As the camp draws to a close, next week marks the beginning of exhibition games for the first team and the start of the spring training league for the second team. I remain with the second team, while Adachi, despite his poor performance in the Red vs. White games, has yet to be demoted from the first team. His batting average is low and he commits errors almost every game. In contrast, my batting average is over .300, and my defense remains solid. I'm practicing hard, so why am I still on the second team while Adachi is with the first team? Isn't professional baseball supposed to be a meritocracy? The unfairness of it all is sapping my passion for the game.
One evening, after returning from practice, I received a call from the front desk of the hotel. A postcard had arrived for me. Curious, I wondered who could have sent it. Could it be her? Excited, I rushed to the front desk, only to find the postcard was from my former coach, Yamashiro. My excitement deflated. The postcard showed a photo of Yamashiro's family on a beach in Australia at sunset—his beautiful wife and two children beside him.
Why did he send this postcard to my camp accommodation? Was it a new form of harassment? "While you're stuck in the minors, I'm enjoying Australia. Aren't you jealous?" it seemed to say.
As I was about to tuck the postcard into my desk drawer, I noticed a single line written under the address: "Remember my final teaching."
What the heck?
I put the postcard away and headed to dinner, trying to recall what Yamashiro had last said to me.
I remembered him saying, "Looking back, I think I didn't succeed because I didn't work hard enough. Of course, I gave it my all. I was always the first at the stadium and the last to leave, practicing until I couldn't hold the bat. But effort is not just about time. It's about how you improve your skills as a professional. What does the team expect of you? What kind of practice do you need to do to achieve that? Think and act on it. That's what I consider professional effort."
What did that have to do with my current situation?
I stepped up to the plate thinking about how I could contribute to the team. Was I planning to?
I felt something was off. Coach Yatsu had said, "That's probably what they intended." Maybe my intentions weren't reflected in my play. Maybe they weren't communicated to those around me.
I asked myself: Have I recently gone up to bat with a task in mind for each at-bat? My batting average in the second team's Red vs. White games was over .300, but the pitches I faced were much easier than those in the major leagues. If I positioned myself correctly and made contact, the ball would find the hit zone. A softly hit grounder to short could become an infield hit.
The same went for stealing bases. Was I just taking advantage of the weaker opposition? Second-team pitchers aren't as good at quick pitches, and the catchers' throwing accuracy is inferior. Stealing bases in this environment is not the same as in the tense atmosphere of the first team. In my second first-team game, I was picked off attempting to steal.
Last year, I focused solely on hitting with my right hand. Though my batting average didn't improve, the coach was satisfied. Adachi's numbers might be bad, but he was sticking to his swing. Perhaps that's what Coach Yatsu meant. Having experienced the first team last year, I wanted to put up good numbers. But no matter how good my stats in the minors, they're meaningless if I can't contribute to the first team.
I thought of Taniguchi, who had hit around 20 home runs each year in the minor leagues since joining, yet his salary hadn't increased. Taniguchi practiced with astonishing dedication, but he never smiled even after a home run in the minors.
I recalled a famous baseball commentator once saying during a professional broadcast, "No matter how many home runs you hit in the minors, they're worth less than one sacrifice bunt in the majors."
To be honest, I still haven't fully accepted it. But starting tomorrow, I'll approach each at-bat with a specific goal in mind. I'll start by making each at-bat count.