Warning: The following contains a plot detail that should be crucial to all die-hard fans of Mitsui from the Sannoh match. Don't blame me if reading this fic spoils it for you.
My vision is blurred. My breathing - laboured. I can't stand straight without the earth spinning off its axis and whipping my senses into a harried frenzy. My mind is a foggy mess, thick with smog that blocks excruciating shafts of light struggling to break through, to make themselves seen and felt and embraced.
I want to defeat it. To slice through haze solid as ice and usher in the light and feel its warmth against my skin, rejuvenating me.
But I can't. Not when I'm in such a physically bad condition. Not when my body is so spent and weak that it has become a used and recycled joke, a horrible reminder of all the time I've wasted.
Those two light years of my life, discarded so thoughtlessly, so aimlessly. All those precious and irreversible time I wasted on cheap thrills and transient highs, thinking it was what I wanted, what I lived for.
Has those two years come back to haunt me? To make me pay for all the wrongs I've committed by taking away the most important moment of my life? Is this my retribution for abandoning my true self and giving in to pride and self-pity?
What have I become?
Air is becoming increasingly scarce with every passing second; the world around me is starting to dip further and further into monochrome. So many things are trampling through my mind... so many thoughts, so many what-ifs, so many flashes of the past, of the things that could have and should have been, and I can't focus, I can't focus at all, not when I'm being invaded by enemies all vying to see me fall, to plant wild thoughts into my head and smirk with malice when I flounder and fumble.
I don't even move an inch when my opponent shoots past me, dribbling the ball smoothly by his side as he veers towards the goal, and it's almost as if I don't even exist. As if I'm nothing but redundant air molecules blocking his path.
What have I become?
Am I just another defender they have to get past? Just another generic face amongst all the ones they have already seen? Just another useless has-been? Just another ordinary basketballer who happened to make the cut because his team-mates weren't good enough?
Who is it that I truly am?
Can I just let this go without a fight?
I can't breathe properly. I'm unstable on my feet. My vision is getting more and more blurry as time progresses. My opponent gets past me so easily, it's as though my skills were beneath his.
I'm no menace on the court. Not even an annoying fly.
And yet... this isn't unfamiliar. I have been through such situations countless of times. It's almost the story of my life. Against Shoyo...
That's it, Hisashi! Remember!
... the same thing happened. My stamina let me down. I almost let Hasegawa beat me. But I didn't. I scored fifteen points when my stamina was at its worst. I fought till the end, and it paid off.
In junior high I won MVP honour. But the odds were against my team winning; we were down by one with twelve seconds left. Everyone thought we had lost. My team-mates gave the game up as that one-point gap seemed impossible to bridge in a mere twelve seconds.
Not only that. I was the most tightly-guarded player on my team. The other coach groaned every time I got the ball.
And what was it that he said when
those twelve seconds started?
"Don't let Mitsui shoot!"
And then there was Anzai-sensei. I still remember his words to me, even till today: "Don't lose hope. If you give up now, the game is over."
Yes. I remember now. I remember it all. It's under such situation that goes the extreme and truly tests a person's mental limits that I start to burn. Junior high coaches were afraid of me. I had the ability to make my opponents squirm by just getting hold of the ball.
"Don't let Mitsui shoot!"
And why...?
Sannoh's number six is guarding as close to me as ever. His defence is solid, air-tight.
Because of who I am?
I stare Number Six in the eye, unblinking, unfazed. He doesn't scare me. Nobody does.
Who am I?
"Tell me," I gasp through gulps of air. "Who am I?"
Number Six's eyes widen in surprise, but he doesn't answer me.
"Dammit, I'm asking you a question!" I yell. "Who am I?"
In front of me, behind Number Six's back, Akagi sprints forward and gives me the thumbs-up.
"Go! Now!"
Who am I? I'm the MVP.
Number six barely has time to even blink, let alone react, when I break free of his defence and dash towards the three-point line. I catch a deft pass from Miyagi.
I'm not ordinary.
"Mitsui Hisashi!" Sannoh's number six finally cries out as he helplessly watches my movements from behind Akagi's burly frame.
I smile. I'm no longer spiralling downwards. No longer sky-diving without a ripcord. No longer stagnant and worn-out. No longer useless.
I bend my knees. I lift my arms and hold the ball above my head. Left hand supports, right hand shoots. My arms form a graceful arc over my head as my right hand propels the ball forward, via my fingertips, with a small flick of the wrist.
Yes. I'm Mitsui Hisashi.
The ball shoots through air, transcending time. My fingers curl into a victorious fist.
Nothing but net.
And I never give up.
-end-
**
A/N: This was inspired by Mitsui's long-awaited revival against Sannoh. Ike, Mitsui. You're the best.
I felt so touched when I was reading that bit that I mentally translated the Chinese dialogue into English, and voila! Another one-shot! I'm so proud of myself for finishing off not one, not two, not three, but FOUR volumes of Slam Dunk in TRADITIONAL CHINESE last night. I think I did that in two hours, which is really fast for someone whose Chinese is pathetically, well, pathetic. I mean, okay, so there were bits that I didn't understand but I got the general gist, and I understood every part involving Mitsui, so yeah. Accomplishment!
This is my eleventh SD fic posted on ff.net. I have another one which I started like, two months ago or something but I can't get rid of the block. But it's nothing fantastic so who cares.
I never thought I'd be able to shit out so many SD fics. It's crazy. I was never an anime fan and I've always hated cartoons (that is, after I grew up and became Cynical Me). That aside, I can tell you honestly that review count doesn't mean shit to me. It doesn't at all. I write for myself, not for you. I write because I can, and it's what I live for. I would never write something that goes against all that I've established as an amateur writer just to get more reviews, and if I ever do that, somebody just kill me. Seriously.
But then, like every other writer, feedback is a nice added bonus, and I'd like to thank everyone who's reviewed my fics. I appreciate all of it. You people rock. Long live category 801!
-Yelen (Hisashi's sentimental soulmate who had tears in her eyes when he rained those amazing three-pointers on cocky Sannoh)