Kanzaki Ryou quietly glanced toward Coach Kataoka. The Coach stood near the field with a completely unreadable expression—no joy, no anger, just a stern poker face.
After Kuramochi reached base earlier, Maezono Kenta stepped up to bat. Three pitches later, he trudged back with sweat on his forehead, accomplishing nothing. Kuramochi was tagged out shortly after.
"Out, three outs! Switch!"
"Kawakami, pitch!"
Coach Kataoka replaced the first-year pitcher at the perfect timing, sending in additional first-years to their defensive positions—catcher Ono Hiroshi included.
Five innings passed.
The score was 32–0.
It was in this kind of one-sided blowout that Coach Kataoka wanted to see how these newcomers handled pressure—especially pitchers.
As Seidou's former ace, Kataoka deeply valued the role of a traditional, orthodox ace pitcher. But he also understood that someone like Kanzaki Ryou—who threw with overwhelming, physically taxing velocity—could suffer long-term harm if used too heavily before his body matured.
So although Kanzaki's arrival was a godsend, Kataoka was desperate to cultivate another pitcher from the same year to share the burden.
When Kawakami stepped onto the mound, Kanzaki's eyes sharpened with anticipation.
Kawakami's raw talent was good. If he could overcome the psychological trauma that would plague him in the future and steadily refine his skills, he was the type of pitcher who could become a stable ace at many schools.
But right now, standing on the mound…
Kawakami glanced at the scoreboard.
His heart collapsed on the spot.
The gap between them and the seniors was simply too massive.
And the seniors in the batter's box?
They stared at the baseball in his hand like hunting demons.
Kawakami swallowed.
He took deep breaths. Then more. Then even more.
Think. Think.
What did Kanzaki say to do when nervous?
A moment later, everyone saw Kawakami close his eyes and begin muttering like a monk.
"The batter is a rookie… I'm the best… the batter is trash… I'm the strongest… I can do it… I'm amazing…"
A long exhale.
He opened his eyes again—
his breathing stable, hands no longer shaking.
It worked.
It actually worked.
Kawakami was shocked.
Kanzaki's "mental brainwashing technique," improvised on the spot a few days ago, was unbelievably effective.
In other words… Kawakami had mastered the art of deceiving himself.
Two pitches later—under Ono Hiroshi's pitch calling—
A slider.
A sinker.
Two consecutive swings and misses.
Crack!
The third pitch was hit and rolled through the infield for a single.
Kawakami exhaled.
"Don't panic. Just a hit. No one died…"
"Every pitch is a new beginning. Right. It's a clean count. No one on base."
Self-comfort — activate.
Coach Kataoka raised an eyebrow.
This kid's mental recovery ability wasn't bad at all.
Nearby on B Field, Kanzaki Ryou watched everything unfold and almost laughed aloud.
Does this really work?
He only made that technique up as a joke.
Are simple-minded people really this powerful when they lie to themselves?
Even so, Kawakami pitched surprisingly well.
He only allowed two runs that inning—one caused by poor defense behind him.
For Kawakami, this was practically a miracle.
Ota, standing nearby, even teared up in relief.
But as the game progressed, skill gaps and mounting pressure overwhelmed the self-brainwashing method. Kawakami started breaking down mentally, and when Kataoka finally pulled him off the mound, he realized he was drenched entirely in sweat.
Meanwhile, in the first-year dugout, tension was rising.
"That run was defendable! Useless!"
"You're calling me useless? You swung nine times and didn't even foul a ball!"
"Say that again!"
"And you—your throw went to the wrong base!"
"You bastard—!"
Bang!!
A loud crack snapped everyone's attention back to the field.
A long hit.
"Who's that?"
"No idea."
"Don't know his name."
"I think… Shirazu? Maybe."
Poor Shirazu.
He hit a clean long hit, yet almost no one even knew who he was.
Coach Kataoka, however, took notice.
Shirazu—quiet, unremarkable, rarely speaking during training—
showed real potential at the plate.
The Coach discreetly wrote his name down in his notebook.
After Shirazu, Maezono Kenta stepped into the batter's box again.
Three powerful swings.
Three misses.
He walked off blushing furiously.
"Don't look at me, don't look at me…"
Even though the score gap widened, a few first-years still managed to show their talent.
Truly gifted players can never be completely hidden.
After eight innings, the scoreboard showed:
47–0
"That's enough. Everyone, gather!"
Coach Kataoka removed his hat and shouted.
But—
the seniors didn't move.
Only a few scattered first-years walked toward him.
They already knew what would happen next.
This pattern repeated every year during the freshman scrimmage.
Coach Kataoka would:
Criticize the first-years harshly
Crush their pride
Follow up with an inspiring speech
Ignite their spirit again
"Huh…?"
"The game isn't over…"
"Is the Coach giving up on us?"
Kataoka looked at their frustrated expressions.
Good.
That's what he wanted—someone to step forward with defiance.
And finally—
"WHY!"
There it was.
"Coach! The game isn't over! Why are we stopping?!"
Kuramochi Yoichi.
Of course it was him.
"If we continue, the score will only widen. There's no meaning," Kataoka said.
"But if… all first-years want to continue—"
he paused deliberately,
"—I'll give you one more inning."
The seniors rolled their eyes.
Same speech as every year.
Silence at first—
then one by one, the first-years shouted that they wanted to continue.
They were teenagers, proud and stubborn.
Losing wasn't the shameful part—
being dismissed early was.
And the fact that Kataoka gave them a choice…
Meant he still had expectations.
"Good spirit," Kataoka said.
"But why do you only have this fire now?
High school baseball doesn't give you a next time."
The field went silent.
Coach Kataoka turned away.
After a long breath—
"Continue."
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