The low hum of the airplane engines filled the cabin, steady and constant like a heartbeat. Outside the small oval windows, the Pacific Ocean stretched endlessly beneath a darkening sky. Inside, nestled between rows of seats, two young boys sat side by side, heads leaning back, eyes staring up at the ceiling.
They were quiet, not tired but overwhelmed. Souta Fushimi clutched his seatbelt lightly, replaying the roar of the Dodger Stadium crowd in his mind. Beside him, Eijun Sawamura grinned faintly, one hand resting on the tray table, tapping to the rhythm of an imaginary pitch.
"That catcher," Souta thought, eyes narrowing slightly. "He moved his glove only slightly, barely a flick, but every pitch looked perfect. Like he framed the strike zone with his will. I want to learn that. I will learn that."
Eijun's head tilted slightly, his thoughts far from the plane. "That changeup… the way it dropped so suddenly. And that fastball, just brushing the edge of the plate. I need that. I need pitches that'll make batters freeze, but how do I even throw something like that...?"
Chris, sitting a row ahead with his father Jorge, glanced back, catching the boys lost in their quiet intensity. He smiled to himself.
Kazuki and Riku, seated together across the aisle, exchanged knowing looks. "They saw it," Riku whispered. "The hunger, it's there now."
"Yeah," Kazuki murmured. "They've started dreaming bigger."
The plane landed in Japan late in the evening. Families reunited at the airport, voices overlapping with welcomes and hugs. Souta parted ways with Eijun and his uncle, waving tiredly but with a fire behind his eyes.
That night, Souta returned to a warm, softly lit kitchen at the Fushimi household. His mother, Haruka Fushimi, had been waiting, apron dusted with flour, arms crossed, a soft smile on her lips.
"You're taller," she said, pulling him in for a long hug before he could even speak. "And you've got that look in your eye. Like your father did when he came back from his first spring training."
Souta sat down at the kitchen table, where a feast of his favorite foods awaited: grilled mackerel, miso soup, fresh rice, and steamed vegetables. Haruka poured him barley tea and sat across, watching him with warm, attentive eyes.
"You saw something important, didn't you?" she asked.
He nodded. "Not just how they played, but how they worked. Every movement was on purpose. Every action was sharp. They weren't born like that. They built it. I want to build myself too."
Haruka reached over and brushed his bangs aside. "Then take your time. You don't need to be perfect now, Souta. Just don't stop and keep going. We will always support you."
The next morning, Souta was outside in their modest yard. His father Riku stood to the side while Haruka sat on the porch with a towel draped over her shoulder, a water bottle beside her.
Swing after swing, Souta practiced. He adjusted his foot placement, focused on follow-through, and honed his timing.
"Watch the ball till it hits the bat," Riku coached. "You're doing good. But now, focus on what comes after the hit too. That transition into running. You need both."
"Okay! Again, please!"
Haruka clapped softly. "You've got this, sweetheart. Just remember to breathe."
After practice, Haruka sat beside Souta, gently toweling off his sweaty face. "Your heart's racing," she said softly. "You love this. I can see it."
He nodded. "More than anything."
Meanwhile, in the countryside, the Sawamura household roared with its usual chaos. Eijun sat at the family's low dinner table, slurping up noodles, his cheeks puffed with food.
"SIT STRAIGHT, YA SLOUCHING BRAT! You wanna be a pitcher or a sack of soggy tofu?!" his grandfather bellowed from the end of the table, slamming his chopsticks down.
Eijun, unfazed, grinned. "But Grandpa, I am eating like a pitcher! Gotta grow big, right?!"
"Grow big?! HAH! You mean grow dense! You better start training that brain, boy, or you'll be throwing pitches into the neighbor's rice field!"
Laughter erupted at the table. Eijun's mother shook her head while his younger cousins giggled.
Later, Eijun sat outside with his glove, tossing a ball into a net. His mind replayed the pitch he saw in L.A.
"Cutter... come on... you can do it..."
He adjusted his grip, took a deep breath, and threw. The ball zipped off his fingers but veered only slightly.
"Not enough movement... again."
He tried again. Then again. Sweat rolled down his forehead.
From the porch, Kazuki watched quietly, arms crossed. Grandpa peeked out too.
"He's wasting balls again," Grandpa grunted.
"No," Kazuki replied. "He's learning stubbornness. The kind that makes a real pitcher."
Over the next few days, Souta went shopping with Haruka. She bought him new training shoes and a pair of gloves.
"You've outgrown everything," she said. "Even your smile's bigger."
They walked through the park, Haruka gently pressing a rice ball into his hand. "Fuel," she said with a grin.
"Thanks, Mom."
Back home, she helped him stretch after training. "Your body's still growing so don't rush it honey. You'll thank yourself later."
Meanwhile, Eijun helped his grandfather in the fields, grumbling about weeds and hoeing rows. Grandpa made sure to yell at him every five minutes.
"This is training!" he barked. "Real pitchers need roots in the earth!"
"Pretty sure real pitchers use baseballs, not carrots!" Eijun shouted back.
But when they sat together after dusk, sipping cold barley tea, Eijun leaned his head on his grandpa's shoulder.
"Thanks for yelling at me. I needed it."
Grandpa snorted. "You're welcome, ya punk."
Souta practiced batting and timing, training his eyes to track faster pitches.
Eijun wore out gloves practicing grips. His fingers ached from the repetition. The cutter still wouldn't break how he wanted. The changeup isn't even worth mentioning at this point.
But neither boy stopped.
And neither would.
They weren't the same kids who flew to America.
They were growing and they were doing that together.
At night, Eijun called Souta.
"How's your arm?" Eijun asked
"Feels like it's gonna fall off," Souta groaned. "But I'm not stopping. What about you?"
"Trying to get the ball to spin the way I want but it's really hard."
"It should be," Souta replied. "If it wasn't, everyone would be aces."
A pause.
"You know," Eijun added, voice softer, "We're not there yet but we're gonna be. Someday."
Souta smiled. "Together."
As they hung up, both boys looked out into the night, across two different towns, two different houses but with the same moon hanging above them.
The same fire burned inside.