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It is often a miniscule thing. Something tiny that makes you realize just how deep you had fallen without ever noticing. And then, suddenly, you hit the rock bottom so hard that it bruises your soul on the impact.
Chris could still see it in his mind: a step. Or rather the step. The one he was behind everybody else during the warm-up runs today. There were no comments, because those were just a few warm-up sprints before the actual practice and nobody went all out by those. Unless, of course, you did and still finished behind everybody. Chris wished he could say that he was blowing this out of proportion, but facts were facts: you either needed to be a fast sprinter or a strong batter.
He had never been a sprinter. A decent runner, but never the fastest. His major offensive weapon was solid batting average prone to homeruns…in the past.
“This is ridiculous,” Chris grumbled into the empty dorm-room. His roommates would probably wonder about him sitting gloomily in the dark, but they were…somewhere and he was left alone to his spiraling thoughts. Chris reached out to his bed-lamp and turned it on. Then he peeled the ice-pack away from his shoulder and studied the joint.
The swelling and discoloration following his injury was long gone. The only reminder of his wrong decisions was a series of small scars after his surgery. The incisions were shockingly small for how much damage he had done to himself. The surgeon promised the scarring would fade even more. Not yet, but with time. He said it like it should matter, while Chris couldn't care less. All the pain, all the awkwardness of losing his self-sufficiency, that all paled in comparison to losing baseball. It was like his soul was ripped apart, his whole life shredded to pieces. His reality so painful that his only reason to go on became a measly maybe. Some days it even seemed possible, but such good days were few and far between.
Still he soldiered on through the physical therapy and endless days of stretching. No weights, no running, just his prescribed diet of pills and ice-packs. It took weeks for the pain to subside enough so he could walk without worrying about jostling his injured joint. When he first realized that steps no longer brought him pain, it felt like the sun had come up again in his life. Like maybe there really was a chance for him.
He realized his mistake right on the first training. Already by the first run. What did he really expect? Chris tossed the ice-pack to the side and with a huff pushed to sit at the edge of the bed. Once again in his life, he was stupid to expect things turning out for the better. The writing was on the wall the whole time. There were signs, he just chose to ignore them. Right. Because that used to work out so well for him in the past. He could see it sharply now. His legs that used to stretch the seams of his pants after matches looked powerless. When did they get weaker?
“Weaker?” he mumbled to himself in disbelief. Today at practice he gave his all and still couldn't keep up with people who barely gave it any effort. No time to coddle his bruised ego. Not weaker. He had gotten weak.
He pushed off the bed and walked over to the mirror hanging by the door. Time to face the music. He swallowed hard and forced his eyes to take in what was his new reality: in the dim light of the small lamp, he looked ghostly, his body a mixture of white skin untouched by the sun overpainted by dark shadows. He attention fixed on his right arm hanging at his side stiffly. It looked thin and lost all muscle definition, like an old man’s arm. Barely able to lift a bat. Useless. His legs. Useless.
But the worst of all, by far the worst of all was his face. Surely that couldn’t be him. His cheekbones stood out sharper than he ever remembered. The turn of the lips was downward, harsh and off-putting. Instead of eyes he had flat dull pits staring lifelessly. He looked like a corpse. A breathing, living corpse. No wonder people avoided him.
Knock-knock.
This shell of a body.
Knock-knock.
Shell of a person.
Knock-knock.
He frowned, feeling a choking darkness closing up his throat.
Knock-knock. “Senpai?”
He had nothing. No dreams to start or continue. He was nothing.
“Senpai, I’m coming in!”
He hated himself.
“Senpai?”
Suddenly, Miyuki appeared at his side, pulling his gaze away from himself. Miyuki stared at their reflection, looking a little startled. Like he sensed that he interrupted something.
“Senpai?” he started hesitantly. “Hah, sorry to barge in, Kanemaru told me I’d find you here.” He loosely motioned towards the door. “I was knocking. But you didn’t answer, so I figured that maybe you have earbuds in …” he trailed off, his eyes briefly fixing on Chris’ ears before they moved away.
Chris frowned, avoiding to look at their reflection in the mirror. “What do you want?”
Miyuki didn’t flinch at the harsh tone but replied readily: “Our next game on Tuesday.”
Chris looked at him uncomprehending. “What about it?” he asked sharply, his lip curling into a snarl.
Miyuki looked genuinely puzzled at his reaction, like he expected Chris to punch his arm playfully next and start laughing. Only Chris hadn’t laughed in a long time. He also didn’t have any patience to spare either. It probably showed on his face, because Miyuki answered hastily: “You could help me with the analysis. I have a video of Mei’s last game.”
Chris stared at him, feeling his wild emotions bubbling closer to the surface. “So I am supposed to help you, starting catcher?” The barb in the question didn’t seem to penetrate Miyuki’s thick skin though, because he only nodded with a satisfied smile.
“Help Seido,” he corrected insolently. Then he lifted a shopping bag in his hand Chris hadn’t noticed before. “I bought mochi with chocolate topping for us.”
“You hate chocolate,” Chris commented without thinking. A small smile crossed Miyuki’s features, like it pleased him that Chris knew that. Then he shrugged. “But you like it. Also sugar is good brain food.” Then sudden redness climbed up his cheeks. “So I can wait here till you get dressed and we could watch the match in the club room.”
Chris looked down at himself, realizing that he was standing almost naked in front of Miyuki who was now looking into the shopping bag, babbling something about Pokari.
Their reflection caught Chris’ eyes: they couldn’t appear more different: Miyuki clothed, eyes shining, Chris weak and with lost weight, eyes dull. And yet, despite that he still entertained the idea of going with Miyuki and watching the match, even though it would mean helping the one who stole his position. No, not helping Miyuki, but helping Seido. He could do that. At least a small way to be still useful.
***
“Did you hear that Takigawa came to practice today?”
“Yeah. Seen him a bit. Don’t get the fuss, though. He was lame.”
“In a B squad no less.”
Miyuki’s bat swooshing through the air was still not enough to drown out the voices of the other players standing around gossiping. Miyuki scowled. Losers. Even without a bat or a mitt, Chris Takigawa Yuu was Seido’s sharpest weapon. Of that Miyuki had no doubt.