Chapter 44: Roots and Rivalry

The sound of the bus engine hummed through the early morning silence, cutting through the misty countryside like a forgotten echo of something bigger. Inside, the Miracle Nine sat quietly—some dozing, some staring out at rice fields blurring past, others clenching their knees with silent nerves. They were headed toward Shinjō Middle, one of the best-ranked schools in the region, for their last match before the provincial qualification round.

"Why does this always feel like a final exam?" Jun muttered, arms crossed, looking forward. "Except this time, everyone's watching you fail."

"Because you never studied for exams either," Takeshi smirked, trying to lighten the mood.

Reina stood at the front of the bus, clipboard in hand. "Fifteen minutes. When we arrive, stretch immediately. Coach won't be there today, so do it right. Or I'll make you do it twice."

She didn't raise her voice—but the tone was sharper than usual. Everyone straightened a little.

Haruto sat near the back, eyes half-closed, earphones in but no music playing. His shoulder wasn't hurting today. Not much. But he still wouldn't pitch the full innings.

He wasn't scared of pain. He was scared of what it would cost.

Outside, the city grew closer—buildings rising like stadium lights through fog. They were about to play a team that had a real budget, a real stadium, a real legacy.

And the Miracle Nine? They still wore secondhand uniforms.

As they stepped off the bus, someone from the opposing school shouted from across the parking lot.

"Hey—where's your tractor? Thought the farm team would ride in on hay bales."

A few laughs followed. They weren't loud. But they were sharp.

The boys looked over. Three Shinjō players stood near the fence, smug in their pressed uniforms and matching cleats.

Jun took a step forward. Sōta blocked him with one arm.

"Let it go," he muttered. "We didn't come here to talk."

Takeshi laughed under his breath. "Didn't know city kids still used farmer jokes."

Haruto stayed quiet. He felt it—under the skin. Not anger. Not yet.

But something old and familiar. That burning hum of I'll show you.

The stands were fuller than usual. Maybe because Shinjō's team had local popularity. Or maybe because the "Miracle Nine" had become more than just a rumor.

Still, the crowd was lopsided. A sea of white and blue uniforms cheering for Shinjō. Only a tiny section near the first base line held their people—townsfolk with wrinkled hats and worn-out flags. Reina sat there too, watching every movement with that quiet focus she'd honed.

By the third inning, the Miracle Nine were behind 2–0.

Haruto hadn't pitched yet. Ayumu took the mound early, doing his best to slow the hits. Shinjō's batters were fast. Disciplined. Their swings weren't wild like countryside teams—they were measured, almost surgical.

Jun missed a grounder in the fourth inning. One run in.

In the fifth, a double steal broke through Ayumu's concentration. Another run.

Reina watched from the stands, expression unreadable.

At the bottom of the fifth, the Miracle Nine finally scored.

Takeshi hit a line drive that bounced off the outfielder's glove. He ran for third, screaming as if trying to will himself forward. The crowd laughed—but the laughter shifted when he made it.

Haruto stood in the on-deck circle, bat in hand.

Someone in the Shinjō crowd jeered: "Don't trip on the dirt roads!"

He paused.

Then smiled. Just a flicker.

He stepped up to the plate.

The pitcher wound up.

The first pitch came inside—almost brushing his jersey.

Haruto didn't flinch.

Second pitch—fastball, low.

He connected.

A crack echoed across the field. The ball soared past the second baseman, landing in shallow right.

Takeshi scored.

Their section of the crowd erupted—small, but loud. Kids waving paper flags. An old man blew a plastic whistle like it was a trumpet.

Haruto didn't look at the stands.

But Reina, notebook open in her lap, wrote two words down beside his name:

> "Didn't flinch."

The next few innings blurred.

Sōta made a diving catch in the outfield. Jun stole second. The team moved not like professionals, but like brothers covering each other's flaws.

Still, Shinjō was relentless.

By the bottom of the seventh, they were ahead again—4–2.

And Haruto finally stepped onto the mound.

The crowd hushed.

Everyone knew he was the soul of the Miracle Nine. Rumors swirled—about his shoulder, about why he hadn't pitched yet.

He adjusted his cap. Looked at Sōta behind the plate. Their eyes met.

Sōta gave a single nod.

The first pitch was wild—high and outside.

Murmurs ran through the crowd.

But Haruto didn't shake his head. He just inhaled, then threw again.

The second pitch—curveball, tight and fast—caught the edge of the strike zone.

"Strike!" the umpire barked.

Shinjō's dugout tensed.

The next batter stepped in. Confidence flickering slightly.

Haruto squinted, remembering something his grandfather once said:

> "You don't have to throw like a machine. You just have to throw like you."

He threw a splitter.

The batter swung.

Missed.

Strikeout.

The next came up. A cleanup hitter. Taller. Calm.

The wind picked up slightly.

Reina clutched her clipboard tighter.

Haruto adjusted his stance.

Fastball.

Crack.

Line drive—center field.

Ayumu dove—missed.

Runner on first.

The crowd roared. The mood shifted again.

Haruto didn't speak. He just turned back to the mound.

One more.

He pitched slow.

Not weak—just slow enough to bait the batter.

The hit came.

Ground ball to short.

Jun scooped, threw to second—Takeshi pivoted—threw to first.

Double play.

The crowd—all of it—stood in surprise.

Silence for a beat.

Then: scattered applause. Even from the Shinjō side.

Not loud. Not overwhelming.

But real.

In the dugout, Sōta sat beside Haruto. Sweat soaked through both their jerseys.

"You okay?" Sōta asked, not looking at him.

Haruto nodded.

"You almost smiled."

"I'm still losing," Haruto replied.

Sōta shrugged. "Doesn't mean we lost."

They didn't win that game.

Final score: 4–3.

But they walked off that field standing straight. And this time, even the rival players didn't mock them.

As they packed up, one of Shinjō's pitchers passed Haruto near the gate.

He paused.

"Your pitch," he said. "It doesn't move like the others."

Haruto blinked. "Thanks."

The boy hesitated, then added: "It moves like it means something."

Then he was gone.

---

Back on the bus, the team was silent.

Not in shame.

But in thought.

They were closer than ever to provincial-level play.

And for the first time—they weren't seen as jokes.

As they rolled out of the city, past polished fields and bright lights, the countryside returned—quiet, open, raw.

And still… full of something.

Reina looked back at the boys through the aisle.

Her notebook rested on her lap.

On the top page, a new word:

> "Belonging."

Because no matter what the scoreboard said—

This team had started believing they deserved to be on that field.

And that belief?

It was worth more than a thousand points.