As I stepped up to the plate, everything seemed to quiet down. Was it because I was concentrating? I turned to face Kitamae on the mound. His repertoire included a fastball, cutter, forkball, and an occasional curveball. I knew the forkball would be tough to hit, so I hoped for a fastball.
Kitamae threw a curveball right away on the first pitch. I had anticipated it, but it was unexpectedly low and outside, just catching the strike zone. What an incredible pitch.
"No balls, one strike," the umpire called.
I read the next pitch as a fastball. Sure enough, it came high and inside. I swung, but the ball took a slight turn, and the bat missed.
"A cutter," I muttered to myself. Now, I was cornered.
"No balls, two strikes."
Would he throw a ball to see if I'd chase it, or would he go for the strikeout with a forkball? I shortened my grip on the bat to better handle either a fastball or a cutter while keeping the forkball in mind.
Sure enough, the third pitch was a forkball that dropped from the strike zone to the dirt. I started to swing but managed to hold back just in time.
"Ball one," the umpire announced.
I missed one at-bat and wondered what was coming next. I guessed Kitamae would try to get me to chase another forkball. The fourth pitch was another forkball, low and outside.
"Ball two," said the umpire.
Two balls, two strikes. Would it be another forkball, a fastball, or a cutter? I prepared for a fastball, planning to foul off anything else.
The fifth pitch came, a curveball, and it looked like it would be in the strike zone. I had no choice but to swing. I made contact, but the ball rolled weakly towards shortstop. I ran as hard as I could. Third baseman Yamamoto grabbed the ball and threw it to first base.
"Out," the umpire called.
I barely missed the base by a fraction of a second. Disappointed but determined, I headed back to the bench, grabbed my glove, and took my position at second base.
"Now playing second base, number 58, Takahashi Ryusuke," the announcer's voice echoed through the stadium.
This was my first defensive play as a professional. I had been practicing for this day ever since my error in the exhibition game. I was ready to prove myself.
The pitcher was Smith, a new foreign player. So far, he had a mediocre record, and this was a crucial moment for him as well. He struck out the first batter but walked the next one. The following batter hit a fly ball towards right field, too deep for the right fielder. It dropped between right and second base, putting runners on first and third with one out.
We stayed in our regular defensive positions despite the situation. The memory of my error during the exhibition game haunted me. I reminded myself to stay focused on the ball and not be distracted by the runners.
On the first pitch, a sharp grounder was hit between first and second base. I dove, stretched out my glove, and caught the ball. In one swift motion, I turned and tossed it to Arai at second base.
"Out," the umpire called.
Arai threw to first baseman Shimizu.
"Out," the first base umpire announced.
A huge cheer erupted from the crowd.
"Game Set," the umpire declared.
I dropped to my knees, overwhelmed. Shimizu came over, tapped me on the head with his glove, and said, "Nice play. Here you go. This is the winning ball. Take good care of it."
It was my first opportunity to play defense as a professional. I was completely absorbed in the moment. I got up, and as I headed back to the bench, applause echoed throughout the stadium from both Shizuoka Oceans and Niigata Condors fans.
"Nice play," Infield Defense and Baserunning Coach Ito said, slapping me on the back. "Your practice has paid off."
Takeshita, who had been subbed out, tapped my shoulder and high-fived me. I had only one defensive opportunity, but it was a significant step for me. I had finally made it to the professional level.
The next morning, I bought every sports newspaper as a souvenir.
The following game was another close one, tied 1-1 until the top of the ninth inning. However, the Niigata Condors won with a walk-off wild pitch in the bottom of the ninth with two outs and the bases loaded. I wasn't in the lineup that day.
Returning to my dorm, I sat in a chair, looking at the ball commemorating my first professional appearance. What should I do with this ball? Keep it for myself, give it to my mother, or my girlfriend?
I decided on something different.
I took out a postcard from the drawer. It was a thank-you letter I had received some time ago. I signed the ball, placed it in a box with a small note, and closed the box.
I looked at a framed picture hanging on the wall. It was a drawing of a player wearing a blue uniform with the number 58, batting.
Yes, the recipient would be my number one fan—the boy who had passed away. I would continue to do my best, hoping to become as successful as the picture he drew for me while sitting in his hospital bed.
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