Title: Sporalysis: Part 2
Disclaimer: Don't own crap.
Note: 9 comments is a lot… I'm still shocked people like it. It's kind of shaping up now that I'm getting a little bit into it. This thing is going to be long. D: I rushed it at the end, so sue me. I've been reading a lot, so like, my writing changes a bit because I like how some things sound. Yeah.
-Things I realize that are wrong so I don't get stupid comments about them- I don't know anything about soccer, Japanese schools, and well… How to write, so take that. Bam!
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The day started off as cordial as it ever could. It was almost insulting in its attempts, however. Trees wept with the rain from the night before, as the passing breeze seemed to bring the orange sun inches over the disorientated horizon.
A buzzer cried awake upon a clock that spoke with red numbers: six-thirty, as usual. Ken brought a heavy fist down onto the snooze button but continued to lay on his stomach in an attempt to flutter back asleep. It didn't come though. He was too afraid to go back to sleep. The alarm had saved him from a nightmares end, and it wasn't the first time the clock had done it.
Ken could count how many times it had happened to him in the past two weeks with his two hands. They were horrible images that whirled within his mind like dark typhoon, and each time he woke from the dreams, he could feel his lungs being clutched by some invisible hand.
There was no fleeing thought in the boy's mind though. All he did was lay and stare at the door across his way. Knowing that in just a few minutes he would have to leave out of it and face another day of his isolating classes. It was going to be another day of fasting, learning, and loathing. Things that were becoming too complimentary to his living style, but things Ken didn't care to change. He didn't know if he could this time.
Reluctantly, Ken climbed out of his bed and stretched his thin arms above his head. "Just… Another day." He mumbled, as he grabbed his book-bag and left the confines of his room and apartment. Not even caring that his hair was a mess, or that he hadn't eaten in days, or that he was in the same clothes he had been in for the past day…
Nobody would notice him anyways, so why should he even notice himself?
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Ken walked into his small, quiet classroom, full with teenagers that had the brains of ancient ones. Sometimes it felt like whenever he walked into the classroom, he was overwhelmed with something too foreign to even know about. He felt like an intruder to his own learning, and it was that feeling that made him wish to be back in his bed.
The day started off as slowly as it usually did. There was no actual teacher, because the high school couldn't afford a Harvard standard genius to coach them. Assignments were collected and read over, only to easily be passed over the heads of those that tried to correct them. Ken has already finished his homework for the night in the first half hour of school, and was working on the rest of the week. He wanted the time to himself, but he didn't really know how he'd manage so much of it at once.
"Mr. Ichijoji?" A husky, and rather familiar, voice sounded from above the dark-haired boy's shoulder. Ken adverted his eyes hesitantly to the sound, as he dropped his pencil onto his calculus textbook to show that he was, in fact, paying attention.
This was a man Ken hadn't seen in a long while. For some reason, he was rather relieved that it was whom he predicted. "Hello, Coach." The boy's voice cracked half way through, and he trailed his finger over the smooth wood of his lead pencil.
Of course there had to be a reason for this intrusion. None of the other four students in the classroom took notice, but Ken still felt as if there were lasers burning into his skin. He hated feeling singled out, even though the others probably felt the same way. Being this smart was defiantly unnatural…
Ken stopped playing soccer the last season it came around. He lost all motivation for some reason. Or maybe there was a reason; he just didn't like admitting that he hated beating Davis all the time. It kind of hurt how the boy always tried to hide his disappointment in himself behind a smiling face. Ken thought that that was enough, and that Davis needed the victories more than he ever did.
"I wouldn't normally bug you, Ichijoji, but we're in trouble," The coach leaned on the students desk and looked down at Ken's bowed head. It was obvious that he was asking him to rejoin the team. "Retiaku and Ute are both out with broken bones. I tried getting some older players to join again, so I figured I'd ask you, just incase. Everybody misses you, kiddo."
'Kiddo'. Ken didn't know if he should be insulted or just down right uncomfortable. It made him wish to get away from the familiar face as soon as possible. He stayed glued in his chair though, his finger moving the pencil across the books pages and waited for it to roll back into them. "When do you need me?"
"Tonight… Home," the Coach muttered, placing a hand on the textbook and flipping through the pages, as if saying that the work would be easy. They needed him to play soccer. The very vital for life, or so those that have brawn always say. Ken was cursed with both endurance and intelligence.
The boy sighed.
"Alright, I'll be there." Ken figured he'd regret it later, but it didn't matter at the moment. He wanted to do his numbers now.
Question: Seventy-seven minutes until the end of the school day on April the seventh. The seventh game of the season is to be played at 4:07 PM at home, and the star player will be in the seven jersey. How many times will the teenager in the jersey curse to himself during the next seventy-seven minutes?
Answer (in complete a sentence): Seventy-seven times for every minute that passes before the soccer game starts. However, this statement does not hold true. It would most certainly be seventy-seven times two, for if you do that… At least the product would be an even number.
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Ken had rushed home to grab his soccer jersey. It had started to migrate to the bottom of his dresser drawer. It smelled of oak and wood cleaner, with a hint of fresh cotton laundry. He was one of the few players that were allowed to keep his jersey and number for such a lengthy amount of time.
He had been number seven ever since the fifth grade. He didn't know if he should feel special, or just plan sick of the horizontal and diagonal constructed number.
Mrs. Ichijoji wasn't home to wish her son a victory. The son was rather relieved of this though. He didn't want to see her drag herself to a soccer game he wasn't even going to try at. Nor did he want to get coaxed back into joining the team.
He scribbled down a note and left it on the kitchen table.
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The star player dodged in right before his watch dared to grace across the space between the one and two. The Coach cried with glee and the rest of the team cheered as they pushed Ken to the midfield to play center. He didn't even have time to check out whom he was playing against, he just noticed that they were wearing red.
It wasn't of concern though. He had left his house nearly an hour before hand, and even though the walk to the field is barely twenty minutes, something had stopped him. He remembered standing in a sidewalk full of busy people trying to get by him. Jersey on and face tilted to the blue sky, it probably looked like he was searching for God to answer a prayer to let his team win. And maybe he was, to an effect, because a stinging voice seemed to keep whispering in his ear…
TWEEE!!!
Ken was off like a bullet, all confusion whipped clean and left smooth like granite slate. His leg lunged upward and the ball went soaring in the air with a thump from his foot. Before anybody else could get to it, he was in front of the ball and scored the first goal in the first twenty seconds. The crowd was roaring, the cheerleaders were swooning, and the Coach was waving enthusiastically to his team. Ken swallowed a lump in his throat and returned to the center of the field.
TWEEE!!!!
Off again. Head butting, kicking, dodging, dribbling, stealing… He was on fire, and the feeling ran through his blood like something he had never felt before. The pugnacious rhythm in him made it feel like a part of him was growing. Something was reclaiming a thing that had gone astray, and Ken was enjoying it more than he intended to.
That's when a glint of light caught the corner of his eye, and a disgruntled growl crunched at his ears. A boy came sliding in, breaking Ken's open field dribble, and claiming the black and white sphere for himself. The dark haired boy pivoted on his leg and swung around to see…
"Davis?"
The goggle boy was off in a red flash, the ball always-just inches in front of his feet, and then flying into the open net.
Four to one.
Those chocolate eyes strayed to the open field and caught onto Ken's. It gave the boy a sick feeling to his stomach, and he could feel his knees going weak. It was only four minutes into the first quarter, so he couldn't quit now. He had to endure the suffrage he felt around his friend. Somehow that thought gave him more energy, and his name was hissed into his ear.
Ken shook his head and ran a hand through his dampening hair. He and Davis stayed out on the field for much of the rest of the game. Even when it came down to four minutes left of the entire game, twenty to fourteen, and two very exhausted teams; the two best friends kept up a competition of who was better. Ken was winning.
Davis had the ball. He was open, and so was Ken. He chased after the keeper and did a daring kamikaze kick with his right leg. It crossed his free leg and both of Davis's. The goggle boy tried to step over the obstacle, but couldn't comprehend it in time to do so. His leg pushed into the other, causing a mess of limbs as both the players toppled over, the ball flying out into the sidelines on the opposite side of the field.
Something snapped. It was a disgusting sound. Being muffled into almost a silence, a voice of its happening screamed out into the green field with anguish. The auburn haired boy coughed into the grass and tried to move his body, but his arm had gone limp. There was blood and grass stains covering both his jersey and various parts of his arms and legs.
The other one stood up. A small scratch on his knee, and all but a little fatigued. He was a few feet away from Davis. The attack happened so fast, and both of them had probably been flying in the air for a few moments. The coach from the other team came rushing out into the field and rolled Davis onto his back. The crowd whispered in confusion. The med kit was called out, and Davis's parents were phoned along with 911. The Coach called Ken back and told him to go home and get some rest. He appreciated the help, and figured that Ken had been pushing himself too hard.
Ken learned the next day that TFC won the last game against Davis's school. He also learned that Davis broke his left arm and couldn't play for the rest of the season.
Ken figured the goggle idiot deserved it.... And so did that voice, as it hissed ugly words into the pretty boy's ear.
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Monday fled when it realized it was cursed with pain. It flipped its first letter upside down and transformed into Wednesday. Davis sat at his computer desk, struggling to think out an algebra problem that had been plaguing him for the past thirty minutes. He was bored, and he hated doing homework. His arm throbbed with pain and transferred into a killer migraine. It was getting hard to see the numbers on his paper, let alone think of what the answers were.
The goggle boy kicked his chair away from the table and drifted into the middle of his room. He created a floating island in an ocean of polished wood. Rocking back and forth, the boy placed his head back and closed his eyes, listening to the soft creek of his chair. He had gone back to school that day, having missed Tuesday due to being in too much pain. Everybody came up to him and asked how it happened, if they could autograph his arm, and if he did something heroic to claim such a hideous prize.
Earlier in the day, Aya had eased up to Davis's cheek and nearly placed her lips on the smooth flesh. Something in him told him to move away, and he did. TK came by and harassed him about it afterwards. There was no denying. The kid liked her, but there was something he didn't like about being so close to her like that. He likes hanging out with her, and he didn't once deny the fact that he had been changing a little, but he could never bring himself to ask her out.
Not when that nagging navy haired boy gnawed in the back of Davis's head. He was too ashamed to admit that he missed seeing Ken. There was something he was hiding though, and he was afraid that it would fall in on top of him if he didn't stop throwing dirt onto it.
He's annoying… He's clingy… He's too much of a geek… He ruins the mood… He's not one to show off to friends… Davis spun his chair around and watched, as the ceiling rotated above his head, yet seemed to stay so very constant. "He's annoying, and clingy, and geeky, and boring…" He looked down at his plain white cast. It was already becoming decorated with purple, blue, and black sharpies. "Get Well Davis! 3 Kari" "Davis loves men! (I hope your mom reads this!) TK" "Cody"
Davis smiled slightly, yet he knew what he was telling himself was a lie. He didn't tell any of them Ken was there at the game. He didn't tell them that the star player was the reason why he was in a cast now. He didn't tell them that he was relaying false messages to them about Ken.
For some reason the goggle boy just couldn't stand thinking about the kid. But even after all that happened in the past few days, he was concerned. There was something about Ken that didn't seem all… There.
He wasn't going to let anybody but himself know about it though. He had to get over his own fears on his own and see what was wrong. There was something in Ken's eye that looked rather familiar… And not in a good way.
