Chapter Text
The bat was too big for his tiny hands.
The helmet slipped down over his eyes.
And yet — Sawamura Eijun stood there in the dirt, back straight, fists clenched, trembling not with fear… but excitement.
“Choke up, you idiot!” a gruff voice barked from the bleachers. “This isn’t some TV cartoon, it’s baseball!”
That voice belonged to his grandfather — old-school to the bone, and twice as stubborn.
“Y-Yes, Grandpa!” A young Eijun shouted, adjusting the bat like his tiny life depended on it.
From behind the fence, his mother sighed, half-amused and half-worried. She leaned over to the coach beside her.
“He’s six. Isn’t this too much?”
The coach just laughed. “If he’s anything like his grandpa, he’ll be fine.”
Eijun’s mother had never planned for her son to be a baseball player.
She pictured books, maybe painting — something quiet.
But one summer afternoon, when Eijun was just five, her husband stormed into the house holding a youth league flyer.
“He’s got energy like a wild horse,” he said. “Might as well point him toward something useful before he breaks my furniture.”
The next thing she knew, Eijun was running laps around the field, cheeks red, shoes untied, arms flailing like a windmill.
And then — he laughed.
That kind of laugh.
Pure. Loud. Free.
She realized something then. He wasn’t just playing baseball. He was becoming something.
Eijun didn’t remember a time before baseball.
There was always a glove in his hand, a sore shoulder, a scraped knee.
He didn’t care about Koshien. He barely knew what the pros were. But he knew what it felt like to throw a perfect pitch.
He remembered the first time he struck someone out — how the world froze for just a second before exploding with cheers.
He remembered turning to see his grandpa’s wide grin, hands crossed over his cane.
“Finally did something right,” the old man had said, but his eyes sparkled with pride.
People always asked Eijun why he played.
His teammates had answers:
“To make it to Koshien.”
“To become a pro.”
“To be the best.”
Eijun… never knew how to answer.
He just played.
Not because he had a dream. Not because someone told him to.
But because it felt right.
Even now, as he walked the streets after middle school practice, bag slung over his shoulder, the question still echoed in his mind:
Why do I play?
He didn’t know.
But maybe someday, he would.
That night, his mother peeked into his room. He was fast asleep, glove still clutched in his hand like a comfort blanket.
She smiled.
“Just don’t lose your way,” she whispered.
Outside, a soft breeze rustled the trees — like a warning of the storm that would come. Of the choices he’d face. Of the path that still hadn’t shown itself.
But for now, Eijun slept soundly.
Because even if he didn’t know why…
He knew how to play.