Jersey Number 77
Disclaimer: Don't own. Just borrowing.
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Dear Kaede,
Do you remember that day? Just a regular one-on-one, like other days. Blazing hot sun, and still the two of us played on, sweat pouring down our faces and bodies. People passing by the court must have thought we were crazy. Just after you'd scored another basket, though, the skies darkened all of a sudden. It began to pour, as if Heaven's heart was broken.
We ran for shelter under a tree. Not soon enough, for soon you began shivering and sneezing. You wrapped your arms around yourself and leaned against the trunk, turning away from me. I handed you my towel, to add to the one draped around your shoulders, but you refused. What was a guy to do then? His best friend, shaking in the cold, rejecting his offer of warmth despite obvious discomfort. You really worried me there, you know. I knew you hadn't been taking care of yourself. Bad boy.
Heh, I still laugh when I remember the look on your face as I moved to hug you, enfolding your lithe body in my arms in an attempt to warm you up. It must have worked; you started to feel rather hot to me in no time. Your face was blazing red, you know that? The glare you shot me was priceless. If not for the fact that you were freezing, I might have let go right then, fearing for my life.
I guess you gave up trying to struggle out of it after a while. I'm still stronger than you, ne? You just let me hold you, under that tree in the pouring rain, as you gradually stopped shivering. Even after the rain stopped, though, I didn't let you go.
It started then, didn't it? All the times we had. The meals at all those cafes and restaurants with me nagging at you to eat more while you rolled those blue eyes at me. The movies where I'd be laughing like a maniac at the lame jokes, and you'd call me a do'ahou, smile just tugging at the corner of your mouth. The five-minute phone calls that turned into late-night marathons, both content to just stay on the line listening to the other's silence, more often than not, unwilling to hang up. The discreet hand-holding, the tentative hugs, the shy kisses.
That's what I want you to remember, Kaede. The good times. Not the bad. Not what happened after he found out. My father.
We knew others didn't approve of our relationship. Even after so much progression and change, Japan is still a conservative society after all. All the whispers and disgusted looks. But all that mattered was us, you and me. In that happiness, we forgot about him. Till now, I still don't know which little bird told him about us.
He hit me again tonight. He's always hitting me, especially when he's drunk, but that night was the worst I had ever experienced. I've had things thrown at me. I've been held against the wall, his hands around my neck. But I had never been held at knife-point.
No one ever expected that I would have come from a broken family, ne? You're the only one who knows, Kaede. In the seventeen years of my life, I've only told you about it. My mother who left when I was eight, running away from her abusive, alcoholic husband, abandoning her only son.
He forbid me to see you any more. Threatened to have me followed every day after school by the members of some gang or the other, to see that I didn't meet you again. Wanted me to stop playing basketball, to transfer out of Ryonan into some other school. Told me that he'd pack up all our things and move us to the other end of Japan, to another country if need be, if I continued to "associate with /that/ boy".
I've never been cut by someone before. Till now, that is. Now my arms, legs, stomach are lined with slashes, most of them still bleeding. He cut me every time I shook my head, spat protests at him. Punched and kicked me too. Threw me on the floor at last, after which I scrambled like a mad dog to my room and locked the door before he could follow.
I can't take this anymore, Kaede. I know he'll do what he said; he always does. He's perfectly capable of it. He'll keep me away from you, even if he has to kill me. He'd rather have a dead son than a gay one. I can't live with that, Kaede, can't live not seeing you or hearing your voice ever again. And he knows that, too. But I'm not giving him the satisfaction of taking my life for me.
I've got a sharp penknife and a bottle of sleeping pills next to me right now. If one doesn't work, the other will. Writing this letter is the first thing I did after locking the door, and it'll be the last thing I ever do. I'm sorry I won't be able to meet you for that game I promised you tomorrow. You might have beaten me then.
I'm sorry for hurting you, Kaede. I'm sorry for making you angry. I'm sorry for leaving you this way. But it's for the best. I couldn't leave you forever without even saying goodbye, the way he's forcing me to. So, this is my goodbye.
Kaede, promise me one thing. I've never asked you to promise me anything, have I? Treat this as a last request from me. Live on, Kaede, no matter what happens. I didn't have much of a future anyway, living an aimless life, hiding behind basketball and a smiling mask. But you, you have your dreams and your talent. Live on, train hard, be the best. Go to America to live your dreams, Kaede. I believe in you, and I'll always be with you. Forever.
One last thing before I go...
I love you, Rukawa Kaede.
Akira
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I've read the letter so many times I could recite it by heart. Its edges are crinkled from too much handling. I daresay the ink would have faded too by now if it hadn't been written in black.
I didn't go to his funeral. My teammates told me it was a very elaborate affair, plenty of well-dressed people in suits and gowns looking solemn. Numerous older women in floral print sobbing their eyes out. Nearly the whole of Ryonan High School was there too, apparently. Whole basketball teams turned up as well: Shohoku, Kainan, Shoyo, Ryonan, as well as other teams Ryonan had defeated along the way. Seems Akira gathered quite a
fan base, and a tremendous amount of respect.
I couldn't make myself go. I didn't want to see the man who caused his death. The man who left him no choice but to take his own life. And I didn't want others to see me cry. The only one who ever had that right was gone.
I'm in America now, just like you asked, Akira. They call me super rookie. I didn't know whether to laugh or cry the first time I heard it. So many memories. You were the first one to call me that, Akira. In our very first game together, the very first time we met. I grudgingly slapped your hand at the end of that game, reluctantly admitting that I had lost to one who was better than me. One of the things you jokingly complained about some time later, trying to coax a smile out of me.
I've played on this team for a season. The training's harsh, worse than Taoka-sensei on a bad day, but we know it's for the good of the team, and for us as players. I even speak and write fluent English now. My teammates have been a big help, but I wouldn't call them friends. I've only had one friend in my life, really.
He's still with me. I feel his presence all the time, even if it's just a little touch, almost like a breeze. It's when I'm in a game, playing against the best, that I feel him the most, constantly by my side. Assisting me, telling me what to do. He knows what I'm capable of. He knows me better than I know myself. He's the one who made me the player I am today.
And of course, he keeps reminding me to keep an eye out for open passes.
I got to meet a lot of the big names in the business. I guess even Rukawa Kaede can get
star struck. Michael Jordan, the legendary number 23. Shaquille O'Neal. Kobe Bryant. Tracy McGrady. Allan Iverson. All those stars congratulating me on my win.
Rookie of the Year: Rukawa Kaede, nickname Super Rookie, jersey number 77.