Yamcha found himself staring up at his ceiling long after his alarm had gone off, but he couldn't bring himself to crawl out of bed. Today was the day of the last game of professional baseball he ever intended on playing. He wasn't sure which was stronger; his dread at stepping onto that field tonight or the desire to hurry up and get it all over with. The announcement had already gone out that this would be his last game, that he was retiring from his baseball career after tonight. It was the only thing any sports commentary program could talk about. Theories abound about why he was doing it. Did he get a better offer in another sport? Was he being forced out? Was he involved in a doping scandal? There was even a rumor going around that he secretly had cancer. He didn't bother trying to set any of them straight or tell them why he was doing it. He'd had his phone shut off for days now to avoid the calls asking for a comment from him.

He was eventually pulled from his thoughts when he felt a tiny little paw tap lightly against his cheek. He turned his head to find Puar cat-loafing next to his pillow, a concerned look on her face.

"Yamcha, you slept in all morning! You gotta start getting ready for the game soon!"

Yamcha let out a sigh, but reluctantly sat up. She was right. He couldn't just hide under the covers and hope the game just passed by without anyone noticing he wasn't there. With all the hype that had been built up about the game, that was probably impossible anyway. In any case, there were a few things he wanted to do before the game.


After quickly getting dressed, Yamcha first made his way across town towards Capsule Corp. He'd been avoiding the place for some time now, for obvious reasons. Bulma had promised that there were no hard feelings between the two of them, and that even though they weren't together anymore they could still be friends. Easy for her to say. She's the one that went and got herself knocked up by another guy. Yamcha attempted to shake the bitter thoughts from his mind. Once he pushed past the pain and anger, he genuinely wanted to be friends with Bulma again. This was a chance for him to follow through with it on his end.

He landed outside the smaller residential building on the property, taking a moment to figure out what he wanted to say. After drawing in a deep breath and releasing it in a sigh, he rang the doorbell. It was nearly a full minute before the door opened and Bulma peeked out. Yamcha tried his best to force a friendly smile.

"H-hey Bulma. I dunno if you heard or not, but tonight's my last game. I thought maybe you'd like to—"

"Oh, I heard, alright!" she retorted before he even finished her thought. He couldn't help but flinch at the tone of her voice, which was one he always dreaded hearing. "What the hell are you thinking?! Do you know how many people would kill to have a job like that?! And you just go and throw it away! Did you even think about what you'd do for a living after this?! Baseball's the only thing you've ever been good at!"

Yamcha had tried several times to refute the barrage of abuse hurled his way, but couldn't get a word in. Damn, he hadn't expected this sort of reaction to the news. He didn't know how to respond to it.

"I..." he began hesitantly before just giving in and just going with what he'd come to say in the first place. He reached into his coat pocket and retrieved a strip of paper. "Look, I don't know why you're so mad about this, and I know you never really liked watching baseball, but I thought maybe you'd want to come to this one."

Bulma stared down at the ticket he held out to her, but she didn't take it. After a moment, she sighed, and when she looked back up to him once more her expression had shifted to something approaching pity.

"No, Yamcha. I'm not going to go watch you flush your career down the toilet. You've gotta stop sabotaging yourself like this. No one's going to want to be with someone who's constantly shooting himself in the foot."

Yamcha was taken aback by that reply. What the hell was he supposed to say to that? Furthermore, how long had she thought that about him? In a moment of ironic fortune, he was saved from having to reply when an infant's cry pulled Bulma's attention away from him. She glanced behind her towards where Trunks' wailing came from before looking back at him with that same pitying look as before.

"Look, for what it's worth, good luck in your game tonight. I hope it's worth it."

And with that, she closed the door on him, retreating back into her house to care for her son.


Yamcha spent the whole flight on his way to the Northern District more or less in a daze, unsure how to process what had just happened. That was definitely not what he needed on a day like this. Well, whatever. Screw Bulma. She was the main source of his grief right now anyway. Besides, there was someone else he could invite that actually respected his life choices.

He landed at Piccolo's house, immediately feeling better just from being back there again. If you'd have told him a month ago that his one sanctuary on the planet would be the abode of that stoic giant of an alien, he'd have likely advised you to have your head examined, yet here he was. He gave the familiar lion-headed knocker three good hits before waiting for an answer. Unfortunately, even after a minute of waiting, there was nothing. He didn't even get a message telepathically. Well, that was strange. Piccolo had never not answered him before.

Yamcha concentrated for a moment, trying to feel for any strong energy in the area. He couldn't sense Piccolo at all. Was he not home? Or had he simply gotten tired of the ex-bandit hanging around and was concealing himself? Yamcha couldn't really tell. Either way, it made him feel terribly alone in the world.


The stands surrounding Capsule Field were packed to the point of bursting, baseball fans from all across the continent eager to witness firsthand the last game of a legendary player. It was just too bad that said player wasn't feeling very legendary at the moment. Yamcha had been sitting in the dugout, his eyes glued to the floor all throughout the opening ceremonies of the game. He didn't even have the presence of mind to stand for the national anthem as it was played. What did it matter? What did any of it matter anymore? This whole thing was a farce, just like every other game he'd ever played. He only wished that this time, just once, he could play a game that wasn't a complete joke.

Even as the game started, Yamcha could not be roused from his gloom. The crack of wooden bats as they struck their targets, the cheers from the crowd, the omnipresent commentary from the announcers… It had all barely penetrated his consciousness. He didn't want to be here, though he couldn't think of anywhere else that would have him at the moment.

Finally, he felt someone nudge him on the arm, causing him to look up for the first time in what felt like hours but was surely minutes. His coach stood over him, a cocky grin plastered across his face.

"Alright Champ, we got the bases loaded! Now get out there and take 'em home!"

Yamcha replied to this enthusiastic command with a dull grunt of acknowledgement. He grabbed his bat and made his way out onto the field. The instant he came out under the glare of the afternoon sun, a great cheer rose up in the crowd.

'And here's the moment we've all been waiting for, folks! The Titan of the Titans himself, Yamcha Rekishiyoma, is up to bat in what is his final game! It's always a shame when such a legend retires, but I'm sure he'll give us a great show for his curtain call!'

He tried to tune out the commentators as their voices boomed out over the stadium speakers. He didn't want to listen as they hyped him up. He just wanted to get this over with as quickly as he could and go home to sleep off his shame. He took his place at home plate and readied his bat, preparing for what would be just one of the countless home runs he'd hit in his career. The pitcher took one look at him and seemed to waiver, looking over towards the visiting team's dugout as though expecting something. Sure enough, the other coach called a time out.

'Oh, and it looks like the Satan City Devils are switching out their star pitcher, Toushiro Yamada, for their last-minute addition! Quite an unusual move! What do you make of that?'

'It sure is risky. Ivan Scherbakov is a completely unknown factor in this. Before today, no one's ever heard of him, yet the Devils are starting him out against the only undefeated player in the history of the game? I hope this kid doesn't get discouraged easily, because this is going to be a bloodbath!'

Yamcha watched as Yamada jogged off the field, meeting his replacement halfway. When he caught sight of the new pitcher, he nearly let his bat slip from his grasp. He was head and shoulders taller than nearly all of his teammates, and his long blond hair was pulled back into a low ponytail. Even though he'd only seen him once before, he recognized him immediately. That was the guy from the bar! What the hell was he doing here?! How'd he get on the opposing team?! And why?! He could have run through a million more questions about the current situation, but he was pulled back to reality when the umpire called out to him.

"Hey! Are you ready or what?"

Yamcha jumped as he realized he'd just been standing there staring with his bat at his side. He readied up again and waited to see what this mystery man could dish out. Scherbakov waited for his signal from the catcher, giving a small nod when he got the one he wanted. He wound up for the pitch, and Yamcha readied his bat. The ball was thrown, the bat was swung, and then an audible gasp came from the crowd.

It took Yamcha a moment to figure out what had happened. He'd expected to see the ball sailing overtop the stadium lights at the far end of the field, but the sky was painfully empty. His eyes quickly scanned the field, but it wasn't there either. Slowly, he turned his head back towards the catcher, finding the ball sitting squarely in the center of his mitt. Did… did he just get a strike?!

"S-strike one!" the umpire called out after a moment of hesitation, as though he couldn't believe it himself.

A low murmur spread throughout the stands as Yamcha looked back towards the Devils' new pitcher. Did that really just happen? No… no, it couldn't be! He must have just been distracted because he recognized the guy! Yeah, that was it! That had to be it! Well, he wasn't about to be caught unawares a second time! His grip tightened around his bat as he readied up for the second pitch, something he'd never had to do before. This time he watched with intense focus as Scherbakov wound up once more and threw the ball.

Yamcha's swing hit its mark this time, and the ball went rocketing through the air well on its way towards the stratosphere. A satisfied smirk spread across his lips as he dropped his bat and started running for first base.

"Out!"

The sudden call from the umpire so surprised Yamcha that he nearly tripped halfway to first, but he soon righted himself.

"What?!" he called out incredulously, looking around to see what had happened. When he saw it, he couldn't believe his eyes. Scherbakov was on his way down from what had to have been at least a ten-meter-high leap straight into the air, the baseball held securely in his glove. There was no way! That blond bastard actually caught it?!

'O-oh my god! I don't believe it, folks! Am I seeing things?! Rekishiyoma is out, ladies and gentlemen! This is not a drill! I repeat; Rekishiyoma is out!'

Yamcha could do little more than stare as the entire stadium broke out into an unbelieving roar, some clearly happy about this fresh turn of events, while others were just losing their minds over it. One such person was his coach, who was practically eating his hat when he finally wandered back to the dugout in a daze.

"What the fuck was that?! How in the hell did you strike out?! What the hell is going on here?! Aaaaghh!"

Yamcha couldn't answer even if he could force his mouth to work through his state of utter shock. He'd just struck out. He'd never struck out. Why was this happening all of a sudden? His coach's expletive-laden shouting may as well have been the whispering of wind blowing through grass for all he paid attention to it. He was practically comatose, unable to do anything but sit there on the bench in stunned silence.

He'd struck out.


Yamcha managed to pull himself back to the world of the living by the time the second half of the inning rolled around. Normally his team would have an absurd number of runs by this point, with his batting all but guaranteeing four more every time he went up, but this time they were stuck with just two. That insane new player on the other team seemed to go easy on the Titans after Yamcha got off the field, letting two of them through before shutting down two more to end their turn at bat.

Now the teams were trading places, with the Titans taking their spots out on the field and the Devils up to bat. Yamcha took his spot on the pitcher's mound, trusting his pitching skills to redeem himself for that absolute failure before. Sure enough, it was the blond bastard himself who stepped up to the plate first, flashing him a gentle smile and giving him a small wave. Yamcha couldn't help but grind his teeth in frustration. Was this guy fucking with him? Maybe that was his whole plan. He was just trying to throw him off his game. Well, he wouldn't let him!

He made eye-contact with the catcher, who looked none-too-pleased about being in the position he was in. Titans catchers were unfortunately prone to broken hands when on the receiving end of Yamcha's pitches, and this one could already tell that he wasn't about to be throwing any softballs. He tentatively cycled through a few hand signals, each one of which Yamcha shook his head at. Only when the poor guy's shaking hand gave the signal for a fastball did he give the okay. He watched as the catcher immediately looked up towards the sky, crossing himself as he nervously mumbled a little prayer. He'd need it, if all went to plan.

Yamcha's eyes then locked onto the batter like a missile acquiring a target. He shifted his grip on the ball before winding up. He pulled his arm back, his leg held high in the air before slamming down to anchor him to the ground. His arm came around, and the ball left his hand with as much force behind it as he could muster.

There was a loud crack, and it wasn't the catcher's bones, fortunately enough for him. Scherbakov had matched his speed and power, striking the ball with such force that Yamcha could swear he saw a long crack form on the surface of the bat. He was so stunned that he hadn't even thought to repeat his opponent's miraculous leap before to catch the ball. Instead, he watched as it was launched clear into orbit.

Everything that happened after that seemed to fade into the scenery around him. The roar of the crowd, the amazement of the announcers, the screams of his coach, the celebrating in the opposing team's dugout… He didn't seem to hear any of it. As Scherbakov rounded the bases at a comfortable job, Yamcha was left standing there, completely unsure if he was even in reality anymore.

Who the hell was this guy?!