The early morning light barely touched the field as Haruto and his teammates lined up at the base. The sun had just begun to rise, casting a faint glow over the empty stands. There was a sharp edge to the air, like a blade ready to cut through the tension that had been building all week.
Their first official match was upon them. It felt surreal.
"Let's make this count." Haruto's voice was low, almost a murmur, but his teammates heard it clearly, each of them reacting with a quiet nod. There was no grand speech today—no dramatic build-up. Just a simple truth: They had to win, and they had to do it now.
They weren't a team made of polished players or seasoned athletes. Their uniforms were patched-up relics of old clubs, their equipment a mix of borrowed and salvaged pieces. They didn't have the training, the reputation, or the technique of the top schools. But they did have one thing: heart.
Haruto adjusted his cap, taking a deep breath. This wasn't just a game. This was everything.
The first inning started with a nervous energy that could be felt in every square inch of the field. Haruto stood at the mound, his eyes fixed on the batter, trying to ignore the pounding of his heart. His shoulder still throbbed slightly, but there was no time for hesitation now. He needed to deliver.
The batter swung at the first pitch—a fastball that was a little too high. It was a good swing, but it wasn't perfect. The ball flew high, and the catcher—Jun—made a clean catch, his arms snapping through the motion, confident.
"Strike one," the umpire called, and Haruto felt the slightest ripple of relief.
One down. Let's keep this going.
The next batter was quick on his feet, stepping up with a confident grin. Haruto adjusted his stance. This kid was good, fast, and eager. He wouldn't be easy to deal with.
Focus.
The second pitch was a curveball, arcing toward the batter's knee. It's a pitch that Haruto had spent hours perfecting. The batter hesitated just for a moment, unsure. He didn't swing.
"Ball one," the umpire announced.
The crowd murmured. The wind picked up, carrying whispers of nervous tension.
But Haruto didn't flinch. He reset himself. His movements slow, deliberate.
I can do this. We can do this.
The game continued, back and forth, tense and close. Haruto wasn't throwing perfect pitches. His throws were off just enough to keep him on the edge, but that's all he needed. His unpredictability had become their greatest weapon. When the third batter stepped up to the plate, Haruto threw a wild pitch—one that the batter swung at and missed completely.
"Strike two."
The tension around the field was palpable. Everyone could feel it. They weren't supposed to win. They weren't supposed to be here, playing against a team with resources, history, and top-tier talent. But here they were, in the game, with a chance.
The next few innings felt like an endless dance of strategy, luck, and gut instincts. Haruto pitched three more innings, his arm straining but holding steady. Every time he threw, it wasn't just muscle memory—it was willpower. His mind was in a constant battle between pain and focus, between doubt and determination. But each pitch carried a silent promise: I won't back down.
Reina, meanwhile, had been busy on the sidelines, clipboard in hand, noting each batter's patterns and weaknesses. She had no formal coaching experience, but her observational skills were sharp. After each inning, she'd jot down notes, signaling subtle shifts in strategy to Coach Inoue.
And when the time came for Takeshi to bat, he did what he did best—he hustled. The shortstop was fast, but Takeshi was faster. The moment the pitcher released the ball, Takeshi dashed, his feet nearly lifting from the ground in his wild sprint. He slid into first base, beating the throw by a fraction of a second.
"Safe!" the umpire called.
The crowd erupted into quiet applause. Not a cheer of triumph yet, but a recognition of effort.
The game was tied. One inning left.
Tension rippled through the dugout as Haruto sat, hands clenched on his knees. This is it. This is our shot.
In the final inning, with the score still deadlocked, the game came down to one last play—one final chance to prove they could survive. Haruto's arm ached with the weight of expectation, but when his team needed him the most, he was ready.
With two outs and the opposing team's best hitter at the plate, the tension was suffocating. Haruto knew what had to be done. This was his moment to deliver. If he failed, it would be over. If he succeeded, it would be more than just a win. It would be validation. It would be the beginning of something greater.
No hesitation.
Haruto wound up. The batter, eyes narrowed, prepared for a power hit. The wind picked up, and in that moment, everything felt like it slowed down. Haruto's focus tightened, blocking out everything except the batter's stance, the catcher's glove, and the way his body moved.
He released the ball—fast, sharp, and without a trace of uncertainty.
The batter swung.
And missed.
The ball soared into the catcher's glove with a satisfying thwack, and for a split second, everything froze.
Then, the umpire's voice rang out clear: "Strike three, you're out!"
The dugout erupted into chaos.
"YES!!" Jun jumped up from behind the plate, throwing his glove in the air. Reina raised her clipboard in triumph, shouting something incoherent.
But the rest of the team didn't waste any time. Takeshi and Sōta charged onto the field, lifting Haruto off the mound, his arm still sore but his heart soaring.
They did it.
The scoreboard flashed with their victory—2-1, the underdogs had won.
The crowd, small as it was, erupted in applause. Not loud, not extravagant, but enough to let them know they had seen something. Something special.
Haruto stood on the field, surrounded by his teammates, panting heavily. His shoulder burned, and his legs were heavy. But there was no time to rest. Not now.
Reina jogged over, her eyes alight with pride. "That was amazing, Haruto!"
He smiled, but it wasn't his usual grin. It was something more.
"That's one," he said softly, catching his breath. "But we're not done yet."
---
Later that evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, the team gathered at the edge of the field. They didn't celebrate wildly—they didn't need to. Instead, they sat quietly, watching the stars begin to blink into existence above them.
Sōta leaned back, his cap pulled low over his eyes. "You know, I wasn't sure we had it in us."
Haruto nodded, looking up at the sky. "I wasn't either. But we're still here."
And as the wind swept through the empty stands, carrying with it the sound of distant applause, the team knew one thing for sure: They were no longer just the Miracle Nine—they were a force, and this was only the beginning.
---
The victory was small, but to them, it meant everything.
It wasn't about the victory on the scoreboard—it was about proving they belonged. Proving that, even with everything stacked against them, they could fight.
And for Haruto, that was enough to keep him going.