1. The Meteor Ball

“Here he comes — running like a missile launched from the neighboring country.”

Huff… Huff… Hah…

The ball hits my glove.

And it slips out.

“You have to catch the ball, not charge at it like a bull!”

The team laughs, while I stare down at the grass.

More than the coach’s insult, I’m tired of myself.

How do they catch that meteor so easily? Doesn’t it hurt?

A cold breeze brushes past me, rustling the dry leaves on the field.

I want to drop onto the grass, and stare at the white clouds drifting across the blue sky.

“Hanato, are you having difficulty catching the ball lately?”

I sigh. “It somehow manages to slip right through my glove.”

Satoshi walks beside me. “Don’t feel down about it. Growth isn’t linear.”

Until recently, I never thought about it. But maybe baseball isn’t for me. No matter how hard I try, I can’t seem to improve at all.

“I’ve been playing for two years,” I continue, “and I’m still afraid of those fastballs. I always miss them.”

“I never understood that about you,” he adds. “A ball won’t kill you, Hanato.”

“And you know what I don’t understand?” I said. “How could a ball moving at 90km/hr look like a gentle snowflake to you?”

Satoshi laughs, biting down on a weed straw.

“Mid-terms are around the corner, and I haven’t studied anything.” I muttered, exhaustion creeping into my voice.

We practice in the morning, classes right after that, and then practice again in the evening.

Life isn’t easy once you get in Junior High and this is—just the first year.

“Okay that’s it for today boys!” the coach shouts. “Our match is in thirteen days! Stay fit—and don’t fail your mid-terms.”

We walk towards the locker, with the stench of sweat clinging to us.

“First class–I think it’s math, right?” I ask Satoshi.

He adjusts his cap. “We are not in the same class.”

“Right. My bad.”

I’m not good at math. And today isn’t the day to prove it.

I pull off my practice jersey. “Changing to school uniform feels so sticky and uncomfortable right after practice.”

“Yeah, that’s the worst, and we all hate it.” he says.

Most of the team hangs around after practice and strolls into class late like delinquents.

I don’t.

Not because I don’t want to—but I’m the only one from Class 1-2 on the team.
Showing up late alone just feels… awkward.
So instead of lingering, I slip out before anyone notices.

The locker room noise fades behind me as I step into the already half-empty hallway, still smelling faintly of sweat and deodorant.

I start walking faster. Running isn’t allowed, but my shoes squeak against the hallway tiles with every step I take.

The classroom door comes into view. I grip my bag, swallowing the dry lump in my throat.

“What are you doing standing outside your class?”

“Ah… Futabo-sensei. Good morning!” I replied.
“I was just about to get in there.”

She teaches English—the only subject I’m decent at.

I hesitate before opening the door.
I know I can't avoid the inevitable, so I step inside without thinking much.

“Hanato, you’re late today!”

Matsuda-sensei’s calm yet firm tone freezes me in place.

A cold shiver runs down my spine.
As if every eye in the room is locked on me.

I force a smile and walk to my seat.
Clutching my bag so tightly my fingers ache.
Eyes open. Seeing nothing.

I hate this moment.

The way the room shifts when I enter.
The way it feels like everyone is watching me.

It makes me feel like the center of attention, and I don’t want to be.

I’m the only one who is on a sports team in this class. Ever since the roster for the baseball team was announced, more people started talking to me.

And yesterday… she talked to me for the first time.
It wasn’t special, but it somehow felt new and refreshing.

I was so happy about that—
I forgot to finish the math homework.

And first period is math.
Another fastball I’m not ready for…