Bound In Diamond

Father, Son and Silence

Chris’s hand slowly healed.

The splint came off after a month, replaced by stretching exercises and light drills. His coach warned him not to rush. Kenji offered no words but tightened the screws on the backyard throwing net and left new resistance bands on the kitchen counter.

Ayumi watched it all quietly, eyes sharp and tired.

But there was a shift in the air.

It came quietly — the kind of tension that crept into dinner conversations, turned eye contact into avoidance, and filled the car rides with unspoken things.

Eijun didn’t understand at first.

Until he heard Chris’s voice through the vent one night.

“You don’t have to call me your son.”

The words hit Eijun like a fastball to the chest.

He pressed his ear to the floor, breath shallow.

Downstairs, Kenji’s voice was low and unreadable. “I never said you weren’t.”

“You don’t have to,” Chris replied, and there was no anger — only weariness. “I’m not trying to replace Eijun. I’m just trying to be… enough.”

“You think I asked for that?” Kenji shot back.

Ayumi’s voice cut in, calm but sharp. “Stop.”

“I didn’t—”

“I said stop.” Her tone brokered no argument.

Silence.

Chris’s voice dropped, barely above a whisper. “I made it to the LLWS semis. I thought… maybe that would be enough.”

Eijun didn’t know what the LLWS was. But he knew that “semis” meant you didn’t win.

Chris’s voice broke a little. “But I still wasn’t good enough to hear you say it.”

Eijun bit down on his lip, hard.

He didn’t sleep that night.

---

The next day, Eijun refused to talk to Kenji.

He answered questions with shrugs. Ignored good mornings. Ate dinner with his head down. Kenji noticed, of course — frowned, as if annoyed, but didn’t ask.

Until Saturday.

They were alone in the garage. Kenji was fixing the handle on Eijun’s beat-up glove while Eijun sat on a bench, arms crossed.

“You mad about something?”

Silence.

Kenji glanced at him. “What, the glove?”

Eijun didn’t answer.

Kenji sighed and stood to leave.

Eijun blurted, “Why don’t you say anything nice to Niichan?”

Kenji stopped cold.

Eijun’s fists clenched. “He won a bunch of games. He works hard. He’s always helping me. He’s like… like a superhero catcher! But you just ignore him!”

Kenji turned slowly.

“That what Chris told you?”

“No!” Eijun snapped. “But I heard you! Through the vent!”

Kenji looked away. “You shouldn’t listen to things that aren’t meant for you.”

“Then say it to him!” Eijun shouted, tears pooling in his eyes. “Say it so he knows you see him!”

Kenji stared at him.

Eijun rubbed his eyes furiously. “You’re our dad. Even if he has a different one somewhere, you’re still the one here.”

For the first time in years, Kenji looked stunned.

Then… he sat back down.

“Your brother’s got Animal’s genes,” he said after a pause. “The baseball blood. He didn’t get it from me. That makes it hard.”

Eijun sniffled. “Why?”

Kenji picked up the glove again, his fingers moving slower this time. “Because when I see him succeed, I feel like I had nothing to do with it. I can’t take pride in something I didn’t build.”

“But you raised him,” Eijun said. “You taught him how to ride a bike. You drove him to every tournament. You stayed up fixing his glove when he broke it.”

Kenji didn’t respond.

“He’s yours,” Eijun whispered. “Even if he’s not.”

---

That night, Kenji stood outside Chris’s room for several minutes before knocking.

Chris didn’t look up from his book.

“I heard you’re cleared for full training next week,” Kenji said.

Chris nodded without a word.

Kenji stepped inside, slowly — unsure, hands in his pockets. “I never said it, but I’m proud of you.”

Chris’s head jerked up.

Kenji’s voice shook. “I mean it. Not because you’re good at baseball. But because… you kept going. Even when I didn’t make it easy for you. Even when I was unfair.”

Chris stared at him, frozen in place.

Kenji exhaled shakily. “You didn’t need to win the LLWS for me to notice. You’ve been here. Doing everything right. Even with a hand that won’t heal fast enough, even when your old man says nothing. And I… I see you.”

He paused, then added, softer this time, “You don’t need to be the best for me to notice you, Chris. I’ve noticed you for a long time. When you pack your own gear so your mom can sleep. When you warm up Eijun even though your hand hurts. When you take the trash out without anyone asking. It’s not just the big things. I see the quiet ones too.”

Chris’s throat worked around a lump. He tried to nod. Tried to say thank you. But instead—his voice broke.

And then he cried.

Not loud sobs. Not messy, childlike tears. But quiet, shaking ones — tears that had built up over years of trying so hard to earn something that should’ve been freely given.

Kenji stood there, unsure, then stepped closer. Sat beside him.

For a moment, neither spoke.

Then Chris whispered, hoarse and raw, “That’s the first time you’ve said it.”

“I know,” Kenji murmured. “I should’ve said it sooner.”

Chris wiped his face with his sleeve, eyes burning. “I thought maybe if I became the best… you’d see me. You’d want to see me.”

Kenji didn’t say he was sorry. He just sat there. Quiet. Present.

Chris turned toward him, shoulders trembling. “Do I really belong here?”

Kenji didn’t hesitate this time.

“You always have.”

---

Later that night, Eijun came home from Wakana’s house to find Chris asleep on the couch, the TV playing silent baseball highlights.

A blanket had been draped over his shoulders.

Kenji was nowhere in sight, but his presence lingered like warmth in the room.

And for the first time in a long while, the house felt like home.

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