"Hm… so that's how it is."
Ushijima Wakatoshi had already noticed it—Sawamura's focus was starting to drift again.
But he also understood Sawamura's personality.
"Look carefully. Find the forward line of the ball."
"Your grip is exactly the same as mine."
Holding up the baseball, Ushijima demonstrated the grip. The moment Sawamura got the ball in his hands, his eyes lit up again.
Re-energized, he carefully studied Ushijima's fingers and immediately replicated the grip perfectly.
"Now throw it with full force."
Under Ushijima's guidance, Sawamura wound up and hurled the ball with everything he had.
At first, it looked like an ordinary fastball. But just before reaching home plate, it suddenly darted sharply toward the left side of the batter's box.
Chris and Miyuki were both stunned.
Even the coach widened his eyes in surprise. How did he throw that?
It may have been a bad pitch but the break was real.
"Hohoho~!" Sawamura grinned proudly. "Did you see that?! It totally broke!"
"Are you happy?" Ushijima asked calmly.
"Of course! Did you see how much it moved?!"
Sawamura excitedly pointed toward the batter's box.
Ushijima's expression didn't change.
"But that was a bad ball."
"You didn't control it properly. If Chris were in the batter's box…"
He paused.
"Your pitch could have hit him."
Sawamura froze.
"Do you really think that's something to be proud of?"
The excitement on Sawamura's face faded. He lowered his head and began thinking seriously.
Miyuki and Chris exchanged surprised looks.
Sawamura… thinking?
Normally, the boy had a three-minute attention span when it came to studying baseball theory. But Ushijima could make him stop and reflect.
"I remember," Ushijima continued, "during the game at Black Soil Stadium."
"Didn't Chris tell you something?"
"He's your catcher. Your job is to throw your best pitch into his glove."
Sawamura nodded silently. "I remember."
"Good. It's already July."
Chris, a third-year, would graduate in December.
"That means you only have less than six months to pitch to him."
Sawamura's shoulders stiffened.
"Can you keep your promise and throw your best ball into his glove?"
"That depends on how hard you work in these next six months."
"You've worked hard enough to start learning this cutter."
"If you master it, you can throw it to Chris before he graduates."
"But if you don't…"
Ushijima glanced toward Chris, subtly signaling him to play along.
"…you may never get the chance to throw this pitch to him again."
"Chris might not even stay in Japan for university."
Chris understood immediately. He said nothing but he was deeply touched.
He hadn't realized he had become such an important bond for Sawamura.
Before anyone else could speak, Sawamura clenched his fists.
"Before we reach Koshien… I'll master this cutter!"
"And I'll throw it to Chris-senpai!"
His voice was firm. Serious.
"That's good," Ushijima replied evenly. "It's only six months. Don't break your promise."
He understood Sawamura well.
In Sawamura's heart, Chris was the senior he respected most. If improving could make Chris proud, he would give everything he had.
And as expected—
"Go practice the grip. And your finger release."
"Yes!"
Sawamura immediately ran off to practice.
Now only Furuya remained.
Furuya stood there with his usual half-lidded gaze, looking calm… almost sleepy. But Ushijima could see the tension beneath it.
Furuya and Sawamura were different.
Sawamura relied on breaking pitches.
Furuya was a power pitcher—his fastball was his identity. In that sense, he was closer to Ushijima.
"Your type of pitching is closer to mine," Ushijima said slowly. "But right now… you don't know how to use it properly."
"Changeup. Forkball."
Furuya blinked. "Changeup… Forkball?"
His surprise quickly turned into interest.
"That's right."
Ushijima held the baseball up again.
"I know what happened in junior high. You told me yourself."
"No one wanted to play with you."
Furuya stiffened.
"It wasn't because you were bad."
"It was because you were too good."
"They couldn't keep up with you. So they excluded you."
Ushijima's voice remained calm, matter-of-fact.
"People don't like feeling inferior. When they can't compete, they make excuses."
"Your catcher couldn't catch your fastball not because he didn't want to."
"He simply couldn't."
"And instead of admitting that… they pushed you away."
Furuya's eyes widened slightly.
He had never thought of it that way.
"Because of that," Ushijima continued, "you stopped trusting your teammates."
"No one could catch your pitch. No one backed you up."
"So you started thinking…"
"If I strike everyone out, I won't need anyone else."
Silence.
The players nearby were stunned. Ushijima had seen straight through Furuya.
"When a batter hits your ball," Ushijima said, "you instinctively try to throw faster next time."
"Because in your mind, it wasn't fast enough."
"If it's faster, they won't hit it."
Furuya's fingers tightened around the ball.
"But your control isn't stable."
"The more you try to increase speed, the more you lose control."
"And that's how you give up runs."
For the first time, Furuya felt truly understood.
Ushijima wasn't criticizing him.
He was explaining him.
"To be a real ace," Ushijima said, "you need more than speed."
"You need variation."
"You need control."
"And you need to trust your team."
Furuya lowered his head slightly.
"…Teach me."
Ushijima gave a small nod.
After all, they would be teammates for the next two years.
Understanding each other wasn't optional.
It was necessary.