Disclaimer: I disclaim.
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Summary: When Echizen Nanjiro first stepped foot onto American soil, he carried nothing but his tennis bag; stuffed with his signature wooden rackets, a couple of balls and his beloved Hawaiian shirts, he was ready to take on the world.
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Metamorphosis
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When Echizen Nanjiro first stepped foot onto American soil, he carried nothing but his tennis bag; stuffed with his signature wooden rackets, a couple of balls and his beloved Hawaiian shirts, he was ready to take on the world. With a smirk planted suavely upon his face and a brief glance around, Nanjiro knew he had packed too much.
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After having defeated all of the noteworthy players in Japan with barely a step in any one direction, Nanjiro had decided it was time to pack up and head for America. The land was fresh, as of yet untouched by Nanjiro's tennis and he thought that it was really about time that he fixed that. Defeating one opponent after another with a barking laugh and a careless "Mada mada dana," all he really needed was a racket and the will to play.
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After spending a couple of days in America acquainting himself with the foreign culture, Nanjiro settled into a routine. He would spend his days cruising the streets with scantily clad women he couldn't bother to learn the names of and mercilessly defeating any who dared oppose him. At night, snuggled into bed with whichever woman had accepted him that night, he would gaze up at the ceiling and think, 'this is fun.'
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Years later, Nanjiro entered the court for the semi-final match of the US Open with a smirk pulling at the corners of his lips and a large wave for his fans. His right hand was slightly off-balance, fourth finger heavy with the weight of responsibility. Nanjiro didn't mind, however, as his gaze was periodically drawn to a woman sitting calmly in her seat. A gentle smile lit up her face as she absentmindedly fiddled with the too-large, Fila cap nestled upon the head of the gurgling toddler seated atop her lap.
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Racket held at the ready, Nanjiro knew without a doubt that he would win. He wasn't playing only for himself anymore. It was halfway into the first match, 3-0 for Echizen, that Nanjiro realized he couldn't activate the Pinnacle of Perfection.
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The next day, the tennis world was in shock. Fans trudged dejectedly out of the stadium while reporters frantically searched through records in an effort to locate the absent tennis star. The sudden proclamation of retirement from such an up and coming player, during no less than the finals of the US Open, would leave many questioning for years as they mourned the loss of a great player. "He could have been great," they would say. "He would have won."
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Watching his too short, too small son—barely grown into the white, Fila cap he still continued to tote around—run around the court bearing a too wide grin Nanjiro had almost forgotten and positively lighting up the stadium as he happily chased the ball, insurmountable for this one moment in which he had finally let go of the trite notions of winning or losing and simply played, Nanjiro had no regrets. Slouching uncomfortably in a hard, plastic seat and surrounded by his son's friends, screeching their excitement into his delicate ears—so certain of their long-awaited triumph at the Nationals—Nanjiro watched his son play and thought, 'this is fun.'
My first foray into the PoT fandom. I started off with the intention of commencing a multi-chapter fic about Ryoma and spit this out instead. Please be kind.
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~zoned-out