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Goshiki Tsutomu at sixteen thinks he’s seen everything already.
When he walks out of the court, for the first time in many years, he feels the weight of the world (and seven eagles) at his shoulders. The ground crumbles with every step he takes. He looks behind him and he’s filled with regret. He shouldn’t have looked back, he thinks. He shouldn’t have looked at Karasuno celebrating their victory.
Goshiki Tsutomu walks out of the court with a heavy heart and bruised pride.
The world is harsh.
—
Tsutomu got lucky. Yes. Lucky. He was quite aware already that volleyball was a hard sport. So for him to be good at the sport, he thinks he’s a good player. So when he finds out he’s the only first year starter, he thinks he’s a great player.
But when he sees Ushijima Wakatoshi, in all his greatness and strength, what does he think?
He thinks he could be like him, too. Maybe he could start using his left hand too so he can give his hits some really nasty spins. Maybe he could drink all the milk he finds in Shiratorizawa’s vending machines so he could grow another hundred centimeters, too. Maybe he should bury himself in all things volleyball, and maybe aspire to be a god. Because Ushijima felt like a god to Tsutomu. Because Ushijima made miracles on court, beating every opponent in his way.
Because you can only be an ace when you can pull off miracles.
Maybe Ushijima wasn’t feeling like a god that day, Tsutomu thinks. He remembers Shirabu’s blank expression, Tendou’s sad smile, Semi’s desperation. But Ushijima? There’s nothing to see. All Tsutomu could remember about Ushijima was a hollow shell and a hollow heart. Where was the extreme disappointment that Tsutomu and the others felt? Where did defeat hit Ushijima Wakatoshi?
“Goshiki.”
Tsutomu blinks back tears. Maybe it was here, in the post-game meeting and practice. Maybe it was here that Tsutomu finds Ushijima’s disappointment in him. Maybe. Maybe. Maybe.
“I’m counting on you.”
So it wasn’t disappointment at all. Tsutomu cries.
—
He follows Karasuno during the nationals. He watches the small, orange dude who beat him at the inter-high a few months ago. He watches the tall, blonde guy who blocked his and Ushijima’s spikes. He watches the captain and the libero who he finds really awesome (he will never admit it out loud).
Karasuno beats Tsubakihara and the ceiling serve kid. He watches them celebrate victory; blonde guy and small orange kid are on the ground, the libero on top of them. Their pretty manager offers a soft smile. Their advisor makes some speech but he blocks out every sound.
He thinks that could have been Shiratorizawa’s volleyball team. But the truth is, it couldn’t have been. There is no Hinata Shoyou or Kageyama Tobio on the team. The truth is, he’s only Goshiki Tsutomu.
Tsutomu has always been a plethora of things people have thought of him: bowl cut kid, powerful hitter kid, really annoying first year who wishes to be ace. Tsutomu was many things all at once, but never the one he aspired to be the most: an ace.
Karasuno’s match ends. Tsutomu turns off the television.
—
Tsutomu at six years old thought he could never be anything he wanted. Because the moon was far away, he can’t be a moon living man so he forgets about space. Because he was afraid of messy penmanship and he worries about giving wrong medicine, he forgets about pharmacy. Because the world was cruel, his small tomato plant died just after a week of it growing a few leaves to life. Because, Tsutomu thinks, everything is so hard and complicated that maybe, he could never be anything.
Then it just happened. Maybe six year old Goshiki Tsutomu was wrong all along. Maybe he could be someone in the world of volleyball. He made a small checklist and he knew he was fit for volleyball: he was tall and strong and he had a bowl cut. So, seven year old Tsutomu, despite knowing that a tall wall will forever loom in front of him, aspired to be an ace. How cool would that be; Goshiki Tsutomu #4, ace?
How fucking naive.
—
On Karasuno’s next match, Shirabu made a visit to his room. Ugly ass Shirabu-san, he thinks as he looks at him with bored eyes. Doesn’t he have his own television?
“You know, Shirabu-san, you can watch this on your ow—”
“Shut up, li’l bowl cut,” Shirabu hisses, throwing him a pillow. “It’s starting.”
Maybe Tsutomu did hate Shirabu. He was an annoying setter. He was an annoying teammate and senpai and all the other horrible words Tsutomu could use to describe the ugly shape of shit he finds outside his house. Stinky, ugly, why is it even here? The list goes on.
“Listen up, you scrub,” Shirabu says, pointing at the screen. “I’m gonna toss to you like that. Wait for me.”
He doesn’t say anything until the second set ended.
Listen up, scrub. Hell. Like Tsutomu wanted to take orders from this setter? Yes. More likely than you think. So he does as he’s told and he looks at Shirabu with the same amount of respect he holds with Ushijima. I’m gonna toss to you like that. So Tsutomu thinks, maybe Ushijima wasn’t the only god around. Maybe Shirabu Kenjirou, too, was a god. Because he makes miracles with his tosses, because he moves Tsutomu around the court. Wait for me. Tsutomu wants to pass away. Wait for me. Wait for me. Wait for me.
Shirabu thinks Goshiki Tsutomu was always ahead of him. Goshiki wants to cry again.
Maybe Tsutomu didn’t hate Shirabu, after all.
—
At age 14, Tsutomu thought he’s done it. This is it, he whispered. Childhood me would be so proud, he added. His middle school team is one match away from nationals. One more match and then he might just get to be the big volleyball prodigy that old geezers talked about in the bleachers.
The world is cruel.
Tsutomu learned this for the second time when he exited the gym. No one said a word to him, but someone patted his back. He looked back to see his captain smiling at him, face proud and beaming. “You did well, ace.”
“Goshiki,” his third year setter said, following their captain. “You’re gonna go to places. You’re going to be a big star. Nothing will ever be over for you.”
The world is cruel.
Tsutomu learns this for the third time the day Hinata Shoyou collapsed on the gym floor. Maybe the world would never be kind to volleyball players, he thinks. Not to him. Not to Shoyou. Not to Karasuno and Shiratorizawa.
The camera zooms in on Takeda and Hinata, and Tsutomu feels like he’s disrupting something intimate. Takeda holds Hinata by the shoulder. Hinata, too, like Tsutomu a few months ago, is crying.
“Hinata-kun,” Takeda begins. Tsutomu closes his eyes but he listens through his laptop’s speakers. “This, too, is volleyball. Think about how to win.”
Tsutomu cried. Maybe those words, from his captain in middle school and Takeda from Karasuno, somehow got lost in his mind for days. Like a man on the moon with no weight to hold him down, the words floated around his mind. Next to it were bags of disappointment, bruised egos, and maybe, a broken heart.
But this was Goshiki Tsutomu. This was a child, who, at six, wanted to go to the moon. Wanted to be a pharmacist. Wanted to be an ace. But the moon was too far and college was several years away. So he settles to be an ace. So he makes his way to Shiratorizawa. So he becomes the only first year starter. So he has Shirabu Kenjiro-san toss to him for two years, giving him all the hard balls, with trust that he’ll spike them all the same. So he had Ushijima say he would be counting on him. So he trains hard, every fucking day.
So Goshiki Tsutomu would someday roll off the tongues of the old geezers at the bleachers, the way his name is placed at the gap between their teeth is almost sacred and holy.
—
Shiratorizawa doesn’t make it to nationals again. Because, you see, there was no Hinata Shoyou or Kageyama Tobio on his team. There was no Futakuchi Kenji or Aone Takanobu on his team. The truth is, you are only Goshiki Tsutomu.
The world has been cruel but you... you will stay kind. And you will stay on the path that you have been desperately treading on since you were seven. The moon is far and out of reach, but dreaming is free. So maybe you can live on the moon. So maybe you can be an ace. So you humble yourself and you remain kind. The world is harsh. So what? You are Goshiki Tsutomu. You will be going places. You will be a star. Nothing will ever end for you.
You are only Goshiki Tsutomu. You are both nothing and everything at the same time. Maybe six year old you thought of Rio and Tokyo olympics. You are not at Rio and Tokyo Olympics. You are no longer anything like what you’ve first dreamt of, but you can settle for this. You are everything: an ace, a moon man, a pharmacist, a plant dad. A kid two years younger than you will someday cry in front of you as you declare, “I’m counting on you.” There will always be a time for you. The world will someday bow down and say, I’m gonna be kind today. What are you gonna do?
Goshiki Tsutomu thought that at age sixteen, he’s seen everything already.
A nameless school makes its way to nationals. A powerhouse school loses. A flourishing plant born from the concrete. Long, narrow, winding roads to victory. The path is hard but he makes his way through, so he thought, he’s seen everything.
Tsutomu at twenty two thinks about how he was so wrong at sixteen. He hasn’t seen everything; he’s only started to see. He doubts that he will be able to see everything—because the world was harsh and he knows. He knows that there will never be an end for Goshiki Tsutomu.
Maybe someone out there on the bleachers, or a seven year old kid crying about tomato plants, will think of him and say: He is a god. He’s made miracles on court. You see that? He’s Goshiki Tsutomu.
—
The crowd is noisy. Tsutomu spikes a ball across the court.
Only those able to pull off miracles can be called aces.