The word "clown" vibrated in Wakashi's ears, cold and sharp. It wasn't meant for him, not directly, but it landed with the precision of a dart. His cheeks flushed with a familiar, burning heat. His fists clenched, knuckles white, buried deep in the pockets of his school uniform. He felt the familiar urge to run, to disappear, to lash out. Yet, something held him rooted to the spot behind the bushes. The game.
He watched, a silent, seething observer. The boys on the field moved with an effortless grace that baffled him. They called out names, anticipated passes, twisted their bodies to meet the ball as if it were an extension of themselves. It was a fluid, intricate dance he couldn't comprehend, so different from the wild, chaotic brawl he'd been part of. He saw the smallest boy on the field weave through two defenders, his feet a blur, and then chip the ball perfectly to a teammate who headed it into the makeshift goal.
How? Wakashi's mind screamed. How did they know where to go, how to kick, how to move without tripping over their own feet? He didn't understand the rules, the patterns, the unspoken language they all seemed to instinctively know. The gap between their effortless play and his own utter failure stretched before him like an insurmountable chasm. The humiliation intensified, but beneath it, a strange, fierce fascination began to bloom. He wanted to understand. He wanted to do that.
The sun began to dip towards the horizon, casting long shadows across the field. One by one, the students began to gather their bags, their laughter echoing as they drifted away. Wakashi remained hidden, watching until the last one had left, until the field was once again quiet, save for the whisper of the wind through the tall, unkempt grass.
He let out a slow, ragged breath he hadn't realized he was holding, stepping out from behind the bushes. The field seemed larger now, emptier. He walked onto the dusty ground, his heavy school shoes scuffing the dirt. He felt the phantom pressure of the ball Hinata had given him, remembering the way it had felt in his hand. Revenge on the ball.
"You're a persistent one, aren't you?"
Wakashi spun around, startled. Leaning against the tattered fence line, arms crossed, was the lean, weathered old man. The same one who had watched his disastrous game, the one who had intervened in the brawl. His eyes, keen and unsettling, seemed to pierce right through Wakashi.
"You really don't know how to play, do you, kid?" the old man asked, his voice low, devoid of malice, but sharp with observation.
Wakashi's face flushed again, the "clown" remark fresh in his mind. "No," he mumbled, defiant, yet also vulnerable.
The old man pushed off the fence, walking slowly towards Wakashi. He didn't look angry, or disgusted, or even amused. He just looked… thoughtful. "I saw you yesterday. You're a mess on the ball, a complete disaster." He paused, letting the blunt words hang in the air. "But you've got power. And that height isn't just for knocking over your own teammates." A faint smirk touched his lips. "You move like a wild horse, untrained, but full of raw strength. And you came back to watch."
He stopped a few feet in front of Wakashi, his gaze steady. "You're angry. I saw that yesterday. Good. Anger can be a powerful engine. But aimless rage will only get you kicked out, or worse, get yourself hurt. Or your teammates." He met Wakashi's eyes again. "Do you want to actually learn? Or do you just want to keep being the clown who slams into people?"
The word, "clown," spoken so directly, cut deep, but also stripped away the pretense. It was a challenge, not an insult. The old man didn't wait for a reply. He simply turned, his gaze sweeping over the empty field one last time, a faint, knowing smile playing on his lips. Without another word, he walked away, disappearing into the twilight, leaving Wakashi alone with the stinging echo of his words.
Wakashi stood there, the old man's challenge hanging in the air. He looked at the empty field, the image of his disastrous debut replaying in his mind. The humiliation from yesterday, the burning desire to prove something to himself, to everyone who had called him a clown—it all coalesced into a single, desperate resolve. Hinata's earlier words, "Fulfill your revenge on the ball," returned with renewed force. He didn't know how. He didn't know where to start. But the old man's blunt assessment of his untapped strength, combined with Hinata's quiet encouragement, had ignited a spark that would not be extinguished.
"I want to learn," Wakashi whispered into the quiet evening air, his voice quiet but firm, startling himself with the conviction behind the words. "I want to learn how to play."