In May, the three new players who made the opening day first team squad each hit the hurdle of becoming a professional player.
First-round draft pick pitcher Sugisawa started off as expected, winning three straight games to begin the season. However, in the fourth game, he gave up five runs in the third inning and took the loss. Just the other day, he gave up four runs in the middle of the fourth inning, suffering his second loss.
Sugisawa is a pitcher with a wide variety of pitches and pinpoint control, but professional batters will not let a single ball slip by, even if it is just slightly off-target.
Seeing balls that I thought were unhittable being hit back so easily left me overwhelmed by the high level of skill.
Pitcher Iijima, who was drafted sixth, was also hitting the wall as a professional.
He often pitched in games where the score was already lopsided, but he had given up home runs in each of the last three games.
Iijima throws underhand, and because his pitches lack speed, they tend to fly when the bat connects.
At first, even professional batters were confused by the ball's irregular movements, a result of his unique form. But once they got used to it, they found it to be an easy pitch to hit.
Outfielder Takeshita, the only new recruit to remain on the first team and a regular starter since the beginning of the season, was also hitting the wall of professional baseball.
He had three hits in the opening game, and in the next game, he got on base three times in five at-bats with one hit and two walks, also stealing a base. It seemed like he was off to a good start, but his weaknesses soon became apparent.
He is extremely weak against fastballs.
While he could hit fastballs and curveballs in the 140 km/h range, he struggled completely against pitches over 150 km/h.
Furthermore, as a leadoff hitter, his batting eye was not very good, and he increasingly swung at difficult pitches early in the count, resulting in weak hits and strikeouts.
Issues also became apparent in terms of base running.
He was fast on the bases but lacked the quick acceleration to reach top speed. During our personal training, I noticed he left me behind at the end of a 50-meter sprint, though I was faster at the start.
In other words, when running between first and second base, he stopped before reaching top speed, unable to make full use of his speed.
There were also issues with sliding.
From the start of the season, he was the leadoff hitter and started in every game for the first 20 games, but his batting average hovered around .200, and his success rate in stealing bases was only around 60%. Gradually, he started appearing in the starting lineup less and less.
His defensive range wasn't particularly wide, and his throwing arm wasn't particularly strong.
This made it difficult to use him as a defensive replacement, and recently he has been used more as a pinch runner.
In May, he got a chance to start as the ninth batter and left fielder for the first time in a while, but he struck out four times in four at-bats and was demoted to the second team the next day.
When I met Takeshita at the practice field for the first time in a while, he was clearly in a bad mood and ignored me when I greeted him.
However, in the minor leagues, he showed his class, getting three hits in five at-bats in his first game, and continued to hit steadily after that, returning to the major leagues within two weeks.
Then pitcher Iijima was demoted to the second team.
He pitched in nine games, with a record of 1 win and 0 losses and an ERA of 13.50.
The win came when he pitched in a game where his team was behind 5-7. After pitching a scoreless inning, his team came back in the bottom of the inning.
He did well at first, but then he started getting hit, and yesterday, he gave up four runs without recording an out while trailing 3-7, and was removed from the first-team roster.
Pitcher Iijima was the oldest of the new players but was cheerful even during his individual training. Despite being ten years older than us high school graduates, he spoke to us in a friendly manner.
However, after being demoted to the second team, Iijima was visibly depressed, making it difficult to approach him.
When he saw me at the practice field, he raised his hand weakly and came over.
"Long time no see."
"Hey, you're doing your best. The first team players are amazing. I couldn't get through at all."
"But you did a good job of keeping it under control at the beginning."
"Well, I guess I just missed the ball. Toward the end, it felt like no matter where I threw it, they would hit it."
"Are the first-team batters really that good?"
"They are amazing. If I stray even slightly from my weak spot, they hit it right on target."
In fact, pitcher Iijima gave up the first professional home run to a player who had played in nearly 1,000 games but had zero career home runs.
"Unless I improve my control, I won't make it to the top. Well, I'll try again," Iijima said, as if convincing himself.
The minor league team has one defensive and baserunning coach for the infield and one for the outfield.
I played shortstop in high school, but after turning pro, I was instructed to practice playing second base as well.
The second baseman and shortstop are adjacent positions, but the speed of the batted ball and the backup positions when hitting an infield grounder are different.
When a ground ball is hit to first base, the timing is crucial as the runner has to reach first base.
Coach Yamashiro, the infield defense and baserunning coach, spent a long time as a reserve infielder during his playing career and never reached the required number of at-bats.
He had been away from baseball for about ten years since his retirement but was appointed coach of the second team last season.
Rumor has it that he was good friends with coach Daijiro Tanaka during his playing days and was called through that connection.
Perhaps because of this, he was always seen checking on the second-team manager. He had a reputation for being enthusiastic about coaching players who had some experience in the first team and promising young players who were high draft picks, but was cold towards other players.
I don't know what it was about me that bothered him, but he was particularly cold towards me.
Even during practice, when there was a full team practice or the second-team manager was present, he would hit ground balls to me as well. But at other times, when I asked him, he refused, seeming like it was too much trouble.
He constantly provided enthusiastic instruction to Uchizawa, who was the first pick in the draft two years ago.
With no experience as a coach, he seemed to want to make a name for himself by developing promising young players.
Indeed, although Uchizawa is only in his third year after graduating from high school, his batting skills are already said to be at first-team level. He was promoted to the first team last year, his second year, and hit three home runs in just 20 games at the end of the season.
If he can be developed to first-team level, especially addressing his defensive issues, it would be a great achievement.
After practice, I asked any available team staff, such as the bullpen catcher or equipment handlers, to help with some practice hits.
However, compared to Coach Yamashiro's hits, their hits were slower and not much of a practice.
To be honest, when I joined the team, I thought I would be looked after for about five years as a high school graduate.
However, one day, after hearing Coach Yamashiro's talk, I was reminded once again how naive my thinking was.
It happened in the dormitory dining hall.
There was a small social gathering that day, and beer and alcohol were served.
Of course, I was underage, and neither Mitamura, who was drafted fourth, could drink alcohol, so we drank oolong tea.
Coach Yamashiro, who looked rather tipsy, strolled by with a beer glass in hand. I grabbed a nearby beer bottle and topped off his glass. He took a swig, flashed a mischievous grin, and said:
"Well, well, look who it is, the utility man himself. Heard you're going to give the outfield a try next. Quite the versatile player, aren't you?"
"I hadn't heard about that."
"Yeah, it was still under wraps."
"I've barely ever played outfield. There must be some mistake."
"That doesn't matter. You were brought on to fill the roster, not as a key player."
Annoyance flared up inside me. "What do you mean by that?"
"Listen, in pro ball, even the minor league teams have to field complete lineups. When the big league team gets hit with injuries, it creates gaps in the farm team roster. That's why we draft utility players like you to plug those holes. You're essentially a backup for the backups. Look at Taniguchi. He's being groomed for a starting spot, so he stays in his primary position."
Taniguchi wasn't at this meeting. I had dinner with a prominent first-team player who had been sent down for more development. Lately, Taniguchi had been dining out with senior players rather than at the dorm, often skipping evening drills. The way people treated him was entirely different from how they treated me. Senior players chatted with Taniguchi all the time, but they barely spoke to me, and I never got invited to join them for meals.
"Do your best," Coach Yamashiro said with a loud laugh, taking the beer with him.
A backup for the backups? Director Tanaka Daijiro said he had high expectations of me. But my usage didn't align with that. In minor league games, I was mostly a pinch hitter or defensive replacement, never a starter. And it was frustrating to admit, but my performance wasn't first-team material.
That night, frustration kept me awake. I got up and headed downstairs for a shower. Despite it being past two in the morning, the lights in the training room were still on. I peeked inside and saw Taniguchi intensely practicing his swing. His serious expression and sharp focus were unlike anything I'd seen before. I had thought Taniguchi was slacking off, enjoying the senior players' company. But watching his intense practice, I felt ashamed of my assumptions.
Clearly, Taniguchi was learning from the veterans and compensating for missed practice time by training alone at night. A talent like him, with high expectations from both the team and fans, still put in unseen hours of hard work. I realized beating someone like that required more than just effort.
After group and individual practice, we had free time. Starting the next day, I decided to go for a run outside. I couldn't just sit idly. I began by practicing fielding against the railing of a nearby riverbed. The rocky ground made the ball's bounce unpredictable, helping me improve my reflexes and handling of irregular plays.
An hour or so into my practice, I sensed someone behind me. It was Coach Yamashiro, heading back to the dorm from a convenience store, a plastic bag with a beer and snacks hanging from his hand.
With his usual smirk, he said, "Why are you fooling around with that wall, Mr. Utility man? Glad you have the time."
I ignored him.
"Hey, don't ignore me. Here, let me hit some grounders for you."
Surprised, I said, "Yes, please."
Coach Yamashiro smirked nastily. "Just kidding, We're out of time right now. Well, good luck with your wall drills. Who knows if they'll help."
"I'll pay you overtime."
He couldn't help but blurt out. "Huh? What are you talking about?"
"I'll pay you overtime, so please hit some grounders."
The smile vanished from his face. "Don't be ridiculous. I'm a professional. You can't buy my time so easily."
"How about 10,000 yen for ten balls?"
He looked agitated. "It's not about the money. It's a waste of time to hit grounders for you."
"Hmm, you're not confident?"
"What?"
"Even the worst coach can develop promising young players. A competent coach should be able to turn someone like me into a first-team player."
"Hmph, I won't fall for that."
"So that's why you were second-rate in your playing days."
His face turned red. "Say that again."
"So that's why you were second-rate in your playing days."
"Who do you think you're talking to?"
"Yamashiro, a second-rate player and a third-rate coach. But fourth-rate as a person."
He stepped closer, face flushed. "Are you looking for a fight? You've never made the first team, you're a handyman for the second team, and you'll be cut in a few years."
"I know that. That's why I need your help."
"It's pointless. Without talent, hard work won't matter. Besides, you're only making the minimum salary."
"That's right. So I'll only pay you 10,000 yen now. I'll pay you more once I make the first team."
"That's an empty promise. There's no way you'll make the first team. Know your place."
I knelt on the ground. "Please. If I continue like this, I'll be cut in two or three years. So please."
"Hmph, this is ridiculous. I don't have time for you," he said, ignoring my plea and walking away.
Feeling miserable, I resumed hitting the wall. Tears of frustration welled up. This wouldn't make me better. I knew that. But what else could I do?
Yamashiro may not have had a stellar playing career, but because of experience he is great at hitting grounders. The hits were sharp and intentionally unpredictable, making for excellent practice.
Despite knowing it was futile, I kept at it. Throw as hard as I could, then sprint to field it. I repeated the process. Suddenly, I heard a voice behind me.
"Hey, utility man."
It was Coach Yamashiro, holding a bat and a bucket of practice balls.
"I'll indulge your nonsense. 10,000 yen for 10 pitches. You can pay me more once you're promoted and get a raise. In return, you need to pay the 10,000 yen in cash."
I quickly handed him 10,000 yen from my wallet, leaving only coins behind.
The riverbank was dimly lit by city lights and scattered street lamps, making it hard to see the ball. This made Yamashiro's knocks even tougher to track than in daylight. The rocks added to the challenge, causing unpredictable bounces. By the end of the hundred balls, I was exhausted, having properly fielded only about 30.
"Is that all? Do you think this will get you to the first team?"
I struggled to my feet, picked up the balls, and refilled the bucket. Meanwhile, Yamashiro smoked and watched the city lights.
"One more round, please."
I set the bucket down at his feet.
"That's right. You talked a big game."
He took another hundred balls. No rest, just relentless knocks. When the bucket was empty again, I was panting and sprawled on the ground.
"Clean up. See you tomorrow," he said, "This makes 200 balls. You have a debt of 190,000 yen you'll have to pay it back."
The next day, I headed to the riverbank with my bat and ball. Yamashiro was there, smoking.
"Good to see you. I thought you'd be too exhausted from yesterday. First off, 10,000 yen."
I handed over the money I had withdrawn from the bank. Considering my salary, 10,000 yen was significant. But if I didn't improve, I'd be out in a few years. With that perspective, it wasn't a waste. As long as I had the money, I'd take private lessons from Yamashiro.
By the time I finally got used to his grounders, June had already arrived.
A/N:
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