The next week felt like a slow burn, each practice blending into the other, but the team's growth was undeniable. It wasn't always visible, not to the outside world, but Ryoma could see it. He could feel it in the way the guys started showing up earlier, staying later, and even wanting to get better.
It wasn't just baseball anymore. It was about self-improvement, about finding the small wins in every failure.
That morning, as Ryoma stood at the edge of the field, he watched the team stretch and prepare for another day of practice. They were a mess in a lot of ways—still too raw, too unpolished—but there was an energy in the air that hadn't been there before. It was a quiet hum of determination, one that Ryoma wasn't used to.
Yuuto, who had once struggled just to catch the ball, was now playing a more confident outfield. He was getting his timing down, taking calculated steps instead of stumbling. His throws were sharper too. He wasn't the fastest, but he was improving in small ways.
Jiro, though still awkward at times, had started to position himself better. The grounders weren't nearly as disastrous, and when he made a play, there was a calmness to it now. It wasn't perfect, but it was clear he was starting to believe he could actually be useful.
Shin had made the most noticeable progress. His swing, once wild and unpredictable, had started to take shape. Ryoma had focused on his form for days, and today, Shin sent the ball flying for the first time—not just a hit, but a solid one that sailed well past the outfield.
Takumi leaned against the fence, watching with a look of quiet approval. "Guess they're not complete failures after all," he muttered, though his tone was soft, more thoughtful than sarcastic.
Ryoma didn't reply. He wasn't concerned with what Takumi thought. The progress wasn't about anyone else's approval—it was about what the team could do for themselves.
Later in the practice, Ryoma decided to push them a little further. It wasn't enough to just be "better"—they needed to be prepared for what was coming. And deep down, he knew that something was on the horizon. The team couldn't keep training in isolation forever.
"Alright," Ryoma called, standing tall on the mound. "Let's do a few more drills, but this time, I want to see you take risks. Play with some pressure. Let's see what you're really made of."
Yuuto squinted at him. "Risks?"
"Yeah. I want to see you mess up," Ryoma said bluntly. "You're not going to get better by playing it safe."
There was a hesitation, an uncertainty among the group, but Ryoma could see their willingness to trust him. And for the first time, he realized that his words meant something to them. They were finally listening, not because of his skills, but because they saw him as someone who believed in them.
The first drill was simple: a series of rapid-fire ground balls to each player. Ryoma watched closely, noting their reactions. Jiro's first few attempts were clumsy, but then something clicked. His positioning improved, and his glove made a clean catch.
"Good job, Jiro," Ryoma said, and for the first time, Jiro smiled back, the small gesture like a weight lifting off his shoulders.
Next was Yuuto. His first couple of attempts were shaky, but Ryoma noticed how he began to get more comfortable with the pace. His throws started to become more accurate, and though he wasn't fast, he was learning how to anticipate the ball's path instead of reacting to it at the last second.
Shin was up next. His first hit went way off-course, but Ryoma could see the frustration beginning to build behind his eyes. Shin tightened his grip on the bat, clearly determined to get it right.
"Don't swing harder," Ryoma called out to him. "Just swing smarter."
Shin nodded, then took a deep breath before stepping up to the plate again. This time, when the ball came, his swing was clean. The bat connected with the ball in a perfect arc, sending it deep into the outfield.
Takumi let out a low whistle. "Okay, okay, now that's impressive."
Shin didn't respond immediately, but Ryoma saw the pride in his eyes. It wasn't just about the hit. It was about the process—the effort, the struggle, the growth.
Later that afternoon, as the team gathered to wrap up practice, Ryoma found himself walking across the field, lost in thought. The day had been full of small victories, and he could see how much they had improved since the first practice. But something was nagging at him, a question that wouldn't leave his mind.
Was it enough?
He stopped walking, glancing back at his teammates, who were still picking up their gear. The doubt crept in, a reminder of the pressure that always hung around him.
Takumi had caught up with him, walking beside him in silence for a moment.
"Don't overthink it," Takumi said, his tone surprisingly serious. "They're ready. You've done more than enough."
Ryoma glanced at him. "I don't know. I feel like we're not there yet. Like we're still missing something."
"You're too hard on yourself," Takumi said, but there was something soft in his voice. "The team's growing. They're following you. That's more than most captains can say."
Ryoma didn't know how to respond to that. He wasn't a captain—not really. But for the first time, he realized that maybe that was exactly what he was becoming. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, he was becoming the leader the team needed.
And maybe that was enough for now.