So much for “perfect weather”.
It’s cold. Bitterly cold. Even from this distance the wind off the river has completely overpowered the afternoon sun overhead. I’m bundled up in the thickest winter gear I own, and I still can’t keep myself from shivering.
It’s cold. It’s cold and my legs are numb and I’m surrounded by children screaming and parents screaming louder and we’re already down by 2 runs even though it’s only the bottom of the third and how the hell does that happen and I’m basically here to see my archenemy.
And yet…
I really did miss this game. Missed the thousand little sounds, the smells of dirt and grass. Missed how even identical-looking diamonds can each have their own unique quirks and personalities. Missed the sense of unity, how everyone from the prime minister to someone’s mom to just some asshole can come together to form a crowd. And how it all comes down to something so small you can hold it in a single hand? It’s… a little magical.
Yeah. Um. Anyways.
My eyes flick to Fujimura, poised between guarding the far point of the diamond like he’s been doing it all his life. The look of concentration on his face is intense, and I can see his body go rigid as the pitcher winds up.
Throw.
Fujimura does a not-quite-lunge.
Thud. Clean into the catcher’s mitt.
The whole thing takes a second at most, but I’m basically a slow-motion camera by now.
He can play better than this – hell, I’ve seen him play better than this – but he must be nervous about his first game as shortstop. Too in his head.
The pitcher winds up again.
The batter swings this time, and the crack of the bat is sharp. Crisp.
The ball skips off the dirt and shoots toward shortstop.
Fujimura is already moving. Glove down, body low. He scoops up the ball, straightens, and throws to first in one smooth line.
Out.
A ripple of approval goes through the stands, and Fujimura just soaks in the attention the same way he always does. He takes off his hat for a second and runs a hand through his dark sweat-mussed hair, much to the delight of some girl a few rows down from me.
Handsome arrogant bastard.
Pitch. Catch. Swing. Dirt. Shouts that sound sharper in cold air.
Then, between plays, I see Mom step forward.
Time is called. Players shift. Fujimura jogs in from shortstop, glove tucked against his hip, and leans toward her like he’s done it a hundred times. Maybe he has.
Mom says something I can’t hear. Not dramatic. Just a few clipped words. Fujimura nods once, serious, and jogs back out.
My stomach twists just looking at it.
The next batter hits a slow one into the infield—one of those awkward balls that doesn’t fly, just dies in the dirt and makes everyone move at once.
Fujimura charges in.
The ball takes a small bounce. Then another.
The field is uneven. The hop changes at the last second, cutting sideways like it changed its mind.
Fujimura dives anyway.
For half a heartbeat it’s almost clean—glove out, body stretched, uniform scraping dust. People start applauding, even.
Then the ball pops up wrong.
It doesn’t meet his glove.
It meets him. Hard.
The applause, the game, even the sound of the impact: it all stops, and for one all-too-familiar moment, I can’t hear anything else but Fujimura’s scream.
The next thing I know, I’m already on the field running towards the already-forming crowd. A wall of people soon blocks Fujimura from view, followed by the wall of sound registering all at once. “Are you alright?” “What happened? I missed it.” “Someone call 119!” I’m briefly grateful that he isn’t concussed.
The gratitude is brief, though. I can’t see anything. Or hear anything. My mouth tastes like copper and there’s nothing I can do and I’m panicking.
Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit.
The stadium has fallen away again, but I’m at least conscious enough to see when the crowd starts to open up like some kind of… amoeba? The tiny things that hug things to death.
FUCK. Someone passes way too close behind me, and I turn to see that it’s the first of two paramedics holding a stretcher between them. It takes me a moment to realize it’s actually them the amoeba is hugging.
Through the opening crowd, I can see Fujimura still on the ground, still clutching his side. His uniform is hopelessly dirty, and his glove has fallen limply to the ground beside him. It takes me a moment to realize that he’s also being flanked by two women: his mother Miyako and older sister Shizuka.
The approaching paramedics shoo the two away and one of them has a brief exchange with the mother before they start lifting Fujimura onto the cot.
It’s only when I see the two women turn to go that I realize I’ve been frozen.
“Fujimura-san!” I call it once, twice, again and again as I start to run the perimeter of the crowd to get to them. “Fujimura-san!”
I double over for a second upon reaching them and draw a deep cold breath of air. God, I’m out of practice.
Fujimura's mother must place my voice while I’m catching my breath because her next words are warm, if not slightly bewildered. “To-, uh... Sakuragi-kun?”
I shift from deep breaths to a bowing stance. I can’t look them in the eyes. “Take me with you.”
She blinks in surprise.
I blink in surprise.
“What?”
“To the hospital.” It suddenly strikes me how strange of a request this is coming from someone she hasn’t spoken to in probably half a decade, but I’m not ready to give up yet. “I can come with you,” I hear myself say. “If you need… help?”
The words hang there, ridiculous and earnest.
I look up after a long second to not see the tears blurring her eyes. “Thank you,” she says quietly. “Yes. Please.”
I breathe a sigh of relief and finally right myself as my brain clicks into “next thing” mode.
“Great. Let me just tell my mom,” I say and reach for my phone. I’m sure she’ll be busy already with one of her players hurt, but I can’t just leave without saying anything, right?
“Come on. You can text her from the car.”
It’s called over her shoulder, as she strides towards the nearest exit, following the paramedics at a brisk pace that matches their own. She looks less flustered than one might expect. She’s more… cool. Composed. Beautiful, even, and it occurs to me for the first time how much her kids may have taken after her.
I think for the briefest moment about objecting, but it’s clear that she’s going with or without me, and I choose “with”.
I jog to catch up, and Shizuka-san gives me a look I can’t parse as I join their group.
[2/4 EDIT: Slight wording change for clarity.]