"Okay Daniel, he's the last one. We strike him out and the championship is ours."
The words echoed in my head like a mantra, adrenaline rushing through my veins as I crouched behind home plate. The stadium lights bathed the field in a golden glow, and thousands of voices blended into a distant hum. The batter stepped into the box, eyes sharp and determined. This was it, the moment every kid dreams of.
"Give me a fastball to the inside," I signed, fingers flashing quick and sure.
Daniel stood tall on the mound, his brow damp with sweat, but his eyes locked with mine. He nodded once, slowly. The tension in the air could be sliced with a knife.
The windup. The pitch.
Time seemed to slow. I tracked the ball the whole way, reading the batter's weight shift, the telltale hitch in his swing. He was late.
Crack.
The ball clipped the bat and spun foul. Strike two.
My heart pounded. One more.
Daniel took the ball, stepping off the mound. He rubbed it with both hands, exhaled, then returned to the rubber. I watched him carefully his rhythm was calm now, smoother. He was ready.
Slider, low and away, I signed this time. He blinked, then nodded.
The pitch came spinning in like a hypnotic spiral. The batter lunged-
Whiff.
"STRIKE THREE!"
The umpire's call sent a tidal wave of cheers through the air. I tore off my mask, screaming with everything I had left, sprinting toward the mound as my teammates flooded the field.
We were champions.
We were kings.
It was the best moment of my life.
Beep… beep… beep…
I woke up suddenly with a dry throat my eyes scanning the surroundings.
The hospital ceiling greeted me, flat and white, sterile and cold. I lay there for a moment, chest rising and falling as the harsh beep of the heart monitor echoed in the background.
I had tears streaming down my cheeks, reaching up slowly, I wiped them away.
"I dreamt of that day again, huh..." I whispered, my voice cracking.
I turned my head toward the window, where snowflakes were lazily drifting past the glass.
"Those were… such amazing times."
The door opened quietly. A nurse entered with a clipboard and a gentle smile, pretending not to notice my tears. She adjusted my IV drip and made a note without saying much.
I didn't need her pity.
The truth was, I was already on borrowed time. They said my condition had no cure it's some rare, degenerative disease slowly sapping my strength. No treatment. No miracle.
Just time.
Baseball was gone. My team had scattered. I couldn't even walk without help anymore.
I used to be someone behind the plate. I called every pitch. I read batters like open books. I was the heart of the defense. A catcher through and through.
And now I was just a kid in a hospital bed, wasting away with memories.
All I could do was dream.
If only I had one more chance...
If only I could play baseball again and catch those pitches...
I opened my eyes again but this time, everything felt different. My body felt small, soft. My voice came out as a helpless cry.
Arms wrapped around me. A woman's voice, gentle and soothing.
"There, there… it's okay, baby boy. Mama's here."
Then a man's voice, deeper, awestruck. "He's got your eyes, Haruka… He's perfect."
I could barely focus, but I saw their shapes. Their warmth. Their joy.
The man leaned closer, and I caught a glimpse of a photo on the shelf: him, years younger, wearing a pro jersey, crouched behind the plate—an MLB catcher.
The name beneath the photo: Riku Fushimi.
The woman kissed my forehead. "Welcome to the world, Souta. Our precious little Souta Fushimi."
That name echoed in my heart.
Souta Fushimi.
I had been reborn.
Years passed like spring winds.
I grew up in a beautiful home in the quiet countryside of Nagano, surrounded by love and the smell of cut grass and leather gloves.
My mother, Haruka, was a gentle soul who never needed to work a day in her life—because she didn't have to. My father, Riku Fushimi, had earned enough from his years as a star catcher in Major League Baseball to give us everything we needed—and more. Haruka dedicated herself entirely to raising me, and it showed in every home-cooked meal, every hug, and every bedtime story.
Dad would sometimes teach me a little
How to hold a glove, shift your weight behind the plate, read a pitcher's eyes.
He never pushed me, never even asked me to play, but he didn't need to.
I was already reaching for the baseballs before I could walk.
By five, I was catching soft tosses from him in the backyard. By six, I was calling pretend signs to invisible pitchers in my sleep.
I remembered my old life—the pain, the loss, the love of the game—and I knew I wouldn't waste this chance.
Somewhere in this same quiet town, a loud, passionate boy named Sawamura Eijun was learning to throw pitches that will shake a lot of stadiums in the future.
We hadn't met yet.
But the story was already beginning.