Meet Me at Home Plate

Welcome to Camp

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There was no better smell than a ball field at the crack of dawn.

The red dirt was still damp, the chalk lines freshly dragged, the outfield grass cut so clean and level it looked painted on. Naruto stopped just inside the gate and took a deep breath, let the crisp fall air fill his lungs all the way to the bottom.

Somewhere past the backstop, a metal bat cracked. The sound echoed off the empty bleachers and rolled out toward the mountains.

He still couldn't believe he was here.

He'd made it. Not because of one big moment, but because of all the small ones stacked up. Every grueling drill in July heat, every camp check-in where he wrote his name too big on the tag, every travel team where he was the loud kid in the back of the van, every night in his backyard throwing at the fence until his mom yelled about the dents.

Konoha University. Fall ball. The school's practice jersey with his last name stitched on the back.

Naruto pulled the brim of his hat down and grinned to himself. For about ten seconds, it was just him and the field and that perfect smell.

Then he saw Sasuke.

Same black hair under the red practice hat, same loose stance by the cage, already taking soft toss like he'd been here for years. Sasuke glanced up, saw Naruto, and his face did exactly what Naruto expected it to do. Nothing.

That was the cue. Naruto hitched his bag higher and started across the dirt toward the one person who had once been his goal, and the one person who'd spent the last four years pretending he didn't exist.

Which sucked, considering Naruto had once considered the guy his best friend.

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Light filtered through the trees, freckling Naruto's nose as the wind rushed through the car and tussled his golden hair.

"Naruto," his father called from the front seat, "roll up that window, you're messing up your mother's hair."

He pretended he didn't hear him. Instead he held his arm out the window and let the mountain air lift his palm, then dive, flying a hand-plane the way ten-year-olds do when the road climbs and the air turns cold.

"Naruto. Window."

His mother turned around, laughing as she tried to pin her fiery red strands. "He's fine, dear. A little air won't kill us, ya know?"

His duffle was wedged tight against the seat, zipper straining around cleats that were still too clean, a glove he'd oiled three nights in a row, and two weeks of shirts his mom had folded and refolded. Every bump made the bag thump his calves and he could smell the leather through the canvas.

"Naruto," his dad tried again, softer now, "you're gonna freeze that arm off before camp even starts."

"Oh, cool it, Minato, he's just excited." She glanced back. "Isn't that right, Naruto?"

He yanked his arm in just long enough to nod hard, then shot it back out. "Coach said we get the field by the creek. Two weeks, Mom. Two whole weeks."

The car kept climbing toward the aspens. The turnoff came up fast after the last switchback.

His dad eased off the gas and the tires left pavement for gravel. Naruto had to pull his arm in then, his fingers coming back cold and pink. He wiped them on his shorts without looking.

A hand-painted sign leaned between two pines: BASEBALL CAMP CHECK-IN → with an arrow that pointed down toward the creek. Below it the trees opened and you could see it all at once, three dusty diamonds cut into the meadow, a row of low cabins, kids already whipping out their mitts and throwing a ball, itching to get started as bad as he was.