The stadium thrummed with an almost palpable energy, its colossal stands packed with spectators whose collective breath seemed to hang in the air, waiting for the next great moment. The roar of the crowd was a living, breathing entity, ebbing and flowing like a great ocean, its energy vibrant and electric.
With Kenji Tadeka standing on first base after being intentionally walked, the atmosphere in the stadium was thick with anticipation. Everyone knew what Kenji was capable of once he was on base, and the tension between him and the pitcher, Kenta Yamada, was palpable. Yamada glanced over repeatedly, fully aware that Kenji could steal at any moment.
Next up to bat was Daiki Matsuda, their catcher. He stepped into the batter's box, calm and focused, his mind already working through the possibilities. Everyone expected him to play it safe—maybe a bunt, given their small-ball strategy. But Daiki had something else in mind.
Yamada delivered the third pitch —a slider, low in the zone. Daiki didn't hesitate. His bat sliced through the air with a clean, controlled swing. The ping of the ball connecting with the bat reverberated through the stadium. It wasn't a sacrifice bunt or a groundout this time. Instead, Daiki sent the ball skimming through the gap between the shortstop and third baseman, a perfectly placed single into left field.
Kenji took off the moment the ball was hit, his legs a blur as he sprinted from first to second, and without breaking stride, he headed for third. The left fielder charged in, trying to cut off the play, but Kenji was too fast. He slid into third base, kicking up a cloud of dust just as the ball reached the cutoff man. The crowd roared, the tension rising as now their captain was in prime scoring position with no outs.
Daiki, having done his job, stood confidently on first base, aware that he had set the stage for something bigger.
Kaito Nakashima, the shortstop, approached the plate next. Calm and collected, Kaito's consistency had earned him the trust of his teammates. He wasn't flashy, but he always delivered when it mattered most. This time was no different. Yamada, visibly rattled after giving up two quick hits, tried to regain control.
The first pitch to Kaito was a curveball, hanging in the air longer than intended. Kaito's eyes lit up. He swung hard and sent the ball sailing past the infield and into shallow right field, dropping perfectly between the second baseman and the right fielder. Kenji took off from third, sprinting toward home with the same explosive speed that made him a terror on the base paths.
The right fielder scooped up the ball and fired it to home plate, but Kenji was too quick. He slid into home with ease, his outstretched hand brushing the plate just as the ball reached the catcher's glove. The umpire's hand shot out to signal safe, and the crowd erupted into cheers.
Now with runners on first and second, and a 1-0 lead, it was Shinjiro Takumi's turn to bat. He watched the events unfold from the on-deck circle, his mind racing as he prepared to step up to the plate.
Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.
Shinjiro took a deep breath. It was his moment now. The game had shifted, but it was still close. All eyes were on him as he walked to the batter's box, his teammates silently counting on him to deliver.
Shinjiro Takumi stood at the plate, his senses honing in on the small, white sphere hurtling towards him from the mound. The world around him blurred, the noise of the crowd fading into the background as he narrowed his focus. His heart pounded in his chest like a relentless drum, each beat a reminder of the stakes at hand. Every fiber of his being was tuned to the task at hand: he was here to prove himself.
Kenta Yamada, the pitcher for Nishinomiya Kita, had earned his reputation for a reason. His powerful arsenal was the a mix of speed and finesse that had stymied many batters before. As he took his place on the mound, his expression was a mask of cold determination. His catcher, Morubashi, signaled for a high fastball—a pitch designed to rattle Shinjiro and test his composure.
Shinjiro's eyes locked on Kenta as he wound up. The pitch rocketed towards him, a blur of speed that streaked through the air at a blistering 139 km/h. The ball missed the strike zone by inches, a heart-stopping close call that made the scoreboard flash with a 1-0 count. Shinjiro took a deep breath, his thoughts racing.
He whispered to himself, "Hmm was that a ti-taa..." The words were a mantra, a way to center himself amid the storm of noise and pressure. Kenta's next pitch, another fastball, came in with the same fierce velocity. This time, it caught the strike zone. Shinjiro's mind worked in overdrive. "No, it's a ti-taaa, its in that range....if he throws another one, it's gone."
The pitch soared high, missing the strike zone again. The count shifted to 1-1. Shinjiro's gaze remained unwavering, his eyes tracking the ball as Morubashi's unreadable expression suggested he was trying to gauge Shinjiro's reactions.
Kenta's third pitch was a curveball, a deceptive throw that curved sharply but ended up outside the strike zone. Shinjiro maintained his focus, whispering to himself. The count adjusted to 2-1. Morubashi, noticing Shinjiro's steadiness, signaled for a slider, hoping to catch him off guard.
The slider came in with a sharp break, a precise strike that evened the count at 2-2. Shinjiro's thoughts were a whirlwind of strategy and determination.
Kenta's next pitch was a changeup, designed to disrupt Shinjiro's timing. The ball floated towards the plate, its slower pace a stark contrast to the previous pitches. Shinjiro's eyes stayed locked on it and still didn't swing, "Changeup. He's trying to mess with my rhythm."
The pitch was called a ball, and the count moved to 3-2. The tension was almost unbearable as Morubashi said inwardly, "Don't worry he'll swing just trust your infielders," his frustration clear, he signaled for a low fastball just barely ball. Kenta's wind-up was a blur of movement, his face set in grim determination. Shinjiro's heart raced, but he forced himself to remain calm. A low fastball was coming.
The ball was released, fast and low, Shinjiro shifted his stance, lowering his center of gravity bending his knees slightly, and adjusted his grip on the bat, keeping it relaxed yet firm. As the ball neared, he engaged his core and prepared to meet the pitch. His hands began to drop in sync with the ball's descent, and his swing followed with precision.
The bat met the ball with a resounding ping, the sound cutting through the stadium's din like a clarion call. The ball soared into the sky, an elegant arc of white. The crowd's roar built to a crescendo as the ball continued its ascent, eventually clearing the outfield fence. It was a home run—a three-run shot that sent the stadium into a frenzy of ecstatic noise.
The scoreboard flashed with the new scores: Nehimon 4, Nishinomiya Kita 0. The commentators voices rose in unison, their excitement barely contained. "Ohh it's gone, what a hit!" the commentator's voice crackled through the speakers. "Shinjiro Takumi, the first-year, has just sent a rocket into the stands! That's a three-run homer!"
Shinjiro rounded the bases, each step a triumphant beat in his personal symphony. His teammates erupted from the dugout, their cheers a jubilant chorus that filled the air with pure joy. Shinjiro pumped his fist in the air, his face lit with a mixture of triumph. The crowd's cheers were a sea of sound, each shout and roar a testament to the hard work and determination that had led to this moment.
Kenta, the pitcher, stood on the mound, his shoulders slumped in defeat. His face was a portrait of frustration as he watched the ball sail into the stands. Morubashi, the catcher, looked on with a mix of admiration and exasperation. Shinjiro's confidence had shone through, and in that moment, he had not only proven himself but also captured the hearts of everyone watching.