The Niihama-shi Ghosts were a team as wild and erratic as the summer storms that swept across the region. They were a blend of cultures, egos, and quirks, held together by a shared pursuit of glory and, beyond that, the antics of one Fernando Valdez. A pitcher as brilliant as he was exasperating, Fernando had a fastball that could confound any batter and a talent for pranks that could unravel the sanity of his even the sturdiest teammate. This night, however, was meant to be different. Hyo-sang Park’s backyard barbecue was an intimate affair—a small gathering of Ghosts seeking respite from the whirlwind of the season. Fernando’s invite had been lost in the mail.

“I’ll grant you, the lad’s clever,” Harold Stowe began, adjusting his sunglasses and taking a long pull from his beer. “But he’s a right menace. Take last April, for example. We’re in Okinawa, early in the season, and I’m trying to focus before a big at-bat. Now, Fernando, he knows my routine: a little tea, a biscuit, and a spot of peace. A ritual… keeps me grounded. ”Harold’s voice wavered with the indignation of a man who took his tea as seriously as his home runs. “So, imagine my surprise when I take a sip, and it’s searing, bloody American hot sauce. Carolina Reaper extract, as it were. Nearly seared my bloody tongue off! I spat it clear across the dugout. Fernando’s over there, leaning against the rail, shaking with laughter like a schoolboy caught behind the chapel. Took me three innings to get the taste out of my mouth, but I hit a homer that game.” He wavered a moment, “It’s possible there’s method to his madness.”

Young-pil leaned back in his chair, speaking softly but with an edge that suggested the memory still stung. “It was my first road trip with the Ghosts. Fernando welcomed me, called me ‘Rookie,’ said he’d help me fit in. I did not know him yet.” He paused, staring out at the grill where skewers sizzled. “Before my start against Kalamazoo, I went to put on my cleats. They felt… strange. Heavy. When I looked inside, they were filled with cooked rice. Sticky, too. Baked in there so I couldn’t even pry it out. Took me five minutes to find spare cleats, and by then, the team was laughing so hard they forgot to stretch.” A faint smile played on his lips despite the story. “I pitched eight scoreless innings that day. Fernando said it was ‘rice magic.’ I still don’t know if he was joking.”

Hyo-sang stood by the grill, one hand on a spatula, the other gesturing toward the group gathered around the table. His voice carried a solemn weight, as if recounting a tale of old battles.“It started with small things,” he began. “My locker was filled with confetti one morning. I thought, ‘Okay, fine, harmless.’ The next week, I found my batting helmet filled with yogurt. Fernando claimed it was a ‘gift of strength’—good protein before the game. My favorite baseball cap disappeared. Weeks later, I found it stuffed inside a watermelon in the fridge. Then my batting gloves? Soaked in fish sauce.” The group chuckled, but Hyo-sang shook his head. “It didn’t stop there. My car keys vanished before a road game. I had to take a taxi to the stadium, only to find my car parked on the field, the trunk stuffed with balloons.  But it escalated still.” He gestured to his backyard. “Last month, I hosted a barbecue for the team. A peaceful gathering, I thought. But when I opened my cooler for the beers, it was full of frogs. Frogs! Dozens of them, hopping everywhere. My kids screamed. My wife screamed. I screamed. ”The worst, though—the worst was the crabs.” Young-pil perked up. “Crabs?” “Live crabs,” Hyo-sang said grimly. “Dozens of them, dumped into my bathtub. My wife called me screaming while I was at practice. It took hours to get them out. One of them pinched my son’s finger. My son!” The laughter around the grill quieted, and Harold muttered, “Bit much, that. Can’t give a man’s wife crabs.”

“But then,” Hyo-sang continued, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial tone, “there was the game against Shin Seiki. I had a perfect day in centerfield—two diving catches, an assist to home plate. I came into the locker room, feeling proud. I opened my locker, and there it was—a live cobra! It struck me and there was blood everywhere!” The table erupted into laughter again, but Hyo-sang’s expression remained dark. “I know it was animatronic and the blood was just paint, but I didn’t realize that until after my heart nearly stopped!”

A quiet lingered over the group as they collectively contemplated whether Park’s receipt of an outsized portion of pranking constituted more of a reflection of friendship or one of harassment. In their collective reverie, however, the lights went out. The moonless Niihama night left only the embers from the grill to light the yard. Before anyone could contemplate a reaction, a low hum grew in volume overhead. Their eyes fixated toward the source, the men were blinded by a bright light and the booming voice of Fernando Valdez: “So very sorry I was unable to attend tonight due to a scheduling conflict. In lieu of my beloved presence, I offer you the gift of Yamata no Orichi! Enjoy dear friends!” The bright overhead lights softened to a faint glow, revealing the source to be a drone.

“We should run, lads” Stowe announced, but before anyone could agree, they heard a deep, loud mechanical whir grow louder and louder from the other side of the house. Suddenly, a bright red and blue blur shot over Park’s suburban home. The whirring passed over like a hundred Jurassic insects and began to climb in a spiraling pattern. The bright lights illuminated the yard and coalesced into the shape of a massive flying dragon soaring overhead. As they witnessed the awe-inspiring sight, the head of the dragon dipped and began to dive towards the men. They started to scatter when a streak of blinding white light shot from its mouth and hit the ground with a thunderous boom. The sprinklers turned on and soaked the partygoers. After a brief moment’s chaos unfolded, the dragon flew off into the distance, the lights returned, and the sprinklers relinquished.

A small cart had appeared where the “lightning” struck the ground. On it sat a case of luxury sake, and a small card that read, “To my friends: the only way to defeat the dragon is to become the storm. Drink well. Next season, we slay the beast.”