The morning air was sharper than usual.
Haruto stood outside the school gates, staring at the old notice board. His breath fogged as he read the memo for the fifth time:
> "Final Season Evaluation: The Baseball Club must reach quarterfinals or be permanently disbanded after this term."
– Principal Sakamoto
The paper flapped in the wind like a warning flag.
He didn't say anything. Just folded his arms and kept looking, eyes narrowed—not with anger, but with something colder. Determination, maybe.
Behind him, Sōta's voice broke the silence.
"Guess they've drawn the line."
Haruto didn't respond immediately. His fingers twitched at his side, remembering the way the ball left his hand during practice yesterday—still a little stiff, still lacking snap.
"They've always drawn lines," he finally muttered. "We just never crossed enough of them."
---
By homeroom, the whole school was whispering about it. The baseball club had become a curiosity—not out of admiration, but a kind of amused skepticism.
"The Miracle Nine," someone snorted behind Reina in the hallway. "More like 'Miracle if they last the season.'"
Reina turned, face blank. But she didn't say anything. Not yet.
---
That afternoon, the club met in the dusty equipment shed. Their field still hadn't been approved for maintenance, so the rusted fence leaned like a tired spectator. They sat in a half-circle around Coach Inoue, who now wasn't officially their coach—just a "PE supervisor."
He looked older somehow, less fire in his posture.
But his voice? Still steel.
"You all saw the notice. This season isn't just about pride anymore. It's about survival."
He paused, glancing at their faces—sunburnt, bruised, some with raw blisters on palms.
"No one expects you to make it. Not the board, not the league. Maybe not even your own classmates. But I've watched you. You've bled on this field. You've built something here, without permission, without glory."
He looked at Haruto. Then Sōta. Then Reina, standing with arms folded, quietly nodding.
"You've got six weeks. Ten games. One miracle."
Takeshi raised his hand.
"What if we lose one?"
Coach smiled. "Then you don't. Not even once."
---
Practice that day was more intense than usual.
Haruto's pitches weren't sharp, but they were consistent. His shoulder still ached, but he found a rhythm—slow, deliberate wind-ups with less snap and more focus on placement.
Sōta started switching signs mid-windup to test Haruto's reaction speed. They fumbled a few times, but by the fifth inning of mock play, they were in sync again—eye to glove, no words needed.
Reina walked laps around the field with a clipboard, noting down muscle fatigue based on stances alone. When Jun complained about cramps, she taped his leg up with makeshift kinesio strips she learned to make using old sports magazines and duct tape.
None of them talked about the memo again.
But they didn't need to.
---
The next morning, Haruto woke to the sound of something soft hitting his window. A pebble.
Outside stood Sōta, baseball cap backwards, bat over his shoulder, biting into a steamed bun.
"You ready?"
Haruto looked at him for a moment, then nodded once.
---
Three weeks passed.
The team trained like stray dogs with something to prove. They made their own sleds from tractor tires, ran uphill in old school shoes, practiced under streetlamps when the field lights wouldn't work.
The townsfolk began to notice.
An old man watering his vegetables stopped one evening to watch Haruto sprint past, panting but still pushing. He muttered, "That boy again?" but something in his tone had changed. Less mockery. More memory.
By the end of the week, another family dropped off three boxes of barley rice and pickled radish at the school gate. No note. Just a quiet gesture.
The town was still silent… but no longer distant.
---
On Sunday evening, as Haruto iced his shoulder alone under the dugout bench, Sōta sat beside him, chewing sunflower seeds.
"You ever think about quitting?"
Haruto shook his head.
"I think about why I started."
Sōta tilted his head. "You never told me."
Haruto looked up at the stars blinking between the clouds.
"I just… wanted to throw something real. Something that mattered."
There was a pause.
"You already do," Sōta said quietly, flicking a seed shell into the grass.
---
Monday morning brought a surprise.
Principal Sakamoto himself stood at the fence during practice. Arms behind his back. Expression unreadable.
He watched for ten minutes. Silent. Then walked away.
Coach Inoue didn't say a word. But he smiled slightly to himself when no one was looking.
---
By the end of the week, their season schedule was posted. Ten matches.
First match: three days away.
Opponent: Kitaoka Second Middle, ranked 13th last season.
Takeshi grinned. "They're not Aoyama, at least."
Haruto just nodded. The pressure had weight now. Real weight. The kind that pressed on your lungs when you tried to breathe too hard.
---
That night, Haruto stood alone on the school rooftop, wind pulling at his jacket.
He thought about the line they'd drawn. The one that said "You can't."
He touched the callus on his pitching hand.
Then, quietly, with no one to hear it, he whispered:
"We'll cross it."
And far below, as if in agreement, the field light flickered once and held.