POV Midorima
At the end of the fifth week of camp, we are told to dress nicely for a special dinner as a reward to celebrate our accomplishments. I now see the wisdom in the pre-packing and fashion show Takao put me through before I left, and as I thumb through the photographs of approved outfits, I find the suit, shirt, tie combination that he made me pack. Without his intervention in my life, I have no doubt I wouldn't be in New York right now, much less dressing for a fancy dinner.
I own one suit, and it is from my father's favorite tailor in Hong Kong. It was custom made for my long, awkward limbs, and has extra fabric turned up at the hem that will allow me to grow another centimeter before it will have to be retired. It's black, an all-purpose suit that I've worn to funerals and weddings. I put the finishing touches on the Eldredge knot for my emerald-green tie. After I'm sure I look the best I can, I impulsively pull my necklace out from under my collar and let it hang centered over the field of green. The sparkle is just as luminous as the first time I saw it, and it feels right… almost like Takao is with me.
Everyone is excited as the bus drops us off in front of Clark Flagler's Alley Oop, a classy restaurant owned by a former Knicks Shooting Guard, and our unofficial host for the evening. Two enormous full-body portraits of him decorate the columns just inside the restaurant. It reminds me of Akihabara and the anime displays that cover every shopping arcade. He is just as big in person, in his bright orange suit, and shakes my hand and smiles. I mumble a quick, "thank you" and then I am whisked to a seat at the banquet table on one side of the restaurant. I find myself between London, also known as 'Big Ben,' and a Kenyan whose nickname I don't know. Across the table from me is France, called 'Tower,' and Mexico, who is sometimes called 'Alto.'
"Nice tie," Big Ben, says, fingering the green silk tie around my neck. "It goes well with your eyes, Godzilla."
The other's laugh at my nickname. It's funny, but I don't know a single camper by their real name, as mostly we call each other nicknames based on our nationalities. I've been called "Japan" or "Godzilla" so many times that I hardly answer to the various mispronunciations of my name.
From end to end of the table, huge trays of appetizers appear. There are chips, dips, skewers of panko-crusted chicken bites, wings, and things I cannot even name. It is colorful, and the aromas swirl gently to overwhelm my sense. I can see the basketball hoop from where I am sitting; this place is amazing! If I ever return to New York with Takao, I will bring him here.
"Don't stand on ceremony," one of the other senpais tell us, and sixteen hands reach for the various dishes. I take only a single skewer.
"Beer, wine, cider?" A sharply dressed woman comes by and asks us about our drink preferences. I choose cider, as I try to keep up with the conversation around me.
"I'll be re-joining the national team once I get back home," Big Ben says. "What about you?"
"I'm on the starting line-up for the Trail Blazers in The Kenya Basketball Federation," the tall African across the table says.
"I play for the Ligue Nationale de Basket Pro A," Tower tells us, and then all three of them look at me. It is common knowledge that I barely speak English, and while no one goes as far to outright ridicule me, they don't hide their laughter either. Takao and I practiced restaurant and food conversation last night in our phone call, but we did not practice career choices.
The waitress brings our drinks and I have a few extra seconds to practice what I will say in my head before I have to say it out loud.
"Cheers," Big Ben says, and lifts his glass, we all clink together, and the attention comes back to me. I take a long gulp of the bitter, carbonated cider.
"University," I say, so far so good. "I will play for them and take classes for Athletic Training." Every day I feel a tad bit better about my English. Six weeks of immersion isn't enough to give me confidence to have a real conversation, but as long as we stick to easy topics, like basketball, the weather, and basic civility, I feel like all the years of studying English in school weren't worthless.
Once the appetizers are picked over and all that remains are empty greasy plates, we are given an abbreviated menu with three choices. It is comforting to only have three items to pick from, but the waitress is starting at our end of the table, and I only have moments before she will ask what I want. Beef is a word I understand, but the thought of finishing an American-size portion of cow is unappetizing. Quentin is up at the head table, and I cannot ask him to read the menu to me for the other two choices.
"I'll have the fish," Kenya says, and his English is so smooth and comprehensible that I want to leap over the table and bow to him for making the decision easier for me.
"I as well, the fish," I say, quickly before she can move on to else. She smiles and jots down the orders before moving away.
The Halibut is mouth-wateringly good, and it flakes apart at the least touch of the fork. It is served with some sort of sweet sauce, freshly steamed asparagus, and a whipped potato dish. It would be rude not to finish it all, so I work my way through, alternating bits of this and that with sips of my drink. Refills are brought without asking, and somewhere in the back of my mind, I wonder why I am so relaxed. Is it the food and drink? Is it the company? Is it because I have only one week left before I can see Takao and touch him again?
The head coach stands and taps his wine glass with a knife to get our attention. The conversation dies immediately.
"Congratulations boys! You've all come from around the world and done your countries proud!"
He lifts his glass and downs the drink, we all follow suit.
Each senpai gets up and gives a small presentation about the good qualities of his team, then awards each man a certificate and a New York Knicks logo pin.
When it is Quentin's turn he speak about each of us in great length, I turn on my voice recorder so that I can listen to what he says in private later and ask Takao to translate the parts I don't understand.
"London's the finest… Madrid's got the best… Without Spain's…," he says, and I tune out because I can only understand about a fifth of what he is saying.
"Japan," he says, and I sit up a little straighter as eyes swing my way. "Japan is off-the-hook! I've never seen a man shoot so consistently and so dramatically. Dude, the hang time on that wicked arch of yours… that's just unreal. I had no clue who Japan was before he came here, but after that very first practice, I looked him up and, I can't believe he's not playing for the NBA already. In Japan, they call him 'The Number One Shooter' of something called the 'Kiseki no Sedai,' which if Google Translate is right, means 'Generation of Miracles' and even though everyone of the international players we've played with, and against, these last five weeks is a phenomenon in their own right, I raise my glass to toast the man I think is the best shooter in the world."
He raises his glass, and around me, all the others at the banquet table raise theirs. Even a few at the senpai and coach's table acknowledge me as well. I'm speechless, literally, but I pick up my glass and return the gesture, knowing that my face is bright red. I turn off the voice recorder, I attach the file, and I send it directly to Takao, not caring about the time difference or the cost to send such a large data file internationally.
Dessert is even easier, as the lovely woman who has been tending to us all night brings out a tray and shows us the choices. I pick a sorbet without knowing what the flavor is, but it turns out to be citrusy, and that works just fine with the third glass of cider.
The conversation around us becomes loud and happy. One senpai takes his quartet to the basketball hoop and Flagler joins them. We watch, converse, drink, and eat. It is the best night I can recall that Takao wasn't by my side.
When the phone rings on the table, blasting "Gangnam Style," Takao's ringtone, I fumble with it, feeling slow and a bit disoriented, before picking up and answering.
"Moshi, moshi," I say.
"Don't moshi, moshi me!" He laughs. "I love Quentin, can you get him and his family to come visit in Japan sometime. I want to kiss him!"
"You can't," I say. "You may only kiss me."
"Aww, jealous Shin-chan is adorable."
"I mean it, Kazu! No one but me, ever, ok?"
"Shin-chan? Are you alright?"
"I'm fantastic," I snicker. "This sorbet is amazing."
"Where's Quentin?"
"He's at the head table. Wow, you should have seen that awesome shot Flagler just made!" I say.
"Are you drunk?" Takao asks, and his voice is so startlingly serious, that I laugh.
"Me? Drunk? Come on Kazu, you know I can't drink."
"Yeah, I know that, but I also know drunken speech when I hear it. Who are you with right now?"
"Ah, London… France… Kenya," I say, cataloging the people around me.
"Give the phone to someone who speaks English."
"Ok," I say, into the phone. "London, my lover on phone, please talk."
London takes the phone from me. I go back to eating the sorbet and watching the second senpai's team switch places with the first.
"We play with Flagler?" I ask Tower.
"Looks like it," he says, with a huge smile on his face. I find myself smiling in return.
London takes my glass and sniffs it, then goes back to his conversation with Takao. After a few more moments he hands the phone back to me.
"I'm going to get to shoot hoops with Flagler-sama!" I say.
"You're drunk, Shin-chan. London said that drink you've been putting back all night is alcoholic."
"What?" I say, and suddenly I feel nauseous. "But I can't drink with my medications."
"Don't panic, I've asked London to tell Quentin what happened. He should be on his way to you now. Look up, do you see him?"
"Yes, he's walking this way,"I say. I'm hyperventilating.
"Good, don't panic, just give him the phone."
"Ok," I say. I push back from the table, but I know that if I stand, I will make a fool of myself. Quentin smirks at me, but takes the phone.
"Oh yeah, just looking at him I can tell he's drunk. Don't worry about it. I'll take him home, and we'll make sure he doesn't choke to death on his own vomit."
I understand more words now that I am clearly intoxicated. I know drunk, worry, home, death, and vomit. I'd be proud if the pretty pattern on the floor would stay still.
"Say goodnight to Takao," Quentin says, handing me the phone.
"Goodnight," I repeat into the phone. "Please don't hate me."
"It was an accident, Shin-chan. Go to sleep, and call me when you're recovered."
"Ok," I say. I feel like crying. When I'd learned about Takao's father and his alcoholism, I'd promised myself, for his sake – my medicines be damned – that I would never taste alcohol again, and I'd failed.
Quentin gets a hand under my arm and he drags me to my feet. He takes me into the bathroom and makes me wash my face. I undo my tie, unbutton two buttons, and splash water down my neck and chest.
"Your first time drunk, well, congratulations," he laughs.
"My medicines," I try to explain, "make it worse."
"I know, Takao told me the whole thing. You'll be fine. I promise."
"Ok," I say, hoping that I understand him.
"Can you hang on until we shot hoops with Flagler?"
"I won't miss Flager," I say, defiantly.
"I've never had the chance myself, so if you could just not puke on him, or me, or anything like that, I'd appreciate it."
Quentin asks the other senpais to let us go last, and they don't mind. While Flagler plays with the other guys, Quentin force feeds me cup after cup of coffee that he gets one of the waitresses to bring me from the kitchen. Now I am wide awake, drunk, and jittery. It is a perfect shit-storm of things to come together, but when the five of us stand up to take our place before the hoop, I strip the tape off my left hand and I shoot, flawlessly.
Flagler is amazing and gracious, and he knows that I am drunk, yet he does not care. He slaps me on the shoulder and then… the next thing I remember is waking up on Quentin's couch. There is a trash can below my face, but thankfully it is empty. I sit up with a groan. My vision is so blurry, I reach up and try to adjust glasses that aren't on my face. I lay down again. It's just not worth the trouble.
Author's note - I apologize for my odd posting schedule this week and in the coming few weeks. I'm finishing up some school stuff.