Diamond no Ace: Coach, I Want to Be a Batter, Not a Pitcher!

”Yoshaa!!!”

Ushijima Wakatoshi sprinted, intercepting a sharply hit infield ball.

He spun, jumped, and quickly passed the baseball to Kominato Haruichi charging toward second base.

Thwack!

Kominato caught the ball perfectly on the bag.

Without hesitation, he pivoted and threw to first base, movements fluid and precise.

”Oh ho ho~ that’s a textbook double play!”

”Wow… Ushijima and Kominato’s teamwork is just as tight as Kuramochi and Kominato’s!”

”Yes! Kominato’s receiving wasn’t completely crisp yet, but Ushijima’s speed covers for his lack of experience.”

”If Ushijima weren’t a pitcher, Kuramochi’s shortstop spot would be in serious danger.”

Kuramochi muttered helplessly under his breath, feeling slightly threatened.

After practice, Kominato Haruichi approached his older brother.

”Nisan…?” his voice was nervous, cheeks flushed.

”Hmm? What’s wrong?” Kominato Ryosuke asked, concerned, trying to maintain a tough older-brother facade.

Haruichi stammered, ”I… I want to play in the same game as you. I want to play outfield… even if I might seem weak giving up my usual position. I just… I want to compete alongside you… This is your last high school baseball game, and I don’t want regrets…”

Ryosuke looked at his younger brother, blushing and earnest, and smiled.

He recalled Ushijima’s advice earlier.

Why not support him? Why not let him catch up to you?

”If you’re confident that switching positions won’t hurt your defense, then go ahead. It’s your choice,” Ryosuke said.

”Y-Yes!” Haruichi’s relief and excitement were obvious.

The stadium, previously tense from training, suddenly felt lively.

And that was mostly because Sawamura had arrived.

”Wait, Chris-senpai! Why doesn’t that bastard Ushijima come to practice catching with us?”

Sawamura frowned, eyeing Ushijima practicing hitting on the other side.

”Seriously! He’s the ace!”

Chris sighed, unamused.

”Did you even see him just now? Ushijima and Kominato were practicing backfield coordination.”

”Ushijima doesn’t need basic drills like you or Furuya.”

”His ambition isn’t limited to pitching; it’s batting too. And even if you don’t care about pitching, his skills surpass yours completely.”

Sawamura went quiet for once.

But Tanba added a cold reality check:

”Sawamura, Furuya. Listen carefully. You’re first-years. You still have time, but if you’re thinking of competing with Ushijima for ace…”

”…transfer schools,” Tanba said bluntly.

”Huh?!” Sawamura shrieked, clutching his head.

No one bothered correcting his dramatics.

”Because as long as Ushijima is here, you won’t become the ace.”

”Unless he gets injured, no matter how much you try, it’s impossible.” Kawakami chimed in.

Sawamura and Furuya stared at Ushijima training, realizing the truth.

He truly was an all-rounder.

Pitching, batting, fielding—everything.

”This is what I told you, Sawamura,” Chris said calmly.

”Unless Ushijima gets hurt, or unless your ability truly impresses him, he won’t willingly give up the mound. And his ambition isn’t solely on the mound anyway.”

”No! I’ll take it from him!” Sawamura shouted, loud enough for Ushijima to hear.

”What? Someone who can only throw fastballs thinks he can steal the ace from me?”

Blushing, flustered, and indignant, Sawamura pointed at Ushijima.

”You can only throw fastballs! That’s temporary! I’ll surpass you someday!”

Ushijima chuckled softly.

”If I lose to a wasteful idiot like you…”

”…I’ll quit baseball.”

”You all have talent and time, yet you don’t use your brains.”

”Wh-what do you mean?” Furuya and Sawamura stammered.

Ushijima continued, calm as ever, while they practiced batting.

”You’re first-years, right?”

”Yes!” Sawamura said firmly.

”Then why rush to compete?”

”Do you want to be crushed on stage already? Do you think your pitching is enough to dominate the nation?”

”If your fastball alone could dominate Japanese high school baseball, then the whole system would be trash.”

The stadium went silent.

Even the first-years understood: this wasn’t an insult—it was a lesson.

”Your fastball speed is only 130+ km/h, not even 135,” Ushijima said, eyes calm.

”Your signature pitch is a slider.”

”But the speed is weak and control unstable.”

”Furuya, yes, your fastball can reach 150, but without control, it’s useless. Realistically, under controlled conditions, you max out at 145 km/h—same as me.”

The weight of Ushijima’s words hit both first-years.

This wasn’t arrogance. This was fact.