In Hyoutei Atobe struts at the head of silver-and-blue, his team just as showy as he is, proud, arrogant, watchful, heads held high – we are the Hyoutei regulars, best and brightest of over two hundred- and they walk like stars, wrapping adulation around them like a birthright.
In Fudomine Tachibana walks, softly but with purpose, his team not so much behind him as beside him, backing him up with their drive against his –we are the Fudomine tennis team, here and here to stay- pioneers, or pilgrims, ready to fight for every step of the way.
In Rikkai they stalk, Yukimura at the point of a triangle formed by Emperor and Master, flanked by Gentleman and Trickster, Demon kept from falling behind by Genius and Brazilian, his stride almost like, but not quite, their own, to be smoothed into Rikkai's streamlined brilliance –we are the champions Rikkaidai, we do not lose- masters of their domain, kings on a throne that could topple so easily and had never wobbled at all.
In Seigaku red-and-white-and-blue move without coordination, and rarely are they whole –we are the Seigaku Tennis Regulars, here to win and win and win- they're a tennis team. They play like one.