I was on the bench for the team's final game against the Chukyo Pearls. In the bottom of the ninth inning, with the score at 3-4, two outs, and no runners on base, our cleanup hitter, Thomas Lawrie, hit a single.
"If he hits a long ball, it's a tie. A home run, and we win," I thought, my heart racing.
Ito, the infield defense and baserunning coach, approached me as I stretched behind the bench. "Takahashi, pinch run."
I had been preparing since the sixth inning, expecting to be used as a pinch runner or defensive substitute. I nodded, eager to prove myself. "I've been waiting for this."
As I stepped onto the field, the crowd roared. It was the team's final game, and Suruga Ocean Stadium was packed for the first time since opening day. The sea of sky-blue uniforms filled the stands, creating a vibrant backdrop.
"Now running for Thomas, number 58, Takahashi Takashi," the announcer's voice boomed.
This was my first time playing at our home ballpark. I slipped on my runner's gloves and jogged to first base, my body tingling with nervous energy.
The next batter was Tomatsu. From first base, I saw the bench's signal: no steal sign. They were counting on Tomatsu's bat. The opposing pitcher, 36-year-old veteran Imai, glanced my way but didn't throw a pickoff pitch. Instead, he delivered to the plate. The first pitch was a low and outside ball that Tomatsu let go.
"Probably a battle of low balls," I thought.
For the second pitch, Imai didn't even glance at me. Tomatsu fouled off a low inside fastball. "One ball, one strike," the umpire called.
I looked at the bench before the third pitch. The steal sign was on. My heart pounded with excitement. "Alright, let's do this."
As Imai set, I took a half step bigger lead than usual. Just as he was about to pitch, he spun and fired a pickoff throw to first base. By the time I realized it, the ball was in the first baseman's mitt, touching the tip of my spike.
"Out," the umpire called, followed by, "Game over."
I stood there, stunned. Imai's quick move had caught me off guard. Coach Ito pulled me by the arm, guiding me back to the bench. Shame, frustration, and regret overwhelmed me. I lowered my head, tears threatening to spill.
Ito tapped my shoulder. "Frustrated? I know. But never cry. If you cry, you'll wash away your regret. Hold onto this feeling. Use it to fuel your practice. Grow from this."
I nodded, biting my lip and clenching my fists. "I won't cry," I vowed silently.
Afterward, the Chukyo Pearls' hero interview and our final game ceremony took place. Players' Association President Tomatsu and Manager Kimitsu gave speeches. Throughout it all, I bit my lip and clenched my fists, suppressing my frustration.
When Coach Kimitsu finished his speech, we walked around the stadium. I lagged behind, still processing the failure.
From the stands, voices called out to me. "Takahashi, do your best next time." "We'll count on you next year." "Don't worry, Takahashi. We're rooting for you."
I looked up, surprised. The fans were cheering for me. A huge round of applause erupted.
"Thank you. Thank you so much," I thought, feeling a surge of determination.
I removed my hat and bowed deeply to the fans. I regretted my mistake and vowed never to forget this disappointment. Their support gave me strength. I felt deeply connected to them, realizing the importance of our bond.
"I'll practice hard in the off-season and come back stronger next year," I promised myself, clutching my hat tightly. This was only my second professional game, but I already understood the power of the fans' support.
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