It was the second set and they were losing, but Tashiro still believed that they could win.
The fact that they were going to lose, in fact, had already lost, that such a great gap in points and skill could not just simply be overcome, was something he refused to accept. Was it a matter of optimism? Was it a matter of stubborn obstinance? Just foolhardiness? Did he truly believe that they were the better team? He himself did not know.
But what he refused to accept was that it was over. Until the final whistle blows, the winner of a match is undecided. No matter how many points the other team scored, until the whistle blew, Karasuno could still score too. They could score, and they could win.
And until it was over, Tashiro would play, believing with all his heart and mind and soul that they could, and would, win.
Like a cannon whizzing through the air, the ball hit the ground, and Tashiro turned too late, wondering where it had come from. The spiker already gone; huddled in a circle on the other side, celebrating with his team.
"D-don't mind!" he called, "We'll take it back!"
They just smiled wearily at him, sweat pouring from their brows.
It was the same smile, a weary, indulgent smile, that they gave during practise, when he said they would go to nationals. The same bitter smile when he encouraged them to keep practising, if they just kept practising, then no one could tell what dizzying heights they could reach, what greatness they could achieve.
And yet they never said anything. Somehow that's what bothered him the most. They never said anything.
Only twice did they ever speak up.
Early in the year Tashiro had tried many different drills and techniques. He dredging his mind for half-forgotten drills learned in middle school, for vague memories of the various exercises he had done in the past. He searched for practices they could do online, of which numerous authorities swore would drastically improve their game, but whose efficacy in real life did not seem to produce any notable difference. He tried some drills which he had learned from books, but he was never quite sure if he was translating very accurately the words into actions. Some of it seemed to work, but some of it did not.
Was this how you are supposed to practise volleyball, he wondered? Which was the best drill, or the most effective? How did you best improve? Tashiro was never entirely sure. So he kept trying new things, desperately hoping something would work.
But eventually they got tired of it. As Tashiro did his best to explain a complicated new drill he had learnt online (apparently the Brazilian volleyball team did it all the time!), his teammates finally spoke up.
"Wouldn't it be better just to focus on the basics?"
"Hm?"
"You know, serving, receiving, that kind of thing."
"Yeah," another agreed, "I'd feel more comfortable trying new techniques if I was more confident I could hit the ball properly."
Tashiro figured that they were probably right. Fancy techniques were beyond him. they focused on basics. Solid receives. Solid serves. Basic three touch layups. That's what they practised from then on. The first years, however, began to practise on their own, long after the rest had left.
And so they practised, and they grew. To what purpose? Nationals!
And yet whenever he iterated this, whenever he spoke those words aloud, they ignored him with a bitter smile.
Until, at last, the day before the preliminaries for the Interhigh.
"I've thought this for a while now but… Shouldn't we have a goal that's more reasonable to achieve? They say it's not good to aim too high, since it can lead to a loss of self-confidence."
"That just applies when you'll have another chance, doesn't it?"
"So you seriously think we can make it all the way to the top?"
"It's not good to aim lower just because the likelihood is slim, though."
Tashiro watched with an odd expression on his face as they finally openly discussed their goals.
And that night they decided they would win.
They smiled at him wearily but as they took their positions, their jaws set, they stared fiercely at the other side of the court, and Tashiro could see that at the very least, they had not quite given up. Even if they had every right to. But they had not given up.
The ball was in the air. Here it comes. He glanced quickly at his teammates.
Their eyes, glittering, on the ball. Their bodies, tense and ready, focused, on edge.
They could still win.
The ball flew over, smooth elegantly, from the other side of the net.
A clean receive. It floated into the air like it had a million times in praise. They moved instinctively into position. A good toss. Basic skills. In an instance the ball was over the net, and slammed into the floor.
The whistle blew. Yes! His heart skipped a beat. He had barely registered it before his teammates were upon him; a convergence of bodies and joyful laughter.
The score: from 18-8, now 18-9.
A ball was put somehow into his hands and for a moment Tashiro did not comprehend.
"Your serve," said Kurokawa.
He walked to the back of the line.
"Kurokawa-san, how many serves did you have to do in order to become good at them?" Tashiro asked.
Kurokawa shrugged.
"There's no specific number," he said.
They were in the second gymnasium at Karasuno High.
Standing across the net from Kurokawa, he hefted the ball in his hand, breathed in deeply. Then threw it upwards. He swung his arm, and thank goodness it connected properly (sometimes it didn't) and flew over the net.
Kurokawa returned the ball back, and Tashiro was barely able to catch it, as it flew over with such force. How did he make it look so easy? Tashiro paid careful attention to the ace's motions, although it was perhaps better to say motion; his body moved all at once, fluid and strong; toss, leap all at once, and in an instant the ball was flying over the net. This strength and simplicity of movement which was something Tashiro could not seem to imitate, no matter how hard he tried, nor something that Kurokawa himself could properly explain.
Just then, a ball flew askew and hit him in the face.
"Sorry!" called out one of the third years, "I can't quite seem to hit it right today."
"Don't mind."
It was a feeling that Tashiro could relate to. Sometimes the longer he practised his serves, the worse, paradoxically, they got. They say that practise makes perfect, but someone had once told him that practise makes habit. What if he was doing it wrong, and the more he practised, the worse he became? Bad habits became engrained. Maybe he was doing it wrong, and just learning bad habits. Maybe that's all they were doing, during these long, unguided practises.
No, remember the steps. The arms, like a bow and arrow. Release, like whip. Step forward, twist the body. Something about torque. Half-faded memories, from coaches long ago. He hit the ball and it flew sideways, out of bounds. He held back a groan of frustration.
Focus.
Kurokawa fetched the ball and sent it over once again.
Tashiro hefted the ball in his hand and breathed deeply.
Try again. Once more. Keep practising. He wouldn't give up.
And eventually it would pay off.
The ball flew cleanly through the air. Yess! thought Tashiro and nearly forgot to move forward into his position. He rushed forward.
A good serve. A good team. Of course they could win. They had practised serves and serve receives a billion times, and now it had finally clicked, they were doing well. Now if only it wasn't too late. Now if only they could pull themselves back over the gap. Then they would win this round, and the next round, and the next. They would go to Nationals. Focus, focus, he reminded himself, as the ball hurtled towards him. He received it a little too far forward and the ball ricocheted off his body. "Sorry," he called, as they scurried to return it. Two more touches, and the ball was over.
It hurtled towards the other team. The other team. Araigawa High.
They were not tall or particularly intimating, but they were strong. They did not yield, nor did they give up. Their coach watched the side, saying nothing, not needing to say anything. He simply watched as they followed what he had taught him, without a word. They knew what they had to do. The correct motions had been drilled into them; their movements were compact and efficient; their bodies moved without hesitation, they had practised so long they had become fluid. Karasuno struggled to get each point. But Araigawa moved as one.
How could they win?! When you compared the two teams it was obvious who was better. Karasuno, who moved about helter-skelter in barely controlled panic, versus the unexceptional, but steadfast Araigawa.
But, thought Tashiro, we can still win! They may be organized, but we have SPIRIT!
In the end, however, they still lost.
A/N: Thanks so much for reading! One more chapter to go!
