning began with Osaka Kiryuu's sixth batter.
Unlike Matsumoto Takahiro in the opposite dugout, Kataoka could not afford calm confidence. Osaka Kiryuu High School Baseball Team was not merely a strong team. They were a collection of elites drawn from across the nation. Nearly one-third of the country's top middle school players dreamed of entering their program. From almost a hundred elite recruits, only a handful survived the internal competition to earn starting positions.
There was no weak link in their lineup.
Even their lower-order hitters possessed skills that would make them clean-up batters on most teams.
Tanba took the mound.
He inhaled deeply.
He threw his first pitch.
"Ping!"
The sound came almost immediately. Osaka Kiryuu's sixth batter connected cleanly, sending a sharp line drive into the outfield. It was not even a tense duel. It was a straightforward hit.
Runner on First. No outs.
Tanba's heart sank, but the inning did not pause to comfort him.
The seventh batter stepped in.
If anyone had underestimated Osaka Kiryuu's lower order, that illusion vanished instantly.
Tanba tried to steady himself. He threw a fastball that floated slightly too high.
"Ping!"
The crack was explosive.
The ball soared high and deep, arcing toward the outfield stands. Seido's outfielders chased instinctively, but their steps slowed before they reached the warning track.
The ball was gone.
Two-run homerun.
The scoreboard shifted to 12–8.
Just moments earlier, Seido had fought desperately to narrow the gap. Now Osaka Kiryuu had widened it again with ruthless efficiency.
Four runs.
And still no outs.
In the stands, Seido supporters fell silent. Some covered their faces. Others closed their eyes as if unwilling to watch further. Hope, which had flickered back to life when Miyuki's bunt brought in a run, now trembled weakly.
Tanba stood on the mound, staring at the ground.
His first two batters had produced three runs. The pressure that had already crushed his chest tightened further. Sweat streamed down his face, but it was not only from the heat.
Behind home plate, Miyuki clenched his jaw.
This was the scenario he had feared.
Tanba's pitches lacked conviction. They were not wild, but they lacked bite. Against ordinary opponents, that might suffice. Against Osaka Kiryuu, it was fatal.
The next batter stepped in calmly, as if this were routine.
From Osaka Kiryuu's perspective, this was familiar territory. They were used to suppressing opponents who began to crumble. Once they sensed weakness, they did not hesitate.
Tanba delivered another pitch.
A sharp grounder up the middle. Another hit.
Still no outs.
The inning was unraveling rapidly.
In Seido's dugout, some players lowered their heads. Others stared rigidly at the field, unwilling to look away despite the pain. Coach Kataoka remained standing, his expression stern and unreadable.
He had chosen to trust Tanba.
Now he had to endure the consequences of that decision.
Tanba forced himself to look up. He could feel the weight of every gaze in the stadium. Doubt. Anxiety. Pity.
He did not want pity.
He wanted one out.
Just one.
He wiped his hands against his uniform and stepped onto the rubber again. His shoulders trembled slightly, but he lifted his head and faced the batter.
This was his mound.
Even if he had to crawl, he would get through this inning.
But Osaka Kiryuu showed no mercy.
Another sharp hit to the outfield loaded the bases.
The scoreboard glowed mercilessly: 12–8.
No outs. Bases loaded.
In the stands, even the most stubborn Seido supporters could no longer shout encouragement. The game felt as if it were slipping beyond reach.
"It's over," someone whispered.
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