[Age: 3-5 | The Mechanics of Deception]
Having Shohei Ohtani's mechanics at age three is like being given a Formula 1 engine and told to drive it through a school zone. The potential is staggering. The execution is... complicated.
My first problem was physical limitation. The template gave me perfect knowledge of how to throw a 100-mph fastball, but my three-year-old arm couldn't generate 30 mph without risking serious injury. The system had warned me about this—advanced skills will unlock with age and training—but knowing didn't make waiting any easier.
My second problem was social. I had to hide my abilities without stifling them. A toddler who throws with perfect mechanics is a curiosity. A toddler who throws with perfect mechanics and understands pitch sequencing is a medical anomaly. I needed to be good—good enough to justify my obsession and access better training—but not so good that I ended up in a laboratory being studied by confused scientists.
So I developed layers.
Layer one: The Natural. A kid who loves baseball, who has good hand-eye coordination, who maybe picks things up faster than average. This was my public face, the version I showed my parents, my preschool teachers, and the other kids at the park.
Layer two: The Student. Behind closed doors, I trained with deliberate, focused intensity. I studied video of Ohtani—not just the highlights, but the boring stuff. His warm-up routine. The way he chewed gum between innings. His breathing patterns during high-leverage situations. The template gave me his physical blueprint, but I wanted his mentality too.
Layer three: The Truth. The reincarnated soul, the system, the desperate hunger of a man who'd waited twenty-four years for this chance. This I shared with no one. This I barely admitted to myself.
"Kevin, stop throwing against the garage door!" my mother shouted from the kitchen. "You're going to crack the wood!"
I paused, whiffle ball in hand. She was right—the door was showing dents. But I needed the repetition. The template had given me the feel of Ohtani's delivery, but the feel without repetition is just potential. I needed ten thousand throws. Then ten thousand more.
"Sorry, Mamma!" I called back, switching to underhand tosses. "Playing catch with myself!"
"Go play with the neighbor kids! Marco is outside!"
Marco Bianchi was five, the son of Italian immigrants who'd become my parents' friends. He liked soccer. He thought baseball was boring. We'd tried playing once—I'd thrown him a gentle lob, and he'd dropped it, then kicked it into the street.
"Marco doesn't like baseball," I said.
"Then make him like it! You're charming when you want to be, Kevin. I've seen you work your Nonna for extra cookies."
She had a point. I was charming. It was one of the skills I'd developed in my hospital bed, watching people and learning to read their emotions and respond to them. But charm required energy, and all my energy was going into baseball.
Still, I went outside. Found Marco in his driveway, kicking a soccer ball against the garage door—the same door I'd been denting.
"Hey," I said.
"Hey." He didn't look up. "Wanna kick?"
"I want to show you something." I pulled a tennis ball from my pocket. "Watch."
I threw it against my own garage door—not hard, maybe 40% effort. The ball hit the exact center of a panel, rebounded perfectly, and landed in my waiting hand.
Marco stopped kicking. "How did you do that?"
"Practice." I threw again. Same spot. Same rebound. "You want to learn?"
"Can I hit the same spot?"
"Eventually. But first you have to learn how to hold it. How to stand. How to move your arm."
I spent the next hour teaching Marco the basics of throwing mechanics. Not Ohtani-level stuff—just fundamentals. Step toward your target. Follow through. Snap your wrist.
He wasn't natural at it. But he improved. And by the end, he was throwing the tennis ball against his own garage door, missing wildly but laughing every time.
"Baseball is kind of fun," he admitted.
"Kind of?" I grinned. "Marco, we haven't even started."
That night, I added a new layer to my strategy. If I couldn't reveal my full abilities, I could build a community around me. Other kids who loved baseball. Coaches who saw potential. A support system that would carry me to the professional level without ever questioning why I was so good.
I was four years old and networking.
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[Age: 5-7 | Little League Looming]
By five, I'd developed what my father called "the arm."
It wasn't a 100-mph arm—not close. But for my age, it was absurd. I could throw a baseball from home plate to second base with accuracy and enough velocity to make coaches whistle low and long. The template had unlocked further as my body grew, giving me access to Ohtani's delivery mechanics in full. When I threw, I didn't look like a child mimicking a professional. I looked like a professional who'd been shrunk in the wash.
"Have you considered pitching lessons?" Coach Henderson asked my father after watching me throw during a park league practice. Henderson was a retired high school coach, sixty-something, with the weathered skin of someone who'd spent decades in dugouts. "Real lessons, I mean. With someone who knows what they're doing."
"I was thinking about it," Minh said. "But he's only five."
"Age is just a number, Mr. Huynh. That arm action—I've seen high school kids who don't move that well. He's got something special.
"You have no idea, I thought, fielding a ground ball and firing to first with a sidearm motion that felt as natural as breathing.
We started with a pitching coach the following week. His name was David Chen, no relation to my previous doctor, a former minor leaguer who'd topped out at Double-A before injuries ended his career. He worked out of a converted warehouse in Sorrento Valley, three batting cages and a bullpen area that smelled of rosin and sweat.
"Show me what you got, Kevin," Chen said, crouching behind a catcher's mitt.
I warmed up carefully. The template gave me perfect mechanics, but my body was still developing. I had to be careful—pitching injuries in youth players were epidemic, and I had no intention of burning out before I reached the show.
First throw: four-seam fastball, 48 mph. Perfectly located at the knees, outside corner.
Chen's eyebrows rose. "Again."
Second throw: same pitch, same location, 49 mph.
"Do you know how to throw anything else?"
I nodded. "Two-seam. Changeup. Working on curveball but my dad says I'm too young."
"Your dad's right. Let me see the two-seam."
I adjusted my grip—fingers along the narrow seams instead of across them—and threw. The ball sank slightly, running arm-side toward Chen's left knee.
"Natural movement," he muttered. "Kid's got natural movement at five."
We worked for an hour. Chen corrected my posture slightly—"You're leaning forward too much, let your back leg drive"—and marveled at how quickly I implemented changes. What he didn't know was that the template was processing his feedback in real-time, comparing it to Ohtani's biomechanics, and adjusting my muscle memory accordingly.
By the end of the session, I was touching 52 mph on the radar gun, a velocity that would have been respectable for a ten-year-old.
"Mr. Huynh," Chen said, wiping sweat from his forehead. "Kevin has extraordinary potential. I'm talking top-round draft pick potential, if he stays healthy and keeps developing. I want to work with him seriously. Three times a week, year-round program."
"That's... intense for a five-year-old," my father said.
"I know. And normally I'd say let him play other sports, be a kid, all that. But Kevin's different. He's focused in a way I've never seen. He wants this."
They both looked at me. I was sitting on a bench, drinking water, my small chest heaving with exertion. I met their eyes and nodded once, serious as a heart attack.
"I want this," I said.
And I did. God, I did. Every throw brought me closer to the dream. Every hour of training was a debt payment I owed to my previous self, the boy who'd died watching instead of playing.
We agreed on twice a week to start. Chen would handle pitching. I'd handle everything else.
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[Age: 6 | The Hitting Revelation]
I'd been so focused on pitching that I'd neglected the other half of Ohtani's legacy. The template gave me his swing mechanics just as completely as his delivery, but I hadn't developed them. Hadn't needed to, in the casual games we'd played.
That changed at six, when I joined my first organized league. Coach Henderson's recommendation had opened doors, and suddenly I was playing with seven and eight-year-olds, kids who'd been holding bats since they could walk.
My first at-bat was a disaster.
I stepped in confidently. The template knew what to do—weight shift, hip rotation, level swing, extension through the ball. But knowing and doing are different when you're facing a pitcher who's wild enough to hit you, and your body is still figuring out how to coordinate all those moving parts.
The first pitch was high and inside. I flinched, my adult mind suddenly aware that a baseball to the face would hurt like hell, and my swing was late and ugly. Pop-up to the catcher.
Second at-bat: groundout to second. Weak contact, no hip drive.
Third at-bat: strikeout looking. The pitcher—a tall eight-year-old with surprisingly good command—painted the outside corner three times while I watched, unable to pull the trigger.
I cried in the car on the way home. Not fake tears for sympathy—real, frustrated, desperate tears. The template was supposed to make this easy. I was supposed to be great. Why wasn't I great?
"Kevin," my father said, pulling over in a parking lot. He turned to face me in the back seat. "What happened today?"
"I sucked," I sniffled. "I'm supposed to be good and I sucked."
"You're six. You're playing with older kids. It's okay to struggle."
"It's not okay!" I slammed my small fist against the seat. "I need to be better. I need to be great. I have to be great."
Minh was quiet for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice was soft. "Why? Why do you have to be great, Kevin? Most kids your age just want to have fun."
Because I died once. Because I spent twenty-four years in a prison of my own body. Because this is my second chance and I can't waste it on being average.
"Because..." I searched for words a six-year-old could say. "Because I love it. More than anything. And if I'm not great, I can't do it forever. They don't let you play forever if you're not great."
My father reached back and took my hand. His grip was warm and calloused from his own athletic past—he'd been a decent tennis player in college, I'd learned.
"Then we'll make you great," he said. "Not today. Not tomorrow. But we'll work until you're great. Okay?"
"Okay."
We started hitting lessons the next week. David Chen recommended a coach named Sarah Nakamura, a former softball star who'd transitioned to baseball instruction. She worked out of the same warehouse, and she was the first person to truly challenge me.
"Your swing is pretty," she said, watching me take cuts off a tee. "Too pretty. You're thinking about form instead of the ball."
"Form is important," I said. Ohtani's form was perfect. I'd studied it enough to know.
"Form is a means to an end. The end is hitting the ball hard. You're so focused on looking like a pro that you're not attacking the ball. Watch."
She demonstrated, taking a violent hack that sent the ball screaming into the net. It wasn't technically perfect—her hips leaked early, her hands dropped slightly—but the result was undeniable.
"Again," I said.
I stepped in. This time, I didn't think about the template. Didn't think about Ohtani's mechanics or my father's expectations or the twenty-four years I'd spent waiting. I thought about the ball. About crushing it.
I swung.
The contact was different. Not the polished, practiced contact of my previous attempts, but something rawer. The ball jumped off the bat, hitting the top of the net with a sound like a gunshot.
"Better," Nakamura said, grinning. "Now do it again."
We worked for two hours. By the end, I'd found something—a synthesis of the template's perfect mechanics and the aggressive mentality Nakamura demanded. When I attacked the ball with intent, the template amplified that intent. The result was power I'd never felt before, even in my previous life's dreams.
"Your son is something else, Mr. Huynh," Nakamura told my father. "I've worked with travel ball kids, high school stars, even a few pros in offseason. Kevin's different. He listens like an adult, but he plays with a kid's joy. It's a rare combination.
"I kept my face neutral, but inside I was glowing. That was the balance I'd been seeking. The adult discipline and the childlike love of the game. If I could maintain that—if I could work like a professional while feeling like a kid at recess—maybe I could survive this journey without burning out.
Maybe I could actually make it to the show.
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[Age: 7 | The Tournament]
My first major youth tournament came at seven, playing up with the nine-year-olds on a travel team called the San Diego Stars. We were one of dozens of teams at a complex in Orange County, a baseball mecca of perfectly manicured fields and overbearing parents.
I was nervous. Real nervous, the kind that made my hands shake in the dugout. The template couldn't protect me from pressure. If anything, it amplified it—I knew what I was capable of, which meant I had expectations.
"Starting pitcher, game one," Coach Henderson announced. "Kevin Huynh."
I nodded, trying to look confident. Inside, I was reviewing the Ohtani template's pitching sequences, the way he'd attack hitters in high-leverage situations. I had a 58-mph fastball now, which was elite for my age, plus a changeup that Chen had helped me develop. Two pitches. Enough, if I located.
The opposing team was from Los Angeles, bigger kids with expensive gear and attitude to match. Their leadoff hitter was a kid named Torres, already committed to some prestigious academy program that cost more than my parents' car.
I took the mound. The field seemed enormous—50-foot bases, 200-foot fences, a universe of green grass and brown dirt. The sun was hot. My uniform was itchy. The template hummed in my chest, ready.
First pitch: fastball, outside corner, 57 mph. Called strike.
Torres looked surprised. He'd probably expected a seven-year-old to throw meatballs.
Second pitch: changeup, same location, 49 mph. He swung early, hit it off the end of the bat. Foul ball, weak contact.
0-2 count. I could strike him out. The template showed me the sequence—elevate the fastball, make him chase.
But I hesitated. Torres was a kid, just like me. Did I really need to embarrass him? To dominate so completely?
Yes, I told myself. This is the game. Compassion is for after the final out.
threw the high fastball. He chased. Strike three, swinging.
The next two innings followed the same pattern. I struck out six of the nine batters I faced, allowed one weak single, and felt the template integrating with my body more completely than ever before. This was what it was designed for—competition, pressure, the crucible of performance.
At the plate, I went 2-for-3 with a double and a single. The double was a line drive that one-hopped the fence, the hardest ball I'd ever hit. As I stood on second base, catching my breath, I looked at the sky and thought: I'm here. I'm actually here.
We won 8-1. I pitched three innings, played shortstop for two, and celebrated with ice cream that tasted like victory.
That night, in the hotel room I shared with my father, I checked my stats in the system for the first time. The interface had evolved as I aged, becoming more detailed and accessible.
[Kevin Huynh | Age: 7]
[Template: Shohei Ohtani (15% Assimilation)]
[Hitting Stats]
Contact: 42/99
Power: 38/99
Vision: 45/99
Plate Discipline: 40/99
Speed: 35/99
[Pitching Stats]
Velocity: 48/99 (Current max: 58 mph)
Control: 44/99
Break: 35/99
Stamina: 38/99
Pitch Variety: 30/99
[Fielding Stats]
Range: 40/99
Arm Strength: 46/99
Reaction: 42/99
[Mental Stats]
Clutch: 50/99
Baseball IQ: 65/99
Leadership: 38/99
[Physical Stats]
Strength: 40/99
Agility: 44/99
Durability: 45/99
Recovery: 48/99
The numbers were... not great. I was above average for my age in most categories, but I was supposed to be a prodigy. A future legend. And my Baseball IQ—my one advantage from my previous life—was only 65? What did 99 even look like?
[System Note: Statistics are relative to professional MLB standards. Current 7-year-old elite performance translates to approximately 20-30 on the professional scale. You are significantly ahead of the developmental curve.]
Oh. That helped. I was competing against the ghosts of MLB stars, not my actual peers. The 58-mph fastball that seemed so impressive was 48/99 because professional pitchers threw 100+.
I could work with this. The template was only 15% assimilated, which meant I had enormous room to grow. And the physical boost—300% training efficiency—meant every hour of work counted triple.
I fell asleep planning my regimen for the next nine years. By sixteen, I'd complete this template. By eighteen, I'd enter the MLB draft as the greatest prospect in history.
The future was bright. The future was mine.