Chapter 50 Quater-Final (7)

The commentator's voice boomed while there was an electric atmosphere of the stadium. "The ball is caught!! A powerful hit results in a fly to center, and Suma Tomogaoka gets runs in this inning. The score remains tied! As we head into the 9th inning"

Ryoichi stood tall on the mound, beads of sweat rolling down his temple and soaking into his jersey. His chest heaved as he inhaled deeply, his breath ragged but controlled. He could feel the strain building in his shoulder, a dull throb that wouldn't go away. Still, he clenched his fists, the leather of his glove creaking in his grip. He forced a confident smirk. "Just two more innings," he muttered under his breath, casting a glance at the scoreboard. The numbers blurred momentarily from exhaustion, but he blinked hard, focusing again. "We can hold them off and secure the win."

Behind the plate, Daiki stood up his legs trembling slightly. He slapped his glove with authority, grinning through the exhaustion. "Nice pitching! You little beast!" His voice cracked with adrenaline, fueling the team around him.

The tension hung thick in the air, almost tangible. The roar of the crowd had died to a murmur, anticipation building in every corner of the stands. Coach Nakamura strode with quiet purpose, his footsteps crunching on the dirt as he approached Ryoichi. He placed a firm but gentle hand on his ace's shoulder, "You've done your duty," he said in a low, calming voice. Ryoichi, sweat slicking his brow and dripping off the edge of his cap, nodded wearily, a small smile twitching at the corners of his mouth, more relief than joy.

Nakamura pivoted on his heels, his calm demeanor masking the fire in his chest. He called his players in, their faces smeared with dirt and resolve. "We have two innings left," he said, voice steady yet charged with purpose. "You know what we need to do."

"Yes, sir!" The players responded in unison, their voices full of grit, their eyes fierce with determination. Their hands, dirt-covered and sweaty, balled into fists as they exchanged glances.

Kenji crouched down once again, gathering the players with a quick motion. His voice was a low growl, filled with energy. "Grounders. We need them. Let's score a run here! We can turn this around with one swing. Let's go!"

Across the field, Coach Fujimoto stood with arms crossed, his face lined with concern. He turned to his assistant, who was nervously flipping through his notepad. "What's Ryoichi's pitch count?"

"Over 120," the assistant replied, flipping one more page for confirmation. Fujimoto's brow furrowed, his eyes scanning the scoreboard. The game was deadlocked. He could see the young pitcher's shoulders sagging from the mound, his tired legs wobbling as he paced. "He isn't known for lasting this long," Fujimoto thought, his jaw clenching. "The weight of this game will fall on Noboru now. This is where an ace is made."

He turned his gaze to Noboru, who was on the mound. Noboru's face was calm, but his fingers twitched, flexing and stretching as he gripped and re-gripped the seams of the baseball in his hand. His eyes, narrowed in quiet determination, flickered with anticipation as he prepared his next pitch.

The crowd buzzed with murmurs as Shinjiro Takumi began his warm-up in the on-deck circle. His swings cut through the air with a whoosh, drawing attention from the fans.

"Hey! It's the monster rookie!" one fan shouted, leaning forward eagerly in his seat.

Another responded, arms crossed but leaning in closer. "You think he'll make a difference? Kenji's been walked, and we need someone to step up."

Masato, watching behind the plate, smirked slightly. His eyes narrowed in on Shinjiro. "Bringing in a first-year here? Won't help," Masato thought, adjusting his mitt. "We'll strike him out easily."

Shunichi stepped up to the plate first. Noboru stood tall on the mound, his muscles coiled like springs. With a smooth,windup, he delivered a fastball right into the heart of the strike zone. The sound of the ball slapping into Masato's mitt echoed in the tense silence.

"Strike!" the umpire barked, his voice booming.

Shunichi's hands gripped the bat tighter, his knuckles whitening beneath the strain. "He's throwing to impossible spots!" he muttered through clenched teeth. On the next pitch, low and fast, Shunichi managed to make contact, sending a weak grounder toward second base. The second baseman, moving like a well-oiled machine, scooped up the ball in one fluid motion and fired it to first for the out.

"One out!" the players yelled, fists pumping into the air as the crowd cheered, the tension easing only for a brief moment.

From the stands, Renjiro rubbed his chin thoughtfully, watching Noboru's precision with narrowed eyes. "Noboru's still locating his pitches well, even this deep into the game," he said to his fellow reporter, Yamamoto.

Yamamoto, leaning forward in his seat, his fingers steepled under his chin, nodded. "Yeah, but at this point, no matter how good your control is, one bad pitch can change everything."

The loudspeaker crackled overhead, pulling everyone's attention. "Player change! Shinjiro Takumi in for Shota Iwata, Left Field!"

The crowd rustled with excitement. Shinjiro, eyes focused and expression unreadable, strode confidently toward the plate. His bat hung loosely in his hand, but his grip tightened with each step.

Yumi nudged her husband Hiroshi excitedly, her eyes wide. "Honey, look! Finally, they're putting him in!"

Hiroshi crossed his arms, watching with a slight frown. "Mmh... He only gets one shot. I wish they'd brought him in earlier. Can he really turn the tide now?"

Shinjiro adjusted his helmet, his breath steady despite the weight of expectation pressing down on him. Denji's voice echoed in his mind from the night before. "I won't lie to you," Denji had said, his tone grave. "You won't hit anything off Noboru if you come in late. Especially his breaking balls."

"But there's a chance, right?" Shinjiro had asked, trying to inject some hope into his voice.

"Maybe. But they won't throw you anything easy."

Now, standing in the batter's box, those words haunted him. His heartbeat thudded in his ears as he settled into his stance. Masato eyed him coldly while crouching behind the plate, his lips curling into a smirk. Now let's see if this guy really has a good eye, he thought, signaling to Noboru for an outside fastball just outside the zone. Noboru wound up, his arm snapping forward with speed and precision. The ball came flying toward Shinjiro, who swung, missing.

Masato's eyes widened slightly. What!? He swung at a pitch that bad? I thought he was good against fastballs that was a bad spot too and he still swung, seems like we overestimated you a first year is a first year afterall, Let's probe him again.

The second pitch came, another fastball, low and away. Shinjiro swung again, missing.

"Strike two!" the umpire called, and the Suma fans erupted in cheers. "Nice throw, Nobo!! This batter can't hit for shit!"

Noboru's confidence swelled, his chest puffing out slightly as he felt control returning to his side. I guess Masato was right,he thought. Pressure gets to anyone, especially a first-year.

But Shinjiro's hands, though tense, remained steady. His legs shifted slightly, grounding him deeper into his stance. His eyes stayed sharp, analyzing Noboru's every move. He whispered something under his breath, calming himself.

Masato signaled for a curveball inside. Noboru wound up and released it, but the pitch sailed wide.

"Ball."

Masato cursed under his breath, his fingers clenching his glove. "We still have the advantage."

Noboru reset, taking a deep breath, and nodded at Masato's next signal for a screwball. The pitch came with a wicked dip, breaking sharply toward Shinjiro who decided not to swing. But suddenly no wait! this umpire is going to call a strike....fuck! I should lightly tap it for a foul, he cursed inwardly at the movement but adjusted his swing at the last second, fouling the ball behind the catcher. The ball sailed just inches beyond the tip of Masato's mitt.

"Foul!" the umpire called.

The Seimei players breathed a collective sigh of relief. That was too close!

Shinjiro exhaled, still in the fight. His muscles burned, but his mind was clear, hyper-focused. He could hear the crowd buzzing, the faint murmurs of doubt.

Shinjiro exhaled deeply, tuning out the low buzz of the crowd. His grip on the bat tightened, his knuckles now bone-white against the worn handle. The tension in the stadium was palpable, thick like the humid air hanging over the field. His gaze never left Noboru, who stood tall on the mound, the weight of the game resting on his shoulders.

Masato threw the ball back to Noboru with a grunt, wiping his brow with the back of his wrist. "Nice pitch!" he yelled, his voice strained, but inside, his confidence faltered. His sharp eyes flicked back toward Shinjiro, his focus still unwavering despite the two strikes against him. "What's with this guy? He's still locked in after those swings. Am I overthinking this?"

From the stands, Yamamoto leaned forward, his hands resting on his knees, anxiety etched on his face. "This game is killing me," he muttered.

Renjiro, standing beside him, nodded, his eyes not leaving the field. "The battery tried to finish him with that screwball, but Shinjiro's hanging in there. The count's 1-2, no runners on base. If they're smart, they'll try to bait him outside again."

Masato crouched and observed Shinjiro, his fingers trembling slightly as he signaled Noboru. I overthinked this, no runners on base too and he's swung helplessly at the fastballs, should i call for it? And finish him off....also he's been murmuring to himself, what is he even saying tsk.

The decision hung between them, almost unspoken. Masato pointed for an inside fastball. His eyes bore into Noboru's, searching for hesitation—but there was none. Noboru's nod was sharp and resolute.

Renjiro's eyes widened. "An inside pitch? Now? With no hesitation? These two are fearless."

Noboru stepped back on the rubber, his body taut like a bowstring drawn to its limit. He rocked forward, bringing his glove to his chest, and wound up. The ball left his hand with a fierce snap, cutting through the air toward Shinjiro's chest. The pitch was screaming in, fast and deadly accurate, threatening to jam Shinjiro if he hesitated even a second too long.

Shinjiro, his breath steady but pulse racing, shifted his stance slightly, just enough to give himself room. His murmuring continued, His feet dug into the dirt, planting firmly as his legs coiled with power. He widened his stance, adjusting just before the ball reached him. His hands, shaking slightly a moment ago, now gripped the bat with renewed strength. His body rotated with explosive speed, hips driving forward, shoulders following in perfect synchrony.

Masato's eyes widened as he noticed the subtle shift in Shinjiro's body language. "What the—" His thoughts were cut off as the bat met the ball.

PING.