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On the random day of a random week of a random month of a random year, he received a letter in the mailbox. The exact date? He couldn’t remember, even if he tried. The middle of each month melts into a whole lot of nothing, every single one– even this one, the randomly life-changing one. While he dreamt of someone swooping in and saving him from the monotony of life, he hadn’t expected them to come in the mailbox in the form of a letter from the JFU. But, they did. On a random day of a random week of a random month of a random year, he opened a dented mailbox and found a letter addressed to him from the JFU.
The corner was already bent when he opened it. His name in glistening, shiny letters– the rest of the letter written hastily with Microsoft Word, margins 1.5 inches apart. A template used by some poor intern who was probably working minimum wage for the JFU. He doesn’t know why that stuck out to him, but it did. A random person in a random office sent this pretty letter to a random person in a random home. Weird. Intentional. His address was written neatly on the envelope with a pen. Weird. Intentional. This was, it seems, an actual letter, written by an actual person, sent to him.
Google Search : how to tell if a letter sent to you by the JFU is real or fake
Searching, searching, searching. Check, check, check. The stamp looks legit. The signature looks legit. He brushes his fingers over the letter, feeling for any weird bumps. Check. He walks into his home, keys dangling from one hand and the letter in the other. Throws his backpack on the floor. Check. The smell of food greets him. The atmosphere is humid. The simmering pan releases a waft of smoke into the kitchen. Heavy air. Heavy.
His mother, multi-tasking, working the washing machine in the same room, looks over and greets him, motioning to her phone– sound settings on speaker, his aunt’s voice cracking through the air. He nods. Walks up the very short steps, walks into his room, shuts the door. The air immediately feels lighter. He switches on the fan– room feels lighter still. Opens the window– he doesn’t usually do that, but today feels a little special. Sits down. Wants to call someone, but doesn’t have anyone to call on his phone.
Reads the letter.
Being picked to participate in the JFU’s one-of-a-kind new soccer training facility program is a weird feeling. To be sure he isn’t dreaming, he looks it up on the internet. JFU.org press statement reads: New Ultra-Secret Project Launched by JFU to promote the advancement and cultural enrichment of Japanese adolescent football– clunky, clunky. The post has 29 views, 14 shares. No comments. He looks down at the letter.
For strikers, it says. No mention of any cultural enrichment or adolescent growth.
“This might be a front to get my organs stolen.”-- that’s… what he would say if he had a friend with him to talk to about this. But he doesn’t. Lunchbox friends who call his braid weird and cannot comprehend the meaning behind it, his desire to have something that sticks out about him, something that compliments his unique hair color and funny teeth do not count. Shakes his head, crawls into his bed. Spends a few minutes watching Tiktok and Youtube and then crawls out of bed, into the shower, dries his hair– neatly braids it– and then is out of the bathroom again. Picks the bundled up clothes he threw off in the bathroom and throws them into his room. Walks downstairs.
Letter in hand.
His mother has finished setting dinner and wiping down the tables and looks, as always, tired. But smiling. His father eats his food, also smiling, also tired, as he greets his son.
“I have an announcement.” he says.
“Have you done your homework?” His mother asks, maybe teasingly, maybe not. Kurona sits down on the table, picks up his fork. His father laughs and shakes his mother’s concern off. He shouldn’t. He didn’t do his homework. His backpack rots in the entrance of the door.
“I got a letter from the JFU.”
The mutual shock on his parents' faces is kind of funny. They glance at each other, then back at him. They know he’s good at football. They know he’s one of the best players in his high school. But they also know that being the best player in a particularly mundane school doesn’t particularly mean shit.
“Well, what’s it about?” His mother asks. He leaves it on the table. His father picks it up and his mother leans over to read it with him. Eyes glimmer. They stare back at him. The fan in the background pushes strands of his mother’s hair up, strands of red glistening against the setting sun. It’s pretty. His father’s lips twitch in a smile that is particularly foreign to him. Not his normal smile.
The next few moments are kind of a blur to him. His father, a genuine excitement lacing his tone, announcing that he would take the day off work to drive him to the facility. His mother, nearly bouncing off the chair in delight, hugging her son. The JFU program, a program that would– most likely– probably just involve some random team exercises with random high schoolers, saddled with boring motivational speeches and cheap freebies– alighting a storm in his parents. It’s a glimmer of hope, probably. Not for them, but for him. The JFU. Japanese Football Union. Random Word document offering his parents a look into the possible potential of their very boring, very average son. That’s what he thinks, at least.
“I’ll pack my bags.”
He goes up into his room, shuts the door, shuts down the window letting the light in. Switches on lamp. Watches the little particles of dust in the room. Sits down at his desk and refreshes his mail app, a few times over like he usually does. A routine. A habit. There’s nothing. And then there’s something.
Conformation to enter the BLUE LOCK program. A pdf. To be printed out for safekeeping. Also— a signature from both parents. He turns off his phone, walks downstairs. Navigates his parents through the online process that is, to say the least, painful. But the way his mother beams once the button reads successfully submitted makes him a little happy.
Walks up the stairs again. Slides into bed. Forgets to lock his door, cueing his father’s entrance. Leans against the door. Smiles.
“I’m proud of you.”
He rolls over in bed. A certain kind of happiness— as well as a certain kind of burden— sets in his stomach. Shoulders sag. Wonders if he should do some yoga or something, meditation maybe, to unwind. But doesn’t. A dusty yoga mat rots under his bed. His soccer ball, though, glimmers in the rays of his lamp. Used. The black patches starting to peel off.
He loves football. Don’t get him wrong. But it was a hobby. Not much more than that. He’s talented, but not incredibly so. That’s what his parents thought. That’s what he thought. Then a stupid Word document with 1.5 inch margins came in the mail. Swooped in like it was nothing. Maybe will be nothing. Will be a nice title to put on his resume, though. Some something thousand days from now, when he’s out of college, out of this home, into some cramped apartment in Tokyo with a 9-5 job. Not what he wants. Of course not. But it’ll be what he has, he thinks. To send remissions back home.
He thinks of his mother and his father, thinks of this home. Hope coils in his belly, but he quickly smothers it down. Think rationally, think. Think, Kurona, think. Of family. Of himself. Of home. Of what he was born into, and what he is.
Always take the logical choice. That’s what his mother says. Be logical. Think logically. You are what you are.
You are what you want to be.
The new thought invokes a strange feeling in his chest. He closes his eyes. Ignore it. New day ahead. Packed duffel bag in his room. A letter his mother hung up on the refrigerator, bent on the edge. Microsoft Word.
A random day of a random week of a random month of a random year. For now, that is all it is. For the unprecedented future, the one now neatly plopped into his hands— that is all it could be.