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508 – Good Morning, Mr. Ticket
🕑 Added 2025-09-09 15:00:14 +0000 UTC“Hit by a pitch? You mean they’ll throw at me because they’re jealous of my face?”
Kyousuke raised an eyebrow in disbelief.
“That’s right.”
Tsuchiya Ryouta wore a heavy expression.
He wasn’t trying to backhandedly compliment Kyousuke’s looks—he was genuinely worried.
If Kyousuke actually performed as well as he promised, it was almost inevitable that pitchers would start targeting him with inside pitches.
“In baseball, once a batter gets hit by a pitch, he’s automatically walked to first base. So when a pitcher faces a strong batter, sometimes they’ll just throw at him to avoid the risk of a home run.”
Tsuchiya explained patiently.
Given Kyousuke didn’t even know how to wear his uniform properly, there was no way he’d understand the finer points of the game.
Fortunately, baseball wasn’t impossible for beginners. Even athletes who’d never touched a bat could sometimes shine if they were fast enough.
“That simple?”
Kyousuke’s lips curved into a smile, as if pleasantly surprised.
“Simple?”
“Yeah. If they’re allowed to bean people, then I should be allowed too, right? I’ll just knock out their pitchers one by one. Game over. I’m pretty confident in my arm strength.”
He rolled his shoulders, looking entirely relaxed.
A rule that let you eliminate the other team with one pitch? What a convenient sport.
“Earlier, you looked so serious I thought this would be tough. Leave it to me!”
“You idiot! What are you even saying?!” Tsuchiya shouted, nearly pulling his hair out. “If everyone played like that, Koshien would be over in a week, and the sponsors wouldn’t be TV networks—they’d be hospitals!”
“This kind of reckless thinking has to be nipped in the bud!”
He launched into a long-winded scolding, sounding more like a nagging mother than a baseball captain.
“Dangerous pitches to the head will get you ejected, and almost every brawl on the field starts with a beanball.
It’s the most dishonorable thing you can do! I brought you here as our hope—you’re worth more than exchanging for a single batter! You must forget this idea immediately—”
On and on he went, desperate not to see his team’s rising star tossed from his very first game.
“I see,” Kyousuke nodded solemnly, though his mind was clearly elsewhere.
If the outfield fence wasn’t far behind the batter… maybe he could bounce a pitch off it and back at the guy?
“Relax. There’s no way I’d get hit anyway. With my reflexes and vision, I can instantly tell if a pitch is aimed at me.
If someone really does try to throw at my face, I’ll make sure my bat connects with his head before the ball ever does.”
He said this with complete sincerity.
To him, it was only natural to repay Tsuchiya’s concern with equal seriousness.
“No!! That’s even worse!” Tsuchiya practically screamed. “This is a sport! Safety comes first! Anything that hurts yourself or others is absolutely forbidden!”
His chest ached from the stress.
Was this guy really the same elegant, princely student who led the dance club? Right now he sounded like a full-blown delinquent.
Wait—hold on.
Like a bolt of lightning, the truth struck him.
This wasn’t just the two-time middle school kendo champion, the math olympiad gold medalist, the bestselling manga artist, the budding literary prodigy, and the number one ranked student at Soubu High.
This was also the infamous delinquent every student in Tokyo knew: ‘The Second Generation Handless Demon, the Rampaging Angel.’
Realization dawned, and suddenly Kyousuke’s wild “strategies” didn’t sound so out of character.
No wonder… from the moment he picked up a bat, he never thought of it as sports equipment.
Tsuchiya’s imagination spiraled—he could already picture Kyousuke on the field, smashing through the opposing lineup like some boss fight.
No, no, no! Baseball fights were supposed to be friendly brawls—you throw the bat away first!
“You can’t, Hojou! Listen to me carefully—neither the bat nor the ball can ever be used to hit people! If you really can’t control the urge to swing at someone, then take it out on me! Beat me to death if you have to, I don’t care!”
His voice shook with desperation.
Kyousuke’s eyes flickered toward the neatly lined bats in the corner, and Tsuchiya trembled even harder, not just his lips this time but his whole body.
“Tsuchiya-san, you misunderstand. I’ve never once used a bat on anyone.”
Relief washed over Tsuchiya—until Kyousuke continued.
“After all, I’m the direct disciple of Hokushin Ittō-ryū. If I used a bat, my master would scold me. I always used a bamboo sword instead.”
“Absolutely not! If you bring a bamboo sword to the field, there’s no excuse left! With a bat, at least you can pretend! With a shinai, you’re done for!”
Tsuchiya clutched his chest as if stabbed.
“Pfft, I’m kidding. I know you can’t hit people in a match. Don’t worry.”
Kyousuke clapped his shoulder reassuringly.
What a shame the captain wasn’t a cute girl.
If she were a passionate beauty desperate to reach Koshien, paired with a genius prodigy like himself, in an empty clubroom… That would be Eriri’s favorite kind of story.
“Ha… it was a joke, huh.”
Tsuchiya exhaled deeply, a weight lifted from his heart.
“Of course.”
“Right, right. A match is a match. Hitting people is for losers. Come on, let’s go practice.”
“Yeah.”
…Wait. Why did that “yeah” sound so half-hearted?
Tsuchiya froze mid-step, turning back.
Hold on.
Matches… hitting people… For someone like Kyousuke, who’d won the Thirty-Man Dare Tournament in kendo, wasn’t fighting literally the point of competition?
The captain sucked in a sharp breath.
“Come on, if we don’t hurry, we’ll miss training.” Kyousuke urged.
“Y-yeah, right… running laps, frog jumps, shuttle runs, vertical leaps…” Tsuchiya rattled off, forcing himself to move on.
Enough! He’d find out on the field soon enough.
With that thought, his spirit reignited, and anticipation bubbled up inside him.
Locking the door, Kyousuke slung his gear bag—emblazoned with bold “Soubu” characters—over his shoulder and followed Tsuchiya out to the diamond.
The bag was bulky, stuffed with all sorts of gear.
He’d be hauling it everywhere for away games too.
Unlike the rare indoor gymnasiums or concrete courts, most of Soubu High’s sports fields were plain dirt.
Even the running track was no exception.
No one really knew if the school’s sandy field existed to help students feel closer to nature, or simply because the facilities were too old and the school lacked the money to renovate.
Either way, the ground wasn’t hard—soft enough that even barefoot running didn’t hurt.
That was why, every year during the sports festival, everyone performed barefoot.
The baseball field’s dirt, however, was something special.
The mix of sand and soil had to meet exact standards, and after every practice the baseball team members spent ages grooming it—flattening the ground with tools, clearing away debris.
After all, they were the ones who would be sliding into bases face-first on that dirt.
Painful as the upkeep was, everyone took it seriously.
They had no choice—anyone who slacked off would get an earful from the upperclassmen.
At the edge of the field, Kyousuke ground his cleats lightly against the fluffy earth, trying to get used to the strange new feeling while his mind wandered.
But then—
He looked up.
The baseball team had finished their warm-up laps and were now spread out, jumping in place with their legs wide apart.
A few moments ago their uniforms had been spotless white, but already patches of reddish dirt had started to stain them.
Kyousuke frowned at his own clothes, grimacing at the thought of sweat mixing with sticky mud later on.
The sandy field had its charms, but its flaws were impossible to ignore.
On windy days, you couldn’t even open the classroom windows—dust would pour in like a storm, tormenting even the neighbours who lived around the school.
Rain was just as bad; even a light shower could shut down all outdoor classes.
No wonder Tsuchiya had earlier mentioned laundry as if it were a matter of life and death. Turns out, it practically was.
“Hey, Hojou! Hurry up!”
The sudden shout snapped Kyousuke out of his thoughts—thoughts that had already drifted as far as deciding between a Panasonic or Hitachi washing machine.
No way was he going to let some guy wash his clothes for him. For him, sponsoring his own machine was no big deal at all.
“Coming!”
He called back, jogging toward the group.
Sure, he had mild OCD and a touch of a cleanliness obsession, but he wasn’t picky to the point of being helpless.
If conditions allowed, he’d indulge his quirks; if not, he wouldn’t whine about it.
Like with food—he was selective, yes, but not demanding.
If he didn’t like something, he simply wouldn’t eat it.
If he did, he’d eat it happily, no matter how plain it was. He wasn’t picky—just particular.
As long as everyone else ended up dirty too, then technically, he was still clean.
With that thought, Kyousuke joined the lineup.
“Good morning, Hojou-senpai!”
“Morning, Hojou-kun!”
“Good morning, Hojou—”
A chorus of greetings rang out as the team paused, each member addressing him in the way they thought most fitting.
Titles varied, but the excitement on their faces was all the same.
This was their first time seeing Kyousuke on the baseball field since his application had been approved.
Finally—they were going to play baseball together!
The thought roared like a bell in every mind, making their hearts pound with anticipation.
After all, it wasn’t just Tsuchiya Ryouta who had noticed the kendo team’s changes.
The entire baseball team had gone together when they poached Hojou Kyousuke from the kendo club.
They had risked everything to bring him over.
And now, here he was.
Several members’ faces flushed red. If not for the setting, they might’ve burst out cheering on the spot.
“Good morning,” Kyousuke replied with an easy smile, calling out each member’s name one by one.
The players froze mid-introduction, stunned.
None of them had expected him to already know who they were.
But Kyousuke just smiled faintly. Of course he knew.
He never did anything without preparation.
He’d even had Kisaki and Ousaka collect information before award ceremonies, let alone for teammates he’d be aiming for Koshien with.
He didn’t just know their names—he even knew how many girlfriends they’d had back in middle school.
If he hadn’t firmly forbidden it, Kisaki would’ve happily delivered a dossier of everyone’s darkest secrets.
“With this kind of info, Boss, you could control the whole team in an instant,” Kisaki had once said.
But then, almost as quickly, he’d shrugged. “Not that you’d ever need it, of course. Annoying stuff like that—better leave it to me.”
Looking around now at all the eager, glowing faces, Kyousuke felt a rare warmth in his chest.
He was a good person after all—protecting his teammates’ happiness from Kisaki’s prying hands.
The mood was soaring when suddenly—
“Good morning, Mr. Koshien Ticket!”
Kyousuke’s smile faltered, but before he could respond, the whole team burst out laughing.
“Good morning, Mr. Koshien Ticket!”
Voices rang out as the uniformed boys shouted in unison, not even trying to hide their ambition—or their faith in him.
“Morning, Ticket-kun!”
With Hojou Kyousuke, they had their ticket to Koshien.
That was the line that had convinced everyone to raid the kendo club for him, and it had stuck. Privately, they’d been calling him “Ticket-kun” ever since.
Far from being an insult, it was the greatest sign of respect.
He was the one who held their dreams in his hands—the one who had to fight if they wanted to set foot in Koshien.
“Hahaha—”
Kyousuke laughed too, their honesty lifting his spirits.
Being relied on wasn’t scary. What was scary was being relied on by people who didn’t value you.
“All right, training starts now! Whatever else you’ve got to say, save it for tonight’s party!”
Clapping his hands, Captain Tsuchiya Ryouta brought the excitement back down to order.
“Yes, sir!”
After that the training resumed.
Baseball wasn’t just intense—it demanded strength and precision from every muscle group. Without proper warmups, injuries could be disastrous.
Even bodies forged through endless drills needed to be heated up before they could give their all.
Kyousuke stretched diligently with the rest.
But something odd happened.
Members of the kendo team, who had finished their laps earlier, wandered over to join the exercises, lining up alongside them.
Finally, when the basic drills were complete, the baseball players formed a circle—every eye locked onto the boy in the center gripping a bat.
Their Koshien Ticket was about to swing.
