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509 – Killer Baseball, It’s Just a Game
🕑 Added 2025-09-10 16:04:13 +0000 UTCIn almost every anime set in high school, baseball makes an appearance sooner or later.
Kids can be found playing pick-up games of baseball on any vacant lot.
At that age, they don’t even fully grasp what a nation is, much less harbor some slavish admiration for foreign countries.
In this abstract era, in a country as bizarre as Japan, anything can become a trend.
But whether that trend fades like a passing breeze or endures for decades depends on its intrinsic value.
Sports have two essential qualities: use and enjoyment. Health, discipline, social bonds—those are just side benefits.
Kendo, sailing, track, wrestling, swimming—these don’t need explaining.
Even if you don’t formally train in them, you encounter their movements in daily life.
Chess, soccer, badminton—these belong to the second category, codified into sports after centuries as simple pastimes.
And then there’s baseball. Even the word itself carries a sense of dreams, youth, and passion.
Players sobbing on the field after a loss, teammates leaning on one another as they sweat and fight for victory…
That’s what people mean when they say sports build character: helping your comrades, craving victory, enduring hardship, stubborn perseverance, endless effort.
All of it can be seen at Koshien.
But in the end, those qualities are the athletes’ personal rewards.
What about the spectators?
No audience, no attention.
No attention, no sponsors.
No sponsors, and the sport vanishes into history.
So how do you get spectators?
Simple: make it fun.
That’s the entire secret. Baseball is fun.
Fun enough that kids spend their precious free time swinging bats.
Fun enough that players never tire of honing their skills.
Fun enough that fans actually want to watch.
“It’s the perfect blend of individual heroics and teamwork. One hero can lead the whole team to victory, but teamwork can also bring down that hero.”
“I once heard someone say: ‘Soccer is round, so anything can happen.’”
“Bullshit!” Tsuchiya Ryota slammed his bat into the dirt with a snarl.
“Baseball is the real ‘anything can happen’ sport. You never know the outcome until the last moment.
Remember this, Hojou—if you’re strong enough, even if you can’t drag your team to victory, you can still drag the enemy into the abyss of extra innings!
If we can’t win with skill, then we’ll show them our resolve.
Even if we collapse dead on the field, we’ll never let them beat us easily!”
“...”
Kyousuke’s mouth hung open.
He really wanted to ask how Ryota managed to say something so pathetic in such a terrifyingly intense voice.
Right now, Tsuchiya Ryota was explaining the rules of baseball to Hojou. The other members sat around, listening in silence.
They already knew the rules inside and out, but they still paid attention—not only because Ryota would smack them if they didn’t, but also because this directly affected Hojou’s role on the team, and how they’d all need to coordinate with him.
“Baseball has offense and defense. Hojou, guess which side is offense—the one holding the ball, or the one holding the bat?”
“The bat, obviously.”
Kyousuke answered without hesitation, thinking Ryota was actually pretty sharp.
From his perspective, the one throwing the ball at people looked more like the attacker, while the guy just standing there swinging at it seemed more defensive.
Still, in terms of sheer weapon power, the bat clearly looked more offensive.
“Exactly. Baseball’s rules are simple: hit hard, run hard!
The field has home plate, first, second, and third base.
Think of it like Dragon Quest: the batter is the hero, the defense are the demon lord’s minions, and the bases are treasure vaults.
When the hero smacks the ball away, he earns the key to storm the castle and move toward the treasure.
The farther and higher he hits it, the better the key.
A weak hit only gets him to the first treasure vault—first base.
But reaching a base doesn’t mean you’ve scored.
You still have to escape the castle with the treasure.
If the demon lord’s minions cut you down along the way, it’s game over.
So the hero must run the full course—first, second, third, and back to home plate—to score and escape the castle alive.”
“Hey, Captain, that’s not Dragon Quest. Sounds more like bandits raiding a village,” someone snickered.
“Shut up! You get the idea!” Ryota glared.
Did they have any idea how long it took him to come up with this metaphor?
It was good enough for an educational video!
“So basically, you hit the ball, run a lap, and that’s how you score, right?” Kyousuke summarized.
“Exactly.”
Ryota nodded, then continued:
“But like I said, it’s a demon lord’s castle. Obviously, the minions won’t just let the hero walk off with the treasure. Every base, including home plate, has defenders. They’ll do everything they can to take you out.
At the start of a game, there are ten players on the field—nine defenders, one attacker.
‘That’s why I call it Dragon Quest.’
Compared to the overwhelming defense, the lone batter looks weak.
And every defender has the power to take you out, as long as they’ve got the ball in hand.”
“Still, no amount of explanation beats trying it yourself. You’ll be the batter. We’ll teach you as we practice.”
Clapping his hands, Ryota wrapped up his lecture.
Kyousuke put on a batting helmet—the batter’s special gear, designed to protect his head from getting smashed.
And really, this was why the sport endured: helmets were non-negotiable.
No helmets, no players left alive to keep playing.
The baseball diamond was shaped like a ninety-degree fan—a quarter circle.
The batter stood at the center, swinging the ball into the fan-shaped field.
Anything outside the edges counted as out of bounds.
Ryota crouched nearby in full catcher’s gear.
Not for teaching purposes—this was actually his position.
In Japan, the pitcher was always the star, but the catcher was just as vital, commanding the field with strategy and sharp judgment.
“Hojou, don’t swing at the first three pitches,” he called out.
Important note: just because the catcher and batter were standing close together didn’t mean they were allies.
Quite the opposite.
The catcher’s job was to analyze the batter’s weaknesses and, using coded signals, guide the pitcher to exploit them.
In baseball, it’s common to see the catcher squatting behind the batter, one hand tucked between his legs, fingers twitching like crazy.
That’s the secret code.
For example, if he thinks the batter’s an airheaded idiot who swings at everything, he’ll signal the pitcher to throw garbage pitches, baiting the fool into striking out.
That’s why baseball is the perfect fusion of individual heroics and teamwork.
Sure, an unstoppable pitcher can single-handedly crush the enemy lineup.
But even a mediocre pitcher can beat batters with the catcher’s brains backing him up.
“Mm.” Kyousuke didn’t say much.
He just nodded, raised his bat, and stood perfectly still.
Someone had already shown him the proper batting stance earlier, but when it came to how to grip and swing, he preferred to rely on his own instincts.
The pitcher raised his left leg and let the ball fly.
Slow—deliberately so, since this was just practice for Hojou.
Kyousuke didn’t move an inch.
His grip on the bat was steady, unshaken.
Ryota caught the ball cleanly, and the makeshift umpire behind them clenched his fist: strike.
“I remember in kendo, there’s the concept of maai—the perfect distance, right? One step, one cut. Baseball has something similar.
In front of the batter, there’s a zone called the strike zone. It’s the space above home plate, between your knees and the top of your chest when standing naturally.”
Kyousuke glanced down at home plate by his right foot and nodded, showing he understood.
“This is the sweet spot for you. People think ‘strike’ is good for the pitcher, but really, it’s good for the batter. The pitcher is basically serving you something easy to hit. That’s why it’s called a strike.
But if a pitcher throws a strike and you fail to hit it—that’s his victory. A clean, fair, gentlemanly duel. That’s how I see it.”
Listening to Ryota’s serious explanation, Kyousuke nodded again.
It did sound convincing.
“Of course, if the ball misses that zone, it’s a ball. Then the duel isn’t fair anymore, and it counts as a win for you. But only if you don’t swing. If you swing at a bad ball, then you’re accepting an unfair duel—you lose, he wins.”
“Alright. Next pitch, you decide whether to swing.”
As Ryota said this, he wiggled his bare right hand between his legs, flashing the signal.
Kyousuke’s eyes sharpened instantly.
His expression didn’t change, but the look in his eyes was completely different.
‘Huh?!’
On the mound, Fujikawa Masatake froze.
Wasn’t he supposed to throw three straight strikes so Hojou could experience striking out?
Why was the captain calling for a breaking ball on the second pitch?!
He looked up again—and nearly dropped the ball.
That stare.
Was Hojou planning to kill him?
Behind the helmet, Kyousuke’s eyes burned like ghostly flames, locked on him with lethal intent.
It was as if those eyes were whispering: If you dare throw that ball, I’ll cut both you and it in half.
Masatake swallowed hard.
His glove felt stiff as iron, the ball suddenly heavy as lead.
Come on, this was ridiculous.
He’d been playing baseball since elementary school.
He’d seen his share of tough guys, sure. But had he ever seen eyes like that?
No. He was certain—never.
He’d fought plenty of times. Back in the day, brawls over field space were practically weekly.
He’d even thrown punches during official matches.
But he’d never, ever seen someone radiate the vibe of, Before the ball hits me, I’ll smash your skull with this bat.
In his mind, the captain’s earlier words echoed.
‘It was just a joke. ‘
That’s what Ryota had said. But was it really?
Kyousuke himself had dismissed it as a bluff. But was it really?
The other members of the team knew the truth.
They’d seen him in the kendo club, single-handedly brawling against dozens.
The way he fought—like some demon lord from the Warring States era—left no room for doubt.
If he said he’d beat you to death with a bat, you believed him.
Would you dare treat his words as a joke?
Seeing Masatake hesitate, Ryota assumed he hadn’t caught the signal.
So he frantically twitched his fingers again. Ninja country, indeed.
Even a high school catcher could single-handedly form seals, controlling nine puppets on the field.
Masatake trembled, forcing a smile as he nodded toward Kyousuke.
‘Please, sir, get ready. I’ll… I’ll throw it now.’
Kyousuke, fully focused, blinked in surprise, then nodded back with a faint smile.
‘Shit! Don’t smile like that! You look like you’re giving me my last rites!’
That devilish grin only made Masatake panic more.
For the first time in his career, the pitcher famous for “perfectly following the catcher’s calls” defied orders.
He went with a fastball.
For a man like Kyousuke, a straightforward gentleman deserved nothing less than a straightforward pitch.
Decision made, Masatake lifted his left leg, swung his arm, and hurled the ball.
Huh? Same as before?
Kyousuke’s eyes tracked it, his mind calculating trajectory, speed, spin.
The answer: an ordinary fastball. Around 125 km/h, heading for the top-right corner of the strike zone.
His conclusion: How far should I hit it? How high? Who’s going to fetch the ball afterward?
He raised his bat like a blade, body shifting into something resembling the hasso-no-kamae stance from kendo.
‘Can I cut it?’
