Fraser Household – Late Evening
Alex opened the front door and stepped inside.
"I'm home," he called out.
The warm smell of dinner floated through the air—soy sauce, garlic, and something sizzling in a pan.
From the kitchen, his mother's voice came cheerfully, "Welcome, sweetie! You're late today."
He took off his shoes, placing them neatly on the rack, then headed toward the kitchen, peeking in for a moment.
His mom stood by the stove in a pink apron dotted with tiny flowers, stirring something in a pot. Her hair was tied back in a low ponytail.
"Yeah, Mom. I was busy with the club today," Alex said, loosening his collar a bit.
She turned with raised eyebrows. "What? You joined a baseball club already?"
Alex gave a sheepish smile. "Yeah. I'm heading to my room."
"Mm-hmm. Boys and their sports…" she sighed with mock exasperation as he walked off.
He climbed the stairs, the wood creaking softly under his feet.
The Fraser house was calm and familiar. Cream-colored walls, polished floors, and framed memories lined the hallway—beach vacations, birthday cakes, awkward family poses. Alex's room was the second door on the left.
It opened with a quiet click.
His space was just the way he liked it—clean, orderly. A study desk with a simple lamp, a made bed, and in the corner, a GM cricket bat leaned against the wall. The once-bright logo was faded, the grip worn smooth by endless training sessions under foreign skies. Even now, it smelled faintly of leather, sweat, and dry summer grass.
Alex dropped his school bag onto the chair and stretched his arms.
"Time to wash up…"
He grabbed a towel and headed to the bathroom. Warm water soothed the tightness in his shoulders and legs. A long day—but a good one.
Dressed in a navy leisure shirt and soft lounge pants, he returned to his room and sat at the desk. The DVD case was still there, unopened. He picked it up, running a finger along the neat kanji scrawled across each disc: Regional Finals. Quarterfinals. Semifinals.
His gaze drifted to the flat-screen TV across the room.
"...No DVD player."
He let out a long sigh—then remembered: his brother's room had one.
Gathering the DVDs, his sketchbook, a pencil case, and a notebook into a tidy pile, he stepped into the hallway.
Across the way, Ryan's sliding door greeted him with a handwritten warning:
"KEEP OUT. TRESPASSERS WILL BE PROSECUTED."
Alex stared blankly.
"Really, Ryan?" he muttered, knocking anyway. "Ryan, I'm coming in."
But from downstairs came their mother's voice instead. "Ryan's not home yet!"
"No DVD player in there, then," Alex muttered. "Okay, Mom!"
With a sigh, he returned to his room, gathered everything again, and padded down the stairs.
The hallway light flickered briefly as he passed.
The living room was dim and quiet, the TV casting a soft glow over the wooden center table. His parents' DVD shelf sat beside it—Westerns and old dramas stacked neatly.
Alex placed his materials on the table, slid in the first disc, and knelt in front of the screen.
"Let's see how good these catchers really are…" he murmured.
The screen flickered to life. The video began.
Yamato Gakuen – Hirano #2
A packed stadium came into view, the crowd buzzing. The camera zoomed in on the catcher crouched behind home plate.
Hirano-san.
Alex leaned in.
But he didn't just watch—he analyzed.
He flipped open his sketchbook—one already labeled with a neat title: Catcher Study #01—and began sketching. First the stance—Hirano's wide base, low posture, and forward chest. Then hand placement, how the throwing hand remained safely tucked behind the mitt.
Beside the drawing, he scribbled: "Wide base. Balanced. No wasted movement."
When Hirano adjusted his mitt to frame a low pitch, Alex paused and zoomed in.
"Subtle wrist movement. Glove quiet. No pullback."
A flicker of memory flashed—how, back in cricket, he'd once watched a seasoned wicket-keeper adjust behind the stumps in a similar, fluid motion. Quiet control.
More notes followed. Hirano's quick reaction to bunts. Sharp nods to the pitcher. No unnecessary signals.
He flipped to a fresh page.
"Pop time ~ 1.9s. Fast. Efficient."
Next disc.
Teito High – Sugiyama #10
A different vibe entirely.
Sugiyama grinned constantly, even between pitches. His glove sat higher. His fingers flashed complex signs. He scanned the field like a general before war.
Alex's pencil moved rapidly.
"Glove higher than Hirano's. Commands infield." "Smiles before changeups? Confidence tactic?" "Adjusts position mid-count—reads hitter tendencies?"
Sugiyama took risks. Early curveballs. Sudden pick-off throws. Preemptive bunts.
By now, Alex's notebook had diagrams and side-by-side columns:
Hirano – quiet, efficient. Sugiyama – vocal, creative.
Hirano = Wall. Sugiyama = Strategist.
Under "base running," he scrawled:
"Sugiyama pick-off via eye contact alone."
"1B & 2B had subtle hand signals."
"Steal timing = glove twitch + pitcher's rhythm."
The minutes blurred. Sketches flowed from page to page. Pitches, sequences, positioning. Red circles. Dog-eared corners. Underlined phrases like:
"Quiet hands. Strong lower half."
"Bunt coverage – always anticipate."
"Glove movement = language."
He leaned back and rolled his neck. His legs were numb from kneeling.
Then—
"ALEXANDER FRASER!!"
The shout hit like a fastball to the ribs.
Alex jolted upright, the pencil clattering under the table.
He turned slowly.
There stood his mother, arms crossed, expression fierce.
"Dinner's been ready for thirty minutes! I called you ten times! Are you deaf?!"
"I—I didn't hear—! I was just—!"
"Do you know what time it is?! Your father and Ryan finished eating! Their soup got cold waiting for you!"
"I'm sorry! I was watching game footage—I lost track of time!"
From the dining room, his dad sipped tea with a weary sigh.
Ryan leaned against the wall, grinning like a villain. "You're dead, bro."
"No dessert!" his mom snapped. "And you're doing the dishes!"
"Yes ma'am! Dishes! No dessert! Got it!"
He bowed repeatedly like a salaryman under fire.
She stormed off, still muttering something about baseball "rotting boys' brains."
Alex looked down at his open sketchbook.
And smiled.
Even if he got scolded—he'd learned more in that hour than he ever expected.
He scooped up his pencil, gently closed the book, and hurried toward the dining table. His stomach growled like a warning.
But his mind?
Still racing with framing angles, glove movements, and infield shifts.
To Be Continued…
Author's Note
Thanks for reading this chapter! I'm still very new to baseball and mostly know it through Diamond no Ace, so if I make any mistakes, I hope you'll bear with me. Your thoughts and feedback really mean a lot—whether it's about the characters, the story, or even just a quick comment to say you're reading. It truly keeps me motivated to write more. See you in the next chapter!
Poll:
Should we call Coach Oki as Kantoku? Yes or No?