“Damn it!
Damn it!” “They actually let those first-years score three runs!” In the second- and third-year bench area, the upperclassmen were all visibly fuming.
And rightly so—anyone would be furious if the team they looked down on managed to pull off such a performance.
Hearing these words, Kawakami’s expression darkened even further.
After all, it was his pitch that had been hit—twice in a row—and finally, it had even turned into a home run.
He drew a deep breath, his face a mix of complex emotions, hard to shake off.
“Kawakami, your pitching was already excellent.
This was my fault with the pitch selection, so don’t dwell on it too much!” Miyauchi Keisuke came over, patting Kawakami on the shoulder, his tone serious.
Miyauchi’s words weren’t just empty platitudes—they bore weight.
Indeed, in this matchup, Miyauchi had an undeniable responsibility for the outcome.
A catcher is responsible for any mistakes in pitch selection.
Kawakami hadn’t made a wild pitch—all his throws hit their intended spots.
From a pitcher’s perspective, he had fulfilled his duty.
It wasn’t that Kawakami had no responsibility; if anything, perhaps it was just a matter of his abilities.
Had he been able to throw another type of pitch, maybe the result would have been different.
But that didn’t erase Miyauchi’s own misjudgment in pitch-calling.
Reflecting afterward, he realized his second pitch shouldn’t have been a test pitch.
While it technically counted as a strike, it should have been a fast attack!
Quick and decisive—that’s how it should have been.
Of course, the biggest mistake was the final pitch.
With two strikes already, he should have concluded the at-bat, not tried to slow things down.
But it was too late to dwell on it now.
There was no point in blame; adjusting the pitcher’s mindset was what mattered, and that was the catcher’s responsibility.
“Don’t worry, Miyauchi-senpai.
I had a feeling I might get hit anyway—I just didn’t expect a home run,” Kawakami said with a faint, forced smile.
His words sounded calm, but his inner feelings weren’t as relaxed as he claimed.
At this point, Miyauchi had nothing more to say—some adjustments were up to the pitcher himself.
“Sawamura-kun, this inning is yours!
Show them your best pitching!” Kanzaki Yuto tapped Sawamura’s shoulder with his mitt and smiled.
“Don’t worry!
I’ll face them head-on and settle this properly!” Sawamura Eijun replied with a carefree grin.
Okumura, having just finished gearing up as catcher, blinked and stared at Sawamura’s back in exasperation.
Brother, you do this, and I’m the one getting nervous!
All fastballs right down the middle—oh heavens!
Okumura felt his little heart might not withstand such an assault.
“You damn first-years, I’ll make you see that the second- and third-years cannot be challenged!” A third-year upperclassman in the batter’s box clenched his teeth and glared at Sawamura on the mound, his expression fierce.
“Play ball!” Okumura didn’t bother giving Sawamura any advice.
He had given up trying to control this guy.
If it was going to be a straight-up showdown, then so be it.
Poor first-year catcher, he didn’t want to argue anymore.
On the mound, Sawamura widened his arms, stepping forward with all his strength as the third-year prepared to swing.
“Fastball right down the middle!
Who do you think you’re looking down on, kid?!” The upperclassman’s eyes glinted with sharpness.
The bat whistled through the air, and Okumura’s heart skipped a beat.
You can’t see that kind of bat speed in junior high!
This pitch was dangerous.
Yet, to the batter’s surprise—and Okumura’s—the pitch went wide.
“BANG!” The ball flew toward left field, but… “Foul!” At that moment, Masuko Tooru’s expression in the bench area turned serious.
“Sawamura’s form is improving, and his pitches are getting stronger.
Is it some kind of quirky pitch?
No wonder Ryou values him.
But if we hit this pitch, it’s on!” Masuko Tooru thought silently.
He imagined himself at the plate, of course, such simulations could only provide limited reference.
Baseball is a game you can’t fully understand unless you’re physically at the plate.
Even the same pitch thrown by different pitchers behaves differently.
Isn’t there a saying?
One breaking ball thrown by a thousand pitchers will break a thousand different ways.
So, Masuko’s mental prep was just that—a small measure of readiness.
A mature batter should at least do that.
“Damn it!
This pitch really does move.
Then I’ll hit it before it moves!” The third-year upperclassman wasn’t new to Seidou High.
Though he hadn’t fully understood Sawamura’s pitch traits, he knew enough to take the front of the plate, gripping his bat tightly.
Okumura blinked in surprise.
Front of the plate… and stepping forward?
But there was no time for the small catcher to overthink.
Sawamura was already set, and Okumura focused, placing his mitt firmly in the center.
Okumura wasn’t a bad catcher.
In Sawamura’s many pitches, almost all had been hit by the upperclassmen, but curiously, none had been solid hits.
He didn’t believe in luck—it was clear there was something special about Sawamura’s pitches.
He had to stay sharp!
Finally getting three points back, he couldn’t afford mistakes.
Okumura silently reminded himself.
The third-year thought he could hit the pitch before it broke—but reality often diverges from ideals.
The pitch came, and the upperclassman swung with perfect timing.
“BANG!” The ball connected with Sawamura’s pitch again, but the upperclassman didn’t show delight.
As the ball flew, he dropped his bat and sprinted toward first base!
The ball didn’t fly high.
He had indeed timed it for when the ball wasn’t moving, but a slight misstep meant the ball hit the mound and ricocheted toward second base.
Sawamura scrambled helplessly, unable to stop it.
The upperclassman glimpsed the play and thought, An infield single is possible!
These first-year rookies can’t field!
Yet, a swift pink figure intercepted the ball!
“SLAP!” The crisp sound of the ball in the mitt, and first base was a force out!