A gentle drizzle fell as the team shuffled through the school gates, the scent of wet earth mingling with the metallic tang of their damp uniforms. Their cleats squelched against the pavement; each step sent little splashes of muddy water onto the walls. No one spoke—yet the air crackled with unspent energy.
Haruto pressed his back against the cool brick, water dripping from his hair into the collar of his jersey. He wrapped a towel—still crisp white yesterday—around his neck, the fabric quickly turning gray. Beside him, Sōta knelt to retie a shoelace, mud streaking across his gloves.
Daichi slung an arm over Haruto's shoulder. "You think the old ramen guy will remember us this soggy?" he asked, voice wry.
Reina—her notebook pressed to her chest—simply shook her head. "He remembers legend when it's this kind of mess."
---
They ducked into the tiny ramen shop, its paper lantern flickering in welcome. Steam curled from a massive pot at the back. The proprietor, Mr. Nagata, wiped his hands on a well-worn towel and grinned at the procession of muddy students.
"You look like drowned kittens!" he barked good-naturedly, scooping miso broth into waiting bowls. "Warm yourselves."
The first slurp of salty, savory soup brought groans of relief. The team huddled on wooden stools, slurping noodles as steam fogged their glasses. Rain pattered against the paper walls, a lullaby to their frayed nerves.
Renji slammed his chopsticks down. "We almost had them!" He pointed a noodle at Daichi. "That double steal was epic."
Daichi's glasses fogged. "My lead was too big—I nearly got tagged out. If you hadn't distracted their catcher with that fake bunt—"
"—we wouldn't have sneaked the second!" Renji finished. He wiped broth from his chin. "But one run on the board. That counts."
Sōta set down his spoon and looked around the circle. "It's not just one run. It's belief. We believed we could do it."
Haruto reached into his pocket for the dog-eared playbook, now damp at the edges. He flicked it open to the marked page: "Small gains become miracles when you refuse to stop." The words had taken on new weight.
Reina leaned in. "We should thank him," she said, nodding toward Mr. Nagata. "He's part of this now, too."
Haruto waved a hand. "Next time, I'll bring him a trophy."
---
Later, the rain lessened to a drizzle as they reconvened outside. Mr. Inoue stood by the gate, umbrella at the ready. He watched them approach—mud-caked and noodle-scented—with a very deliberate stillness.
When they reached him, Haruto straightened and said, "Sensei, you… you were right. We need structure."
Inoue's mouth twitched. "If you want my guidance, it comes at dawn."
Reina frowned. "Dawn?"
He nodded, folding the umbrella with precise movements. "If you're serious enough to show up before the world wakes."
A hush fell. Then Daichi's voice: "Count me in."
Yuu and the others echoed him unhesitatingly.
Inoue finally turned. His expression was unreadable—or perhaps, for the first time, quietly approving. "Good. Tomorrow, you start with field maintenance. Line the bases, clear the weeds. Then fundamentals."
As he walked away, the team exchanged bound smiles. Haruto closed his eyes, savoring the moment. A coach who actually cared—however stern—meant they had crossed a threshold.
---
That evening, Reina taped a new flyer to the polished notice board:
> MINAMI MIDDLE BASEBALL CLUB
OPEN TRYOUTS
No Gear Required—Bring Only Determination
Dawn Practice Daily
Below it, in smaller handwriting, Haruto had added:
> "Champions aren't born—they're made in rain and ramen."
A single classmate lingered to read it, then passed on the news like wildfire. In the dim corridor lights, the flyer fluttered, as if alive with promise.
---
Chapter End Reflection:
They had lost on the field, but they gained something far more important: a reason to rise when the sun was still asleep.