The first light of dawn painted the rice paddies beyond Kamiyama Middle School in soft gold, but inside Classroom 2-C, Haruto Saito felt the world had gone dark. He stared at the peeling "No Club Activities" placard on the wall—an official decree from the principal's office—and scowled.
"Just you watch," he muttered, tugging his baseball cap lower. "Someday, this school will know our name."
A hesitant cough drew his attention. Sōta Nakamura sat at the desk beside him, nose buried in a math workbook. His round glasses caught the sunlight, and behind them, Sōta's brown eyes glanced up with a mixture of exasperation and resignation.
"You're really going to do this?" Sōta asked, voice soft. "Form a baseball club… with two people?"
Haruto slammed his fist on the desk, rattling pencils. "That's why I need you. Catcher, strategist, moral support. Besides, how hard can it be?"
Sōta closed his book. "Harder than passing algebra."
Haruto flashed a grin that was half-confident, half-desperate. "Then help me teach you algebra."
Their banter ended when the classroom door opened. In stepped Mr. Kanbe—the school's sternest math instructor—bald head gleaming under fluorescent lights, crisp white shirt tucked into slacks. The entire class stiffened; even the clock seemed to pause.
Mr. Kanbe stopped at Haruto's desk. "Saito. Nakamura. You have twenty minutes after school. I'll expect a proposal—signed by nine founding members—on my desk tomorrow morning."
Haruto's heart lurched: permission. He nodded so vigorously the brim of his cap dipped. Sōta merely bowed.
"Good," the teacher said, sliding a sealed envelope onto the desk. "You'll find school balls inside. Use them wisely." Then he turned and left—silent as a shadow.
That afternoon, Haruto and Sōta trudged across the overgrown grounds toward the abandoned practice field: a patch of hardened earth, half-covered in weeds, ringed by rusted dugouts. Haruto's chest tightened at the sight of it—their makeshift diamond.
He broke the silence first. "We start today."
Sōta unfolded the envelope. Inside lay five scuffed baseballs. "Only five?"
"Five is better than none." Haruto tossed one into the air and caught it against his palm. "Here—let me show you."
He drew back, winding his arm. The ball sailed over the empty outfield, thudding against a mossy fence seventy meters away. Haruto's eyes gleamed. "Not bad for a ghost town."
Sōta hurried to pick up stray balls. "You always throw like that?"
"Used to, before everything fell apart." Haruto wiped sweat from his brow. "I was never the superstar hitter, but I could pitch circles around anyone in my old club. Then they disbanded… and this school gave up baseball."
Sōta pocketed the ball, his expression unreadable. "You're not giving up."
Haruto's jaw clenched. "No way. I've got dreams bigger than these weeds."
From the dugout, Aoi Tanaka emerged, carrying a battered first-aid kit and a stack of peeling uniforms. Her dark hair was tied back in a neat ponytail; her green eyes shone with determination. She set the kit on the bench.
"Uniforms?" Haruto asked, surprised.
Aoi nodded. "Mr. Kanbe ordered them. He said you'd need proper gear." She paused, then slipped the first uniform into Haruto's hands. "And… good luck."
Haruto swallowed hard. "Thank you, Aoi."
Sōta cleared his throat. "Okay, so—pitching and catching practice. You pitch, I catch?"
Haruto offered Sōta the ball. "Deal."
Under the late-afternoon sun, the two friends took their positions. Haruto eyed Sōta's glove, then steadied himself. Sōta raised his mitt.
Haruto wound up and released. The ball cut through the air—faster than last time—and Sōta caught it with a sharp clap.
Silence fell, broken only by their synchronized breathing. Then Sōta lifted his head.
"You're good," he said simply.
Haruto smiled, a fierce joy blossoming in his chest. This was just the beginning—the first crack of the bat, the first catch, the first step toward something extraordinary.
Behind them, the empty field stretched wide, awaiting the sound of a team that didn't yet exist. But Haruto knew one thing for sure: come next practice, they would not stand alone.