Chapter 17: Hit or Be Forgotten
Coach Yoshida didn't ask.
He just handed Aarav a uniform.
No name.
No number.
Just a plain white jersey and navy cap.
"The club is short one player," he said.
"You'll bat seventh."
Aarav stared at the fabric.
He hadn't worn a uniform in months.
Not since Delhi.
Not since his name had been loud enough to echo in headlines.
This one was silent.
And somehow… heavier.
He didn't say yes.
Didn't say no either.
He just showed up.
The field was smaller than he was used to.
Worn grass.
Faded bases.
A scoreboard that still used plastic numbers and hooks.
But the sky?
The same wide blue.
His teammates didn't know who he was.
Just a tall kid from the other side of the station.
Quiet.
Polite.
"New guy," one of them said, smiling.
"Don't choke," another joked.
He smiled back.
Didn't promise anything.
Yoshida didn't give a pep talk.
Didn't offer strategy.
Just looked at him once before the game started and said:
"You don't have to prove anything.
Just swing when you want to."
The innings blurred.
He watched from the dugout.
The first batter struck out.
The second grounded out.
The third reached first base.
Small plays.
No pressure.
Just rhythm.
Then came his turn.
Bottom of the fourth.
Bases empty.
Two outs.
The pitcher looked barely older than seventeen — wide shoulders, slow windup.
Aarav stepped in.
Hands tight on the bat.
His heartbeat wasn't racing.
It was steady.
He took a deep breath.
Ball one — wide.
No swing.
Ball two — strike.
He watched it go.
Someone in the stands clapped half-heartedly.
He adjusted his feet.
The dirt felt different.
Firmer.
Surer.
Ball three.
He swung.
It was clean.
Not loud.
But solid.
The ball bounced past second base.
He blinked.
It rolled into the outfield.
Someone shouted, "Run!"
And he did.
Shoes kicking dust.
Nothing graceful.
Nothing dramatic.
Just motion.
He reached first base.
Safe.
Hands on his knees.
Breath uneven.
And for the first time in months—
He smiled.
Not because he hit.
But because nothing inside him collapsed.
The inning ended two plays later.
He jogged back to the dugout.
Someone slapped his back.
Another handed him water.
No one asked his name.
No one cared.
And that felt… like freedom.
He sat down.
Looked toward the field.
Yoshida nodded once from across the fence.
No smile.
Just acknowledgment.
And that was more than enough.
Hana arrived late.
She sat in the far corner, by the third base line.
Didn't cheer.
Just watched.
The way she always did.
After the game, Aarav peeled off the jersey slowly.
Folded it.
Placed it back in Yoshida's bag.
"Thanks," he said.
Yoshida grunted.
"You're too stiff at the knees," he said.
"But you see the ball."
Aarav nodded.
"Will you come again?"
Aarav paused.
Then asked, "If I don't hit next time?"
Yoshida raised an eyebrow.
"Then you don't."
Aarav smiled.
"I like that."
As he walked home, cleats in one hand, cap tucked into his hoodie, he felt something shift inside.
Not like redemption.
Not like return.
Something simpler.
Like weight lifted.
Like a page turned.
Outside his door, there was no bento.
Just a folded note, taped to the wall.
In Hana's handwriting:
Saw you run.
Didn't cheer.
But I didn't need to.
You didn't need the noise this time.
He sat on the floor, opened his journal.
Wrote:
Today, I swung.
Not for applause.
Not for memory.
Just to hear the sound of contact.
Then wrote:
And it was enough.