Back To BaseBall [1]
As I set his bag down in the corner of the living room, he nodded without a word and headed to the bedroom.
I turned the stove back on, set the table, and served a small portion of rice.
We usually buy grilled fishes and side dishes from the market because it's too much hassle to make them ourselves. The lady at the store always gives Grandpa extra for the same price, and if I go, she gives me a ton. Today, she even gave me some cucumber for free, so I gratefully accepted it.
Once the Miso Soup had simmered nicely, I ladled it into two earthenware bowls and finished setting the table. A neat setting!
I should take a picture of this. Click!
After taking a picture with my phone, Grandpa came out, freshly washed and wearing light, comfortable clothes.
He definitely looked younger than before my regression.
I went through a tough time after my injury, but Grandpa must've had it even harder, watching me suffer. How many more wrinkles must he have gotten because of me…
"What are you staring at? Is there something on my face?"
"No, but... have you been seeing anyone lately?"
"You brat, saying nonsense when there's food in front of you… tsk, tsk."
Feeling a bit awkward, I sat across from Grandpa at the table.
Soon, Grandpa picked up his spoon, took a sip of the Miso Soup, and nodded approvingly.
"It's good, let's eat."
We didn't talk much until the meal was over.
Both of us just focused on the food in silence.
But this dinner was the first time I felt a calm, quiet joy since my regression.
I need to make sure this quiet joy lasts for a long time.
First, I can't get injured... I should make a plan.
I'll get injured in about a month and a half.
My shoulder probably isn't in great shape right now either.
I need to see a doctor immediately, deal with the manager, and... oh, I also need to prevent Coach from getting fired.
Looking back, it doesn't make sense for such a good person like Coach to be stressed under that kind of manager and have his talent wasted.
There's a lot to do.
After dinner, Grandpa and I washed the dishes together.
He still didn't say much, so after washing up, I changed into my workout clothes and told him I'd go for a quick jog around the neighborhood.
Let's run. Running helps me organize my thoughts.
***
The morning of the day after my regression.
Grandpa had prepared a simple breakfast.
When I told Grandpa that I was going to the hospital because of my shoulder, he suggested we go together after he informs the school in the afternoon.
For me, it was to check the state of my shoulder after the injury I suffered before my regression, but Grandpa was worried there might be something wrong with my shoulder and had already looked into hospitals.
In the meantime, I did the dishes.
The hospital Grandpa found was the same one where I had surgery and rehabilitation after my injury.
Not a bad choice.
Since I couldn't be late for morning training, I left the house before Grandpa.
The route to school felt a bit new.
It's been a while, I guess? I've walked this path so many times, but it feels different after the regression. It's kind of exciting.
It felt the same when I saw Mizaki at the school gate.
Even though it had only been a day since I last saw him, I greeted Mizaka with great warmth, as if it had been much longer.
"Ohhaah! Mizaka, long time no see!"
"You idiot, what did you eat this morning to act so weird?"
With swollen eyes, he grumbled, but soon enough, I had him in a headlock, and after that, we went off to school and entered the training grounds.
It was our third year of high school.
Except for the coach and that awful manager, there wasn't really anyone who could question us. Still, most of the third-year students, myself included, were diligent, and aside from two or three people, nearly everyone had arrived early to do individual training.
Well, it is a critical time.
With the rookie draft coming up soon, various tournaments, the weekend league, and even friendly matches, scouts would often show up with speed guns in hand to observe. Every single day counted, especially in the games I pitched.
After about 10 minutes, everyone was present.
Seeing my fellow seniors and the juniors felt fresh and good.
We greeted each other briefly, and the second-year students took the lead, organizing the first-years for field maintenance and running.
Naturally, we third-years joined in for the run as well.
The morning training had begun.
About halfway through the run, our coach arrived, observing us while writing in his logbook.
Head Coach Jiraya Takahashi. Everyone called him Coach Takahashi.
In his pro days, he was one of the rare left-handed underhand pitchers in Japan and made quite a name for himself.
But due to issues with his arm durability, he suffered an injury.
After about four years of a short pro career, he wrapped it up.
Though he's currently coaching at our school due to his connections, I think it's a real shame that he's not doing more. He's a valuable talent.
I've heard he even has his coaching license.
He's smart, meticulous, and thoughtful, offering us kind advice when needed. He's truly a model coach.
It's heartbreaking to see him struggling under that wretched manager.
Perhaps I relate to him more because he reminds me of my pre-regression self.
After the run, the pitchers and fielders split off, the former for shadow pitching and the latter for defense training.
I carefully stretched from my fingertips to my toes, warming up with shadow pitching. Then I asked Mizaka to catch for me.
"Just 10 pitches—I'll only throw fastballs and curves."
"Alright, but take it easy. You overdid it two days ago."