Ugh, something pointless to get off my mind.
Disclaimer: Slam Dunk and its respective characters belong to Takehiko Inoue. Please continue, sensei?
Each sunrise that blooms, blossoms and bleeds out is a series of pantoums that only change with the season; a smoky red for summer, then pale blue wisped with violet for the following winter.
Sometimes Soichiro wonders if there's anything wrong with him. Instead of each setting sun ghosting through the gym's highest windows, it's still the tally of smaller – perhaps even lesser? – globes that disappear over the basket rim with which he measures his days. When it's bad, the double digits mercilessly gleam off an imaginary score-chart like a low grade on a test he could've passed with flying colors. When it's good, it isn't quite what success should feel like.
Because it never is really enough.
Or perhaps shooting for the moon is just overrated, even if his aim was improving by each day he forgot to count.
But Soichiro isn't one to complain. When his birthday arrives, he receives his parents' gift with good grace. It's a tourmaline-and-white jersey from his favorite team in the league and sags around his narrow shoulders. He pins it up on the board over his desk anyway, still wondering if fifteen is so long away from the recognition he yearns to accept with pride. Despite his father's persistent nudging, he never does wear the jersey outdoors.
He remembers the acceptance letter weighing heavy in his palm, as if it was a promise that bound him to constant improvement. His first day of freshman year at Kainan might have been the final stamp on that pledge.
He doesn't remember the excitement or tension that had been strung through the cold air of the school's basketball court. What he does remember is the sweat, not enough towels to wipe it all away, groans, grunts, a classmate throwing up too close to his shoes, knees buckling, pain, pain and more pain. Then there had been the tall, bronzed second-year eyeing him down from the sidelines. At that moment, Soichiro had felt small; no taller than the highest leap he could make.
For some reason, his name makes the list and he is invited to stay with the team for another month.
When that passes, the training ups the ante. The coach joins in watching.
All Soichiro recalls is collapsing in a flushed, soaked heap on the floor as soon as the last practice session finishes. The agony only lasts until the next day when he learns of his new place on Kanagawa's top-ranked team's bench.
The second year chuckles when he sees him gaping at the sheet on the notice-board.
"A modest one, I see."
"Beg your pardon?"
"Most freshers rip off their uniforms and climb the school flag-pole when they've learned they made the cut."
"Oh." Soichiro glances carefully at the taller player, taking note of the determined set of his chin, the steely glint in dark eyes offset by the humor curling the side of his mouth. "Um, did you…"
"Nope. Would've been quite a memory if I had. I sometimes regret it."
Soichiro doesn't see the point. Everyone would have come to know the name of Shinichi Maki, scene or not.
They start off near the place they where they usually have breakfast – cold soba for him and ramen for Maki.
For some things, Soichiro is glad; his knees do not tremble anymore from long bouts of exercise, he thinks he's sprouted an inch or two over the past few months, it's a nice day for a morning jog.
He's also thankful that Maki knows how to keep his peace. They run along in silence, each comfortable enough in his surroundings.
These additional training sessions have become as routine to them as the sunrise over Kanagawa. Although they eat together, run together, maybe even toss each other a nod when they pass in the school corridor, they are still each to themselves. Maki is his own player, as is Soichiro. In the end, they all learn from their mistakes alone. As Maki says.
Soichiro thinks it's easy for him to say that. If there's anything close to flawless on a basketball court, then Shinichi Maki's certainly on the final stretch.
As they near the coastline, the sun beats down harder on their backs, soaking t-shirts in sweat. But they continue with him stealing glances at the crests of glittering little waves that rise and fall over each other. Maki looks straight ahead, maybe eyeing the gulls scouring the sand from the sky. At one point, a motorbike roars past them on the highway and Soichiro comments on how early it is for a drive.
"Indeed," replies Maki and the quiet gently washes over them again.
Around the start of the next kilometer, Maki begins again. "I once knew a guy. A long time ago, he was the junior-high MVP…"
500.
The number unexpectedly pops up during Math class. It looms perfectly dark against the sheet of crisp white paper on which he's supposed to be calculating the acceleration required to propel a rocket to its target over a distance of…
500.
He thinks about it in Japanese History when asked how many soldiers had it taken to defeat the Western Army at the Battle of Sekigahara. Although he gets the answer wrong, Soichiro believes he's onto something.
500.
Takato-sensei calls him aside before practice begins. Soichiro can't decide if he likes the man or not, with his square glasses that always catch the light in time to hide the gleam in his eyes. The paper-fan too irks him. It's like no problem is great enough to be swept away with a careless flick of his wrist. If Soichiro had known anything about synonyms, the twist in his gut would have already been numbed by their premonitions.
"You've been doing well, Jin-kun. Possibly the most hardworking of the lot I've seen so far."
"Thank you, sir."
"You show a great of affinity with the team as well. An important factor in Kainan's success, regardless of one's individual abilities. Not many are that willing to afford their team-mates the opportunity to shine in their place."
"Ye… thank you, sir." Soichiro nods while he tries to piece together what's really being said.
Was he really that dispensable?
The coach lifts his glasses slightly as he scans a list he'd been browsing earlier. "So you want to be a center, I see. Well, if I have to be honest, there's still quite a lot of work to be done…"
"I know."
"You would have to train harder, improve those reflexes to stay on-track with faster players. I've heard that Ryonan's taken up a promising youngster from Tokyo. Quite the ace, or so I've heard."
When the boy bows his head, Takato assumes he misunderstands.
"Still, Jin-kun, you have a quick mind. I've seen how well you work with Maki and make the best of everyone else's positions. You seem to have an extensive knowledge of your strengths."
"I know, sir. That's why you and I both know I wouldn't make a good center."
Takato smiles. Soichiro starts to suspect.
"… Actually, I have something much better for you planned."
500.
Soichiro has 418 shots left to go.
Although the number remains, it doesn't weigh as heavy beyond the D-line. He loosens up, flexes his wrists, then lets the ball fly loose over the boards and into the net. But silence is the only spectator cheering him on, the day now long since lost to the dark night sky and a moon shielded by clouds. In a way, it's not as different from the empty slam dunks he'd once repeated over and over every morning. There is a tally and there are lines that shouldn't be crossed if he were to make it far.
But… three points.
Sometimes Soichiro wonders if there's anything wrong with him. The long shots do not set the crowd on fire the way a gloriously shattering dunk does in his mind. It takes little out of him to aim and shoot for the biggest catch than it does to leap high above a sea of astonished faces. Unlike better players he knows of, he does not shine as bright an ace in the pack.
410 shots left.
Ruefully, he remembers the jersey pinned to the board in his room. For all the heart he's poured into his effort, there ought to be a chance that his shoulders are enough to fill it well. But those are dreams too, so it's best to be careful as can be. Always think of the whole picture you are only a part of and take all that you're entitled to.
405 shots left already. He hadn't realized he was moving so fast.
Halfway through, Soichiro remembers he has to run with Maki tomorrow as promised. His arms would probably ache by the time he got home but there was always the next day to learn from. He could take a lot out of his sempai's habits to prove his worth to Kainan.
Maybe some people were just meant to shine through a reflection of someone else's light, if not their own.
Soichiro thinks he can work with that.
Outside the court, his face a shadow behind its doors, Maki smiles to himself and raises his hands to clap.