Chapter 45: Miracle Nine

The sun was already leaning westward, casting long shadows over the dusty field behind their school. It was smaller than most, uneven, and the bases were still wooden squares painted white each week. But today—this worn field held a weight that none of them could ignore.

"Provincial qualifiers. One match left," Reina announced to the team. Her voice was calm, but her fingers trembled slightly around the clipboard. "Win, and we move forward. Lose... and the club is gone."

No one spoke. No one needed to.

They had come too far to hear those words again. Club shut down. No future. It was just a fluke. They weren't just fighting for a trophy anymore—they were fighting for the right to exist.

Coach Inoue stood by the fence, arms folded, silent as always now that he was officially not allowed to coach. But he never left the sidelines. His presence alone was its own kind of strategy.

Jun wiped his hands on his pants. "We ready?"

"Does it matter?" Takeshi muttered. "We're playing against Otaru Middle. They've got five scholarship recommendations."

"They don't have Reina," Sōta said.

A small grin spread across Jun's face. "Or Miracle Nine."

The nickname had stuck. Kids in the village whispered it during lunch. The old man who sold taiyaki near the station had even painted it on his cart. The chant had been born a few games ago, crude and off-key, but now? It was beginning to sound like a heartbeat.

Miracle Nine.

The stands weren't packed. But they were fuller.

Parents, neighbors, former players who had once worn the same patched jerseys. Old farmers who brought folding stools. Children who held up handmade signs with messy characters spelling "Haruto," "Sōta," and "Go Go Miracle."

Even the principal, arms crossed beside the board members, was watching this time. No one smiled yet. It was too early.

They were amateurs. No formal training. No dugout tech. Reina carried their stats on handwritten paper. The bats were mismatched lengths, and some of the gloves had been stitched three times over.

But when they stepped onto the field—

They looked like a team.

Haruto warmed up carefully, rotating his shoulder like he was holding something fragile between his fingers. Reina watched every motion, biting her lip.

"If it acts up again, you pull yourself out," she said, close to his ear.

He nodded.

She hesitated. Then quietly added, "We made it this far. Don't carry it alone."

The game began with silence. Not from lack of noise—but from a kind of reverence. Everyone knew this was the end of something.

Top of the first—Otaru scored a run. Fast batters. Textbook execution. Their pitcher wore a white glove and had the mechanical grace of someone who'd trained since elementary school.

But the Miracle Nine didn't flinch.

Bottom of the third—Jun stole home during a confused relay. Tie game.

By the fifth, the score was 2–2. Both teams evenly matched, but in different ways. Otaru was smooth, cold, professional. The Miracle Nine? Wild, unpredictable, loud.

Takeshi bunted then screamed as he ran the bases. It confused the catcher. Reina snorted into her clipboard.

A sharp pop fly in the sixth—Ayumu caught it after tripping over his shoelace, skidding across dirt with one cleat in the air. The crowd laughed, then cheered louder.

No one could plan their moves. Not even them.

That was their advantage.

Then came the seventh.

Haruto's pitch began to slow. Reina saw it before anyone else—his follow-through was tighter, more careful.

But Sōta didn't call for a timeout. He trusted him.

Crack.

The next batter connected.

The ball soared toward deep left.

Shigeru ran, glove up, breath caught. The sun was in his eyes.

Then—he jumped.

Silence.

The glove came down, the ball inside.

Thunder in the stands.

People were screaming. A lady dropped her bento. Kids threw confetti made from cut-up notebooks. A bicycle bell rang.

Eighth inning.

Miracle Nine led 4–3.

But Otaru was ready. Their cleanup hitter stepped up—tall, elegant, almost bored.

Haruto wiped sweat from his temple. Reina stood frozen. Her mouth was trembling. She didn't even realize she was mouthing his name.

The first pitch—curveball, outside. Ball.

Second—fast, too fast. Another ball.

Third—he took a breath. Thought of Sōta's voice from last night: "You don't have to strike him out. Just throw him off."

He pitched underhand.

Everyone gasped.

The batter wasn't ready.

He popped it—high, shallow, too soon.

Jun caught it near second base.

One out.

Next batter—swing, miss, swing, foul, swing, miss.

Two outs.

Now everything was still.

Final batter.

Reina gripped the dugout gate, whispering something under her breath. A prayer? A calculation?

Haruto looked up at the crowd. Among them—his grandfather stood, leaning on a cane, hat tilted forward.

Don't throw like a machine. Throw like you.

He threw the final pitch.

It curved—not sharp, but slow and low, like a falling leaf.

The batter hesitated.

Then swung.

The crack of the bat was sharp.

But it was a grounder.

Takeshi dove.

Caught it.

Threw.

First base.

OUT.

The umpire raised his hand.

The field didn't erupt instantly.

It was too surreal.

Then—it did.

Reina was screaming. Jun tackled Takeshi. Ayumu cried and tried to hide it by pretending dirt got in his eye. Haruto stood frozen on the mound.

It was over.

They had won.

They had qualified.

The Miracle Nine were going to provincials.

From the stands, the chant began again—off-key, out of rhythm, shouted by grandmothers and children alike:

"Mi-ra-ku-ru! Mi-ra-ku-ru!"

Haruto smiled, finally. It was a small smile. But it reached his eyes.

Reina walked over, stopping just short of the mound.

He looked at her.

She didn't say anything.

She didn't have to.

In that moment, no words were needed.

Just the sound of cheers.

Just the feeling of dirt beneath their shoes.

Just the miracle they had built, pitch by pitch.

And for the first time, they believed it too.