Chapter Text
Initially, it was hard to call between the two teams. The white-clad players were bigger, built for defence. The reds were leaner, more agile.
Up in the gallery, Aida Hikoichi was watching. Neither basketball nor high school sport were his beats these days – if you wanted a career in sports journalism, you had to cover more popular scenes like soccer and racing. It was a colleague who’d urged him to attend the prefectural final in Kanagawa. High school basketball was getting interesting again, apparently.
Both teams were playing a cautious game. If anything, the white side had the advantage of height. The reds weren’t making inroads. The scores hovered at single digits for the first half. Disappointed, Hikoichi thought he would just give it a few minutes more before leaving.
Then, everything changed. When the reds came back on court, they had transformed. They began to bait their opponents by leaving the hoop fully exposed. It pulled the whites out of their rigid formation, and each time this happened, the reds surged past and scored.
“Daring strategy,” murmured Hikoichi, and stroked his chin. The red team was not relying on any particular star player. But they were the most cohesive group Hikoichi had seen in years. When they switched their game tactics in the second half, it was executed like clockwork. The white team did not seem to have an answer.
I hand it to their coach. Whatever it was he told them at half time had turned them into a different team altogether. Hikoichi chewed on his pen, looking for the man in question.
They call him the 'Comeback Coach', because he can totally change how the game runs, Hikoichi’s colleague had told him. You should take a look. This will be the third time that he’s brought Kitaminami to the last four.
Unbelievable, Hikoichi had remarked. Surprised he’s not called the Miracle Coach. But if they’ve made top four so many times, how come I’ve never heard of this school? Kitaminami?
Because it’s not a school. It’s a mongrel team. You’ll see what I mean.
Hikoichi squinted, trying to see the face of the man on the bench... and nearly choked in surprise. He knew that guy.
So many college scouts had looked him over, their expressions giving away their thoughts. You're good, kid, but not that good.
But that was years ago now, and that heady anticipation, that high of the competition, all that was long gone. So many dreams, so many goals, all crumbled into dust. One moment you were on top of the world, the next you were being sucked downward, life forcing you to make one bad decision after another, like flipping a weighted coin.
He hadn't exactly hit rock bottom. He'd never return to the gangs, would never again beat on kids whose happiness he resented. But life was just... empty. An endless sequence of days doing meaningless tasks, just to afford to return to a dingy room, and to avoid asking for handouts from his old man and stepmother.
“Must it rain now?”
The grumbling of the customer in front of him broke his mind's drift. The wide glass pane of the convenience store window was slick with rain. Mitsui caught sight of his own distorted reflection in it. Standing behind the cash register, dark smudges for eyes. A ghost under the fluorescent lighting. Pathetic.
Mechanically, he bagged the purchases and pushed them toward the customer. "Thanks, please come again."
"Mitsui-san!" hissed the other cashier. "The change."
"Uh, sorry Touda-san." He fumbled the coins, which the customer took with a dissatisfied grunt.
Another customer, and another. A man offloaded 20 boxes of medicated plasters on the counter. "Uh, back injury, golf," he said, as if it needed to be explained. "You have any more? I emptied the shelf."
Mitsui paused, hand on the scanner. "Easy on those. They're toxic in big doses."
The customer blinked, unsure how to respond.
"Pain patches. Methyl salicylate. They can be t- "
The store manager bustled over, pushing past Mitsui. He scanned the boxes, ordered Touda to get more from the stock room, and the customer was soon on his way. Then he turned on Mitsui. Despite being a head taller than his supervisor, Mitsui took a step back.
"What are you, a doctor?” he scolded. “When do you get to lecture the customer about nonsense like toxic pain patches?"
"Because I - " began Mitsui, feeling his blood boil. He wanted to explain how he knew this from years of nursing sports injuries. The words flickered in his mind, went out. "It doesn't matter."
The manager snickered. "Anyway, you think someone comes in this time of night with a golf injury? You're more stupid than I thought."
Mitsui spread his hands. "I don't get it." He looked over at Touda.
"They say it's popular because of the tingling sensation..." Touda made a little gesture as if stroking something, and she giggled.
I have to get out of here, thought Mitsui.
Genrei High School was a few blocks away from the convenience store, and about the same distance from Mitsui's shoebox apartment. At least, the building used to be Genrei High. After enrolment plummeted, its students were relocated to another school, leaving an empty shell. Pity, as the building itself was in good shape.
Since he worked the night shift, Mitsui came here one or two afternoons each week. He'd sneak in from the side, peeling back the loose netting that covered a hole in the fence. The Keep Out and Municipality Property signs were no deterrence whatsoever. Then he’d make a beeline to the school hall, where the basketball hoops were.
There had been a time when he and Tetsuo would have vandalised a derelict building like this, leaving beer cans and cigarette butts everywhere. Mitsui had seen no graffiti so far; once he'd encountered a junkie using in one of the toilets, but apart from that the sole permanent squatter was an old homeless man. He had a battered purple sleeping bag and never slept in the same part of the school twice. Sometimes, when Mitsui came across his bag unattended, with its little pile of food tins, he would stuff a 1000-yen note into the hood. The bag always looked clean, so the guy wasn't a drunk. In any case, for the past two years that he'd been coming here, Mitsui was seldom disturbed.
At first it seemed that today would be no different. The ball spinning in his hand. The staccato rhythm on the hardwood floor, echoing in the hall. Pause, snap of the wrist, a beautiful arc, the whisk of the net as the ball passed through the hoop. The court was a place where everything was motion, no need for thought or regret.
Then - voices. Mitsui heard them as the ball just left his hands, and saw three surprised faces at the open door of the hall. The ball continued on its inevitable path, only barely touching the rim of the hoop before dropping through and bouncing on the floor below. No-one moved for a few seconds.
Finally one of the newcomers reacted. "HEY! This place is off limits!" He wore a yellow hard hat and was holding some kind of instrument in his hand. Mitsui instinctively sized him up, ready to push him aside if they tried anything. But the guy didn’t come closer. Instead, the man behind him surged forward, his mouth agape. One step, two, then he was running over, his eyes bright with recognition.
"Mitsui?"
Mitsui swallowed hard. The moment the round-rimmed glasses came into view, the instant he heard that voice, Mitsui recognised him. Kogure of all people. Mitsui felt his scalp prickle with embarrassment.
"Mitsui, I'm so glad to see you." Kogure sounded like he meant it. "Just give me a moment." He hastily conversed with the other two. "Let's take a break. I'll give you the checklist for this afternoon, shortly." The other men, evidently construction engineers, were confused but ambled away.
"Kogure." After this acknowledgement, Mitsui went to pick up the ball, avoiding eye contact.
"I can’t believe you’re here. It's been - what? - at least ten years since I saw you."
"Something like that." Mitsui had to get away. "You look busy. I should go. I don't come here much. I was just curious. Just looking around." Mitsui faltered.
Before Mitsui could dodge him, Kogure grabbed his arm, and his voice was serious. "Look, don’t run away. I really want to talk. None of us knew what happened to you…”
“Nothing happened to me.”
Kogure's spectacles glinted as he stuck out his chin, as he always did when he was gripped by determination. “The inspection can carry on without me. It's nearly lunch. We can go eat something and catch up. Do you need to get back to work - are you in a hurry?"
"I work the night shift," Mitsui replied dully.
Perhaps Kogure sensed something from his tone and knew instinctively the best thing to do was keep pushing. "We'll go. We'll go now."