June has arrived, marking the midpoint of the season. It's becoming apparent which teams are thriving and which are floundering. Unfortunately, our Shizuoka Oceans are once again anchoring the bottom of the league.
Several factors contribute to our dismal performance: the three new foreign hitters the team splurged on are all batting below .100, ace pitcher Kuruzawa is out for the season with an injury, last year's star closer Johnson left for family reasons, his successor Ataka has been a disaster, and we have a dire shortage of reliable relievers.
But the biggest reason? I'm not on the first team. That's what I want to hear someday.
I'm stuck as a backup on the second team. Taniguchi, who joined the team with me, is already the second team's cleanup hitter and has smashed 12 home runs.
However, the nighttime training sessions with Coach Yamashiro have gradually boosted my confidence. Practicing on the dimly lit riverbank, I've developed the habit of keeping my eyes on the ball and tracking its bounce to the very end.
Next, we started practicing throws, aiming for a 20-centimeter circle painted on a post representing first base. Now, instead of paying 10,000 yen for ten balls, it's 10,000 yen if I make an error or my throw is off target.
"Do you understand? You now owe 5.21 million yen."
"I know. If you don't turn me into a top player, it'll all be for nothing."
"That's why I'm training you, a guy with no natural talent. I want to see you become a regular player one day."
Recently, my savings ran out, and I can no longer afford even the 10,000 yen a day, but Coach Yamashiro still joins me for practice every night.
Even when it rains and I expect a day off, Coach Yamashiro shows up at my room.
"Hey, utility man. We're practicing in the rain today."
"Won't it be canceled if it rains?"
"You idiot, games go on in light rain. For guys like you, one error can be fatal, so days like this are perfect for practice."
Coach Yamashiro has become more enthusiastic about my training than I am.
"Wasn't it a waste of time to train someone like me?" I once asked him on our way back from practice.
With a grumpy look, he replied, "You don't have an ounce of sense, but you're the biggest idiot of all. If you were smart, you could make a living doing something else, but you're so stupid you'd starve without baseball. That's why I volunteer. Not for you, but for the world."
After being called stupid so much, I started to wonder if I really was. Yet, thanks to the nighttime training, I hardly made any errors in minor league games. My defensive skills had improved dramatically.
In July, Takeshita, who was drafted third, was demoted to the second team again. He had been promoted to the first team after batting over .300 in the minors but struggled with fastballs in the majors, hitting just .157 in 35 games. He stole 11 bases but was caught seven times, so his success rate was low.
Takeshita, not very sociable, practiced and played silently in the minors, barely interacting with other players. Even when others hit, he gave only token applause. Pitcher Iijima, older than Takeshita, integrated better, taking the mound with a nonchalant expression and shouting with vigor when his turn was over.
In late July, there's a Fresh All-Star event for promising young players. Though in different leagues, my high school teammates Yamazaki and Hirai will be participating. Of those who joined the team with me, Taniguchi was naturally chosen, but I wasn't called up. This allowed me to focus on intensive training with Coach Yamashiro even during the game.
And so, the season reached August.
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