The first-years’ desperate shouts and cries sounded as if this were a real, decisive game between two rival teams fighting for the ultimate victory.
“First-years!” “Hahaha, what can I say?
Those guys really energize the whole first-year team!” The spectators, watching the scene unfold, couldn’t help but smile, thoroughly entertained by the display on the field.
Ace!
He stood there trusted by the entire first-year team.
Baseball was never a solo endeavor.
Pitching was the perfect collaboration between pitcher and catcher.
Yet earlier, what had he been thinking—trying to rely solely on himself to defeat the batter before him?
Sawamura Eijun felt a pang of regret for those selfish thoughts.
Wasn’t that like betraying my teammates just now?
His gaze locked onto Okumura, crouched and ready to catch his pitch.
Then, memories of Miyuki Kazuya flashed through his mind.
Glancing briefly at Miyuki a short distance away, Sawamura’s face lit with sudden clarity.
“Timeout!” Just as everyone thought the showdown was about to begin, as Masuko Tooru prepared to bat with solemn confidence, a sudden voice made everyone freeze.
The first-years’ cheering abruptly stopped.
They stared blankly at the one who called the timeout.
Sawamura, paying no mind to the curious stares, calmly called for the timeout.
In that moment, he was reminded of the first showdown when he had first come to Seidou High a few months ago.
Without Miyuki Kazuya guiding him, without the cooperation between the two, he would have undoubtedly been crushed by that guy called Yuuki Tetsuya.
That had been a combined effort—and wasn’t the current situation the same?
“Hey, you… come over here.” Sawamura waved at Okumura, signaling him toward the mound.
Okumura, stunned, removed his mask, confusion written all over his face as he trotted over.
He had always thought he fully understood this guy, Sawamura Eijun—just a naturally goofy, carefree kid.
But Sawamura’s sudden action now felt… strange.
“What’s up, Sawamura?
Something wrong?” Okumura asked, catching his breath as he approached, eyes wide with curiosity.
Sawamura inhaled deeply.
“I want to discuss the best way to pitch.
I have a feeling this batter might hit my ball.
Pitching is the perfect work between pitcher and catcher.
We’re partners, so I want your opinion.” Without an ounce of embarrassment, Sawamura had borrowed the very words Miyuki had used when he first arrived at Seidou, completely forgetting how self-centered he had been with his pitching back then.
Without Miyuki… sigh.
Old memories are all tears.
Better not dwell on them.
Okumura’s eyes widened.
What?
Did that idiot Sawamura just say… cooperation?
Partners?
Okumura felt tears welling.
Has he really come to this realization?
The small catcher stared at Sawamura with a mix of disbelief and awe.
Goosebumps rose on Sawamura as he awkwardly scratched the back of his head, remembering all the times he had pitched on his own without signals or coordination.
Okumura sighed lightly.
Alright… I understand.
For a dopey kid like him to reach this level of awareness is already quite an achievement.
“To be honest, I don’t think the two of us can strike out this batter.
Your pitches are certainly tricky, but this is Seidou’s cleanup hitter!
To become a cleanup hitter in a prestigious school like Seidou, he’s no ordinary batter.” Okumura spoke bluntly, stating the reality without hesitation.
Sawamura’s face stiffened.
“But I struck out that senior… the so-called fourth batter of Seidou!” His voice was low, but Okumura heard him clearly.
Okumura exhaled.
“I’ve heard of that, too.
But Sawamura-kun… I’m not Miyuki-senpai.
Honestly, my ability to call pitches can’t compare to his.
I hope you understand that.” Sawamura felt a chill.
He was optimistic and carefree, but not foolish.
Okumura’s words were precise.
Indeed, compared to six months ago, he hadn’t made significant progress.
And Okumura wasn’t Miyuki Kazuya, the genius catcher.
“So… we only have two options if we don’t want this batter to get a hit.” Okumura paused.
“What options?” Sawamura’s eyes lit up.
Timeouts in baseball were brief; there wasn’t much time to leisurely discuss strategies.
Of course, this being a red-and-white scrimmage, the rules weren’t strict, but first-years couldn’t take unlimited time.
Okumura quickly explained the two options.
Sawamura’s expression flickered with indecision, torn between choices.
His lips moved slightly.
Okumura looked surprised, then nodded.
As he turned to return to his crouch, he added: “Sawamura… as they said, you are the ace of our first-year team in this game.
Whatever choice you make, we trust you.” Before Sawamura could respond, Okumura ran back to his position.
Sawamura, initially hesitant, recalled the cheers of the first-years.
His reluctance vanished.
I’m the ace!
Leading the team to victory is what an ace does!
Thanks to Kanzaki Yuto’s arrival, this red-and-white scrimmage had become almost unrecognizable from the original story.
Everyone had gained something invaluable from this match.
Sawamura Eijun had now earned preliminary recognition from the first-years.
It might not be fully solid or deep, but it was a positive signal.
Purification of the spirit, maturity of thought—the boy named Sawamura Eijun took a firm step toward becoming an ace pitcher, achieving true evolution.
He inhaled deeply, eyes locked on the batter’s box, his resolve and fighting spirit shining unmistakably.