The afternoon sun hung low, staining the quiet street in a soft orange glow.
Chris led Takumi down the path behind the house, toward an open practice ground. The place was empty—only the faint rustle of leaves and the distant hum of cicadas broke the silence.
Takumi followed nervously, his hands shoved into his pockets. A knot tightened in his chest.
' l don't even have a glove… or a bat… Am I really supposed to play?'
Chris, however, said nothing. Instead, he reached into his bag and pulled out a worn white ball, the seams darkened with years of use.
Without a word, he placed it in Takumi's palm.
Takumi blinked. His fingers closed around it slowly.
The ball was heavier than he expected.
Not heavy like a stone, but dense—solid, as if it carried weight beyond its size.
The leather was cool against his skin, rough at the seams, smooth in between. For some reason, his chest tightened as he rolled it in his hands.
So this is… baseball.
For the first time, Takumi felt a strange pull in his chest. Not excitement, not fear—something in between.
Chris stepped back a few paces and crouched slightly, gesturing.
"Try throwing it to me. However you want."
Takumi hesitated, then clumsily raised his arm. His form was awkward, like a child skipping stones. He took a breath and tossed.
The ball left his hand, spinning unevenly, and bounced once before reaching Chris.
Chris caught it without flinching. He looked at Takumi, then at the ball in his hand.
Takumi rubbed his fingers.
There was a faint sting in his palm, but deeper than that… something stirred inside. Like a ripple on still water. He didn't understand it, but the feeling wouldn't leave.
"Not bad," Chris finally said,
his voice calm.
"But baseball isn't just about throwing. It's a game of rules, of rhythm. A language."
He stepped closer, gently rotating the ball in his hand.
"See this seam? Pitchers grip it to control the ball's path. And this—"
He shifted his stance, raising his arm smoothly, body twisting with practiced ease.
"—this is the throwing motion. Power comes not from the arm alone, but from the whole body. Watch carefully."
Takumi's eyes widened as Chris's arm cut through the air, smooth and precise, the ball snapping from his hand with speed that made a soft whip in the silence.
The ball struck the ground near the makeshift backstop with a clean, satisfying thud.
Chris turned back, his gaze steady.
"Baseball isn't easy. But if you really want to try… this is where it begins."
Takumi looked down at the ball in his hands again.
His heart thumped.
That strange stir grew stronger, as if whispering that something had just awakened inside him.
Takumi mimicked Chris's stance, feet apart, shoulders tense.
He raised the ball, twisting his body as he had seen.
His movements were stiff, mechanical—like a puppet trying to copy its master.
"Just relax," Chris said,
crouching low in a catcher's pose, his glove hand ready.
Takumi gritted his teeth, swung his arm, and let the ball fly.
Whoosh!
The ball sailed out of his hand, wobbling in the air like a bird that had lost its wings.
Its direction was completely off—it veered wide, nowhere near Chris's chest.
But Chris didn't even flinch.
He shifted slightly, extending his glove, and caught the ball cleanly with a soft pop.
Takumi blinked in disbelief.
"…I missed, didn't I?"
Chris stood up slowly, spinning the ball in his fingers.
His expression didn't change much—still calm, steady, as if he had expected this.
"Your form is messy, and your aim's all over the place," Chris admitted plainly.
Then he tossed the ball back.
"But the power… you've got something. You just don't know how to use it yet."
Takumi caught the ball clumsily, his palm stinging. He stared at it, breathing a little faster.
Something…?
Chris crouched again, his voice firm but not harsh.
"Try again. Don't think about throwing hard. Think about throwing straight. Use your eyes, your shoulder, your body as one. Just focus on me."
Takumi nodded, gripping the ball tighter. The strange stirring in his chest grew stronger—like a spark waiting for air.
He raised his arm again.
Takumi kept throwing. Again and again, the ball left his hand—wild, crooked, sometimes bouncing before it even reached Chris.
Yet no matter how bad the throw, Chris caught every single one with an ease that almost annoyed him.
"Not bad for the first time,"
Chris finally said, standing and dusting off his pants.
"You're rough, but… you've got energy. That's important."
Takumi bent over, hands on his knees, breathing heavy.
His arm ached, his shoulder felt stiff, but inside, something was burning—not pain, but… something else.
When the two returned to the house, evening had already painted the city sky in shades of orange.
Dinner passed quietly, and Takumi excused himself early, claiming fatigue from the long journey.
Lying in bed that night, he turned on his side and stared at the unfamiliar ceiling.
His body was heavy, but his heart was strangely light.
His hand absentmindedly gripped at the empty air, recalling the texture of the baseball, the sting in his palm when he caught it, the weight when he held it for the first time.
"…Baseball…" he whispered softly to himself.
He wasn't sure why, but the memory of throwing—even clumsily—filled him with a faint sense of satisfaction. A warmth lingered in his chest, something new, something exciting.
For the first time since arriving in Tokyo, Takumi closed his eyes with a small smile.