Yamamoto would just smile.
Reborn remarked how you weren't as fit to be a baseball player as you were to be a hitman.
And, well, isn't that a shame, because somehow the thrill of the kill – if there were even such a thing, you don't know, you've never tried to think on it – just doesn't measure up to the heartpounding feel of the bat in your hand, staring grim-eyed at your opponent, when the world just stops and spins and ends at the homeplate and all bets are off, it's no longer a game but your existence hanging on the line.
You look to the kid, the adult-child who's seen more nightmares than you can dream of, wondering if you could make him understand; something about the way he holds himself warns you off immediately.
Reborn had never seen a world that is not spidered by death and revenge and assassination, and he will not appreciate your efforts to enlighten him.