"What is soccer?"
It is magic. Magic in the form of a person. Magic that's created repeatedly on the field.
It's that special feeling that you can feel long before its culmination, a feeling that's generated from the very first touch taken by an individual on the field.
"Who are you supposed to be?"
Well, I suppose I could have handled my introduction better.
"Hello, I'm Ten Ryosuke and I'm not here because I want to be."
To these jocks, football players, that attended this institute and are striving to reach the top, I am an eyesore.
I don't have anything against them. But the same cannot be said for them after what I've said.
"HAH?!" A blonde retorts loudly.
The confusion among the rest is just as clear as the realisation on this one.
"THEN LEAVE IDIOT." He continues.
A reasonable request, were I to strip away the context of my presence here.
If I left at this point, I would be disowned. Actually, it's likely that I may undergo the same treatment if I were to get knocked out early. But, that's the last thing on my mind when I respond.
"I don't want to."
I am confident in my self-assessment. Above average. I am nowhere near the level these folk usually operate at. At most, I can hope to match their strides in singular moments but having been a lackadaisical person over the years leading to this, it would be a reach to say I'm capable of maintaining it.
So what am I saying? I have pride in my existence. Enough pride that I won't let myself be cowed into leaving by this delinquent's barking. Pride that requires me to assert myself in denying his will.
Of course, this refusal isn't received very well by the blonde. The rest of the folks are coming to the same realisation. The confusion is still there but it's replaced by a more understanding look as they assess me.
But before the blonde can retort. The organiser, Ego-san fortunately interjects as he begins an explanation to the format of testing we will be undergoing.
A long winded explanation that flows in through one ear and out the other as I instead fixate on the numbers. I myself am ranked 298. A difficult blow that is hard to comprehend. To me, who believed in being above average, to be ranked so low out of 300 people is unthinkable. To support this belief, I can only presume that due to my lack of presence as a regular player in the team that my ranking is hampered by insufficient data to fully classify my existence.
It isn't until a ball hits me that I come back to the present. The present of being 'it' in this game of tag.
"Amen." Says the practically bald would-be monk, confused as I am about my inaction.
I look up to see the timer. 2:05, 2:04, 2:03…
I can only sigh at the reality. A step to collect the ball and myself. I roll it to the front. There are many options to shoot at, but none that are a sure shot. No. There is actually one. A person who's just laying on the ground.
An opportunity that I'm certain most players would immediately take. For these players who are here with their career on the line, there is simply no reason for them to cast it aside.
But I am different. To me, this sleeper is a comrade, a person who, like me, is unconcerned about the results that will inevitably come about from this place.
In fact, to me who is an outsider, the ones looking at me with anger, desperation or even silent pleas in their expressions are far more appealing targets.
So I roll the ball away from 290 and towards a group that's already doing my work for me.
In concept, this game of 'it' is akin to dodgeball where players will dodge the ball rather than the player and in doing so make for invariably hard targets to hit with the ball as they throw out feints and awkward movements fully intent on dodging. But unlike dodgeball, I am free to move.
But what do I mean by suggesting these players were doing my work for me? Well, were this dodgeball, taking distance from the player holding the ball would provide you ample space to accurately determine the target and trajectory of the ball, hence creating optimal conditions to judge and dodge.
Yet, by taking this distance, they effectively move closer to the walls, they clump together with just a few more steps and all of a sudden, they find themselves adjacent to not just one wall, but two. A corner.
This is not a game of running away. It is a game of reaction. After all, both distance and space are things that I turn against them. Thus reaction will be their greatest weapon in this game.
A quick glance at the time shows, 1:36, a good minute and a half left.
I'm sure some of you might have ascribed this label to me already. But I'll put it clearly, I am petty. My net has captured other targets, but my sole target is the monk who tagged me. The others simply serve as padding that leave him little room to manoeuvre effectively.
In this group, from the right to the left, there were 299, 293, 300, 291. The monk was assiduously maintaining his position closest to the wall so as to keep the rest of them ahead of himself. It seems the monk's ranking was not just for his physique but brain as well.
I take a quick step to the left cutting off vision to myself from 300, the ball however stays to my right. This step was to orchestrate a blindspot. For the flaming haired individual, 291, stepping to my right is necessary now to dodge unless he would rather push directly at me and the ball. But behind him, assured in the cover provided by 291 sits 300.
I launch the ball aiming at 300 through the vacancy created by 291's movement. The angle of the shot is perfect. Yet I am unprepared to handle the sheer depths to which 300 stoops to. I can only admit that I was mistaken about his brain.
He holds onto the shirt of 291, foiling 291's dodge as the ball bounces off 291's body due to the stilted dodge.
"Amen!" Says 300, happy about his idea working, before using the momentum he stole from pulling on 291 to launch himself away towards 299 and 293.
Hmm. Well, whatever. I'm no longer 'it' so it's out of my hands now and I make myself scarce.
"IGARASHI, YOU! You're dead!" I'm sure I too would react like that after what 300 did to him. 291 immediately retrieves the ball and launches it at the monk. A powerful drive of a strike that Iga-300 managed to barely dive over.
Ironically, 291 and 300 managed to do what I had failed as 300 makes a perfect screen that moves out of the way at the last moment, leaving the person behind it vulnerable to the sudden appearance of the ball.
Executed so well, 299 had absolutely no chance of dodging whereas 293 who was faster had distanced himself past 299 already, continuing his escape to the other side of the room.
"Oh, S-sorry, I wasn't aiming for you." Orange-head says, startled by this outcome.
I glance at the clock and see there's a solid 1:20 before 299 is eliminated. It's unfortunately plenty of time for him to make a comeback.
As 299 immediately sets his eyes to look for targets only to realise most of them lay towards the open space but his body takes off towards them regardless.
His luck however is quite terrible as another thing against him was that people seemed to have learned from this initial cornering so as to not clump together, instead choosing to spread apart from each other.
299's eyes are very much alive, desperate but searching for chances. They glance over at me for a moment but disregard me for the monk right after. A part of me is saddened that I wasn't selected as the target, but I'm nonetheless happy about not having to personally deal with the chase.
The same however could not be said for the monk who seems to have realised 299's intentions with him.
"YOU WON'T CATCH ME!" He yells out as he begins to sprint in earnest trying to catch up a bit to the rest of us who were far ahead. After all, when 299 was struck by the ball, none of us were particularly incapacitated unlike the monk who had dived to dodge.
So, I can admire 299's resolve to chase us down for a more certain shot given how little time he has, but a look over at the clock is a thing of despair for the man, I'm sure.
0:42, 0:41, 0:40…
That's the time he has to tag someone before his life in this sport is over.
"Hey! Here, over here! Hahaha!" A lively voice cuts across the pants and smacks of bare feet on asphalt.
What? I am unable to internalise what exactly I'm seeing as 290 was climbed atop 291. Like a monkey on a tree, he hung around the tall orange-head, 291, signalling for a shot.
I shiver as a cold sweat passes down my back. Had 290 planned this? Surely not… Yet, a part of me cannot help but rationalise that being the second best meant that most players would of course avoid you. After all, only 299 would be safe from his pursuit and this meant that the rest would all avoid potentially unleashing the beast in pursuit of a quick win when they might just find themselves the target of 290's ire right after.
They would be stepping out of the frying pan and into the fire!
As though to slap me across the face to consider such a reach. 291 grabs 290 of his back and sends him flying, perhaps with a bit too much force as he goes quite far to land directly on 300. Is this karma? I suppose it is.
299's arrival on the scene is timely as he quickly takes aim with 0:17 seconds left on the clock.
290 scrambles off but stops a few steps away as he sees 300 unable to put weight on his leg. An injury! 300's ankle seems to be down for the count.
Though, it's obvious 299 doesn't register 291 stopping a few steps away as he continues staring at the monk.
0:16, 0:15, 0:14…
Time is a non-factor at this point. This game is over. The rankings seemingly accurately representing reality as the lowest individual will be knocked out as is to be expected from a culling.
When I see 299 raise his leg to kick the ball, I do initially question the need to act so early but I can come to ascribe some logic to the action. It is not exactly certain that 300 is truly injured so it would be best to ascertain your own situation rather than focus on what comes afterwards.
His leg comes down with a swiftness that's testament to his practised nature and yet, it halts. It stops dead. It rests on the ball as the monk sits there, resigned, eyes closed and completely helpless.
I see, it was a fake! A perfect test to check whether 300, the monk, was truly injured without launching the ball away fruitlessly. It would be a deadly mistake to miss and chase at this stage after all.
Yet, as if to smite my reasoning, 299 turns away from the monk. He dribbles the ball away. It is there my thoughts stagger, dizzied by the sheer hubris of 299. Is this the 'ego' that Ego-san wants to cultivate in us?
I can't differentiate it from insanity. I will admit that when Ego-san gave his speech when this all began that I had hoped to find something like that within me. Even if my participation wasn't voluntary it was not as though I could not find ways to enjoy myself.
Is that not why I tagged someone, why I run now? I might not share their dream but I seek the joy of success nonetheless.
So, to see 299 turn away from all of it in this situation can only be a product of the environment and not the circumstances of the game itself.
Yes, by extrapolating further, the point of this game is not and was never tagging others. It was a playground to demonstrate your ego, or in simpler terms, your pride, in tackling the opponents present.
While I may not have let the number I hold dictate my actions when I aggressed, it certainly held my thoughts continually after. 299 was no exception when he was tagged abruptly and yet, 299 is the first one to figure it out.
And it seemed I was not the only one to realise it. As the former sleeper, 291, instead of running away since 299's target is unclear, dives in as he literally tags himself by stealing the ball off 299.
A deprivation that leaves most on edge immediately. Regardless of the motive behind this game, the number still leaves a big impact on the mind considering what it represents.
290.
Better than the remaining… 12 of us?... !
One of us was going home, and it seemed 291 chose his target as he struck the ball with reckless abandon at the sole person with a rank higher than himself. 289. Our team's star striker and the star striker of my own school's team.
As expected, Kira jumps over the ball with ease but 290's follow-up is anything but mundane as he lunges at Kira with a flying kick at his face. A ridiculous effort to incapacitate another, but with everything else that's been going on, there's nothing to say that the kick landing would even be illegal!
What with the Monk's own incapacitation being a result of quite literally being body slammed by someone throwing another?
Anyway, Kira is nothing to scoff at and this isn't the first time he's had to deal with rough play, I should know. He ducks underneath but is clearly rattled by the blatant aggression suddenly pouring his way.
"ISAGI!" Yells 290, a call that hits the startled Kira hard as he begins to look behind him unaware of the ball already flying over his head. Tsk.
A fatal mistake at this juncture as the clock ticks down to 0:04.
Isagi, I assume his name, lands a perfect headshot on Kira. 0:03.
A blow that even I must applaud for its placement would definitely disorient Kira long enough that he'd struggle to find his bearings before the timer ran out.
Unfortunately, to me who is here to win, losing Kira isn't a good thing. The spilled ball bounces. 0:02.
Ah, but calling it spilled isn't technically true. An indirect pass would instead describe the situation as I volley the ball running. 0:01.
I am thankful that it was a volley, otherwise, I would have had trouble keeping the ball's trajectory low when I struck it.
It finds its mark mercilessly as the Monk barely wipes the beginning of a smile on his face before the ball slams into him instead. 0:00.
A heavy horn blows indicating the end of the game.