The old man's taunt,
"Ohoo, the clown got a good ball, didn't he?" hit Wakashi like a fresh slap. That condescending smile, the deliberate use of the word "clown" – it ignited the smoldering embers of his fury. He didn't think, didn't hesitate. All the raw frustration from the street game, the humiliation, the years of bottled-up grief, coalesced into a single, explosive urge.
With a guttural roar, Wakashi swung his leg back, a blur of power, and struck the homemade ball with all his considerable strength, aiming it directly at the old man's face. It wasn't a kick to play; it was a kick to harm, a malicious projectile launched with vengeful intent. The lumpy, dense sphere whistled through the air, a physical manifestation of his rage.
But the old man didn't flinch. His eyes, though shadowed, remained fixed on the rapidly approaching ball. Just as it seemed destined for his head, he moved. A swift, almost imperceptible shift of weight, a fluid raising of his right foot. The ball connected, not with a jarring impact, but with a soft, precise thud. It settled cleanly, perfectly, on the top of his foot, as if drawn by an invisible string. No rebound, no wild deflection. Just perfect control.
Wakashi skidded to a halt, panting, his attack defused with humiliating ease. He stared, dumbfounded, as the old man, his smile now wider, more mocking, effortlessly flicked the ball into the air with his instep, catching it with the other foot.
"Is that all, clown?"
The old man sneered, his voice laced with playful contempt.
"Just this much strength? Pathetic."
The words, coupled with the casual display of skill, ripped through Wakashi. Fury, hot and blinding, surged anew.
"Give me that!" he snarled,
abandoning any pretense of restraint. He lunged forward, a whirlwind of flailing limbs, desperate to snatch the ball, to wipe that mocking smile off the old man's face.
But the ball was a phantom. Wakashi lunged, the old man shifted, a subtle step to the side. Wakashi reached, the old man nudged the ball just out of reach. It was a humiliating dance. He tried to corner him against a gnarled tree, only for the old man to deftly nutmeg him – sliding the ball cleanly between Wakashi's wide-set legs before collecting it effortlessly on the other side.
"Poor boy," the old man chuckled, his voice dripping with playful derision.
"Is that all you've got? So slow. So clumsy. So predictable."
Wakashi raged. He threw his powerful body into every attempt, trying to tackle, to block, to simply get a foot on the ball. But it was like trying to catch smoke. The ball remained glued to the old man's feet, a constant, mocking presence. He would dribble in tight circles, then suddenly accelerate, forcing Wakashi to chase, his long legs churning uselessly. Each failed attempt, each exasperated grunt from Wakashi, was met with another taunt, another display of unattainable mastery.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity of futile effort, the old man stopped. He let the ball settle at his feet, then gave it a gentle nudge towards Wakashi.
"Here," he said, his smile fading slightly, replaced by a gaze that was suddenly piercing, focused.
"Keep it. You'll need it. You have power, yes. Enough to break bones, maybe. But power without control is just a tantrum." He paused, his eyes narrowing slightly.
"Learn to make the ball obey. Learn to make it your limb, not just a thing you hit. And remember, clown: a football field isn't a battlefield. It's a stage. You either learn to dance, or you just stumble."
With those words, the old man turned and walked away, his stride unhurried, disappearing into the pre-dawn gloom, leaving Wakashi alone on the beach, panting, defeated, and clutching his lumpy, homemade ball. But this time, amidst the shame, a new, sharp clarity had cut through the fog. He had seen what true control looked like. And he now understood the immense, almost impossible, distance he had to travel.
This interaction should be a profound catalyst for Wakashi, showing him the true meaning of skill and control beyond raw power. The old man, though a provocateur, serves as a harsh but effective teacher.