Death is certain...but return? [2]

Before long, among the neighborhood friends, I became the best at throwing the ball. We, the little ones who only played catch, would position ourselves on the small school playground and play.

We would alternate between batter and pitcher, with a catcher, a first baseman, and an outfielder, whom we called "Ball Boy."

Everyone disliked being the Ball Boy. I and my friends, who spent so much time on the playground that it felt like we lived there, played with enthusiasm.

One day, my grandfather, noticing my growing interest in baseball, asked if I wanted to try playing seriously. He enrolled me in a middle school with a baseball club, with the promise that I would also focus on my studies.

The school was a bit far from home, requiring a bus transport, but I was thrilled.

Even though I couldn't see my neighbourhood friends often, the joy of playing proper baseball was immense.

I balanced my time between studying and baseball throughout my three years in middle school, not because of my grandfather's promise but out of my own passion.

My grandfather supported me in every way, and as a result, I stood out as a left-handed pitcher in the middle school league.

Dreaming of someday making it to the major leagues, I also diligently prepared in the language department.

Though busy, my love for baseball made those years truly enjoyable. I was so absorbed in baseball that I didn't notice the turbulent phase passing by.

Scenes quickly flashed by.

As the ace pitcher who led my middle school team to victory in my third year, I received many offers from high schools in the Kobe region.

A left-handed pitcher with a fast ball. My batting performance was also impressive in a league where pitchers also had to hit. Many high school coaches and scouts visited my grandfather and discussed recruitment.

Every time, my grandfather respected my opinion and let me make the final decision.

I wanted to enter the school where my grandfather was working, but unfortunately, it didn't have a baseball club. So, I chose a school closer to home.

In my first year of high school, my growth spurt and systematic training led to an increase in my pitching speed. By my second year, I had secured a starting position, pushing aside the seniors.

Winning the Phoenix Cup in my second year drew attention.

[Promising Left-Handed Fireballer.]

[Where will the top high school sophomore go after graduation?]

[The genius pitcher who attracts scouts.]

[Careful predictions of Major League potential.]

I recall my grandfather's serene smile as he scrapped each newspaper article, and I worked even harder.

During winter break of my third year, I thought I had a severe cold, but when I put on my school uniform for the new term, it was too tight. I hurriedly bought new uniform pants.

What I thought was a cold turned out to be growing pains. I grew 8 cm over the summer, and my pitching speed subtly increased.

At 187 cm and 84 kg, I was considered to have excellent physical attributes for domestic standards.

My coach praised me, although my suddenly increased height caused some issues with my form, which my coach helped me correct.

The scene shifts to a gray background.

Amid repeated good news, a hidden problem surfaced: The Manager.

A typical old-school opportunist with a brief domestic pro baseball career who constantly reminisced about the past. He became a burden, pushing me to my limits every game and every critical situation.

I tolerated it once or twice, as my pitching helped the team win. But even in assured victories, I was made to exceed my pitching limits, often being used for complete games or relief despite pitching the day before.

It was absurdly harsh pitching practices.

The NPB[Nippon Professional Baseball Or Japanese Baseball League] has regulations on pitching limits in amateur leagues, but they don't apply to friendly games or team scrimmages.

Although my coach argued with the dreadful manager to protect me, the manager somehow got him dismissed before summer.

With an unprepared shoulder and a stiff back, I was struggling.

I regretted not being more proactive in demanding rest.

Why?

Was it because I had good chemistry with the catcher?

That could be part of it. Tanjiro, the catcher, was skilled, considerate of pitchers, and talented in hitting.

But what else?

Was it for the better career prospects of friends making career decisions?

That might have been a factor too. High school championships like the Phoenix Cup, High school Championship Cup, would look impressive on my peers' resumes.

But was it mainly for my grandfather's increasingly thick scrapbook?

Yes, maybe that was it.

He collected every article, cutting and saving newspapers, and capturing online interviews and articles. He proudly boasted about me over the phone.

It was embarrassing but also gratifying to be a source of pride for my grandfather.

I wished for his laughter to continue, but my strained body failed me during a meaningless second game of the weekend league with the standings already decided.

My shoulder gave out with a horrible sound.

Even as I sat there, cursing and kicking the water cooler in the dugout, I couldn't reverse it.

I was rushed to the hospital and diagnosed with a slap lesion, and the prognosis for recovery was uncertain.

My dream of making it to the major leagues was over. I was excluded from the domestic draft due to the injury.

As interest in me waned and I grew weary of rehab, I wondered if it would have been easier if the awful manager had also fallen from grace.

But that manager quickly moved on to another middle school, leaving me with no way to fill the void of my disappointment.

The surgery went well, but the doctor told me I could no longer pitch with my left arm. I wanted to give up everything.

Yet, I couldn't ignore my grandfather's concerns and encouragement. And despite the short time I had left, I couldn't easily abandon baseball, which I had devoted my life to.

So, I worked on transitioning to pitching with my right arm.

It's easier said than done.

Switching pitchers. Well, my left arm was ruined, so maybe not switching.

Having pitched left-handed for over ten years, switching to right-handed pitching didn't come easily.

The transition and rehab were slow. Naturally, I gave up on pursuing higher education after high school.

But I couldn't give up baseball.

If not through the draft, the only way to join a pro team was through a tryout.

After completing my Rehab, I prepared as much as possible: three types of fastball grips, curveballs, forkballs, and sliders.

Four years after losing my left shoulder, I tried out for a professional team in Tokyo. My speed wasn't what it used to be, but my variety of pitches helped me barely secure a spot as a developmental player.

As a developmental player, attention returned to me. For a while, it comforted me and my grandfather.

I had unreasonable hopes.

'Maybe it's possible?'

But with fastballs in the low 120s and imperfect control of other pitches, I struggled to make it to the first team. I was frequently hit hard in the second team, and my call-up to the first team seemed increasingly distant.

Attention waned again, and I struggled with batting as well.

The gray background remains unchanged as the scene shifts.

Two grueling years passed.

The team had hoped for a compelling story of a "left-handed fireballer overcoming injury and transitioning to right-handed pitching" but seemed to accept my failure as a given.

I was informed of my release from the team.

There was nowhere else to go from 2nd division team.

Thus, "right-handed Itsuki Ayaka" remained a developmental player, and baseball ended for me.

Still unable to let go of baseball, I searched for related opportunities. With good intelligence inherited from my parents and diligence in my studies due to a promise to my grandfather, I quickly sought out alternatives.

I looked into becoming a sports interpreter or a performance analyst. Though limited in options, I pursued anything related to baseball.

Then, unexpectedly, through the coach who had trained me in middle school, I received an offer to become a trainer at a private baseball academy. I decided to balance this with coaching education.

I never truly gave up on baseball.

But then, I had an accident.

In an unexpected moment, my baseball career ended.

In the fleeting moment, the grayness of my world turned to darkness.

As pain faded and a bright light seemed to envelop me, I accepted my end, feeling a mix of regret and acceptance.

And in that moment,

The pain vanished, and the light that seemed to illuminate the world covered me.

That was my end.

<Starting synchronization of development program>

<…1% >

<…3% >

.

.

<…100% >

<Synchronization complete>

<…Setting up development program....>

<…Complete…Finding optimal items>

<…Suitable items found…Applying>

.

.

<Baseball Management…Applied.>

<System starting>

Just as I thought everything had ended,

A strange sound came with the light.

"…What the hell is this?"