The smell of the locker room was always the same, a scent that had ingrained itself into the deepest recesses of my memory. It was a stinging, chemical mix of cooling spray used to numb battered joints, the earthy musk of worn leather gloves, and the sharp, metallic scent of nervous sweat that clung to every jersey in the room. To anyone else, it might have been repulsive. To me, it was the smell of home. It was the smell of the grind.
I sat on the wooden bench, the rough grain digging slightly into my thighs through the fabric of my uniform. The room was buzzing with the chaotic energy of teenage boys on the precipice of destiny, but I was in my own world. I was wrapping white athletic tape around my left wrist.
Tight. Loose. Tight.
It was a ritual, a physical grounding technique I had developed years ago to quiet the cacophony of noise rattling around in my skull. With every loop of the tape, I locked away a doubt. With every tear of the fabric, I silenced a fear.
Today was the day. The National Championship. Koshien Stadium.
For most high schoolers in Japan, this place was a hallowed ground, a mythical coliseum they only ever saw through the grainy pixels of a television screen or read about in the sports manga they hid under their desks. It was the summit of our youth, the place where legends were born in the scorching heat and where dreams went to die in the black dirt. It was the endpoint for millions of kids who picked up a bat.
But for me, it wasn't just a game. It wasn't just about the glory or the scouts in the stands holding radar guns. It was a promise I had made a long time ago.
I grew up in a house that was quieter than most. My mother had passed away giving birth to me, a tragedy that left a hole in the world before I even had a chance to see it. It left my father to figure out the absolute chaos of parenting on his own, navigating a minefield of diapers, fevers, and parent-teacher meetings without a map.
He wasn't a perfect man by any traditional metric. He burned toast with alarming regularity, setting off the smoke alarm at least once a week. His fashion sense was tragically stuck in the late nineties, a collection of faded denim and windbreakers that he wore with unearned confidence.
But to me, he was a giant.
He was a former pro pitcher, a relief specialist who had bounced between teams as a "journeyman." He was never the star. He never made the Hall of Fame. He was the guy they called in the seventh inning to hold the line, the guy who did the dirty work. He earned enough grit in the bullpen to last a lifetime.
We were a two-man team against the world. We spent our nights huddled in our small living room, eating microwave convenience store bentos because neither of us could cook, and binge-watching anime until our eyes burned and the sun threatened to rise.
We loved the adventure stories best. We devoured the ones where the hero gets whisked away to a new world, fights dragons, and saves the kingdom with nothing but his wits and his courage. I remembered the way the blue light of the TV would illuminate his tired face as he leaned back on the sofa.
"You know, kid," he'd often say, pointing his chopsticks at the TV screen while chewing a piece of lukewarm karaage. "Life is an adventure, too. You just gotta have the guts to step up to the plate when it's your turn."
I finished taping my wrist, tearing the tape with a sharp snap that echoed in my ears. I stood up, rolling my shoulders to work out the tension. I grabbed my glove from the bench. It was well-oiled, the leather dark and supple, shaped perfectly to the contours of my hand. It was a gift from him for my sixteenth birthday, bought with money he had likely been saving for months.
I wasn't just playing for the trophy today. I wasn't playing for the scouts or the school.
I was playing for the guy who played catch with me in the backyard until the sun went down and the fireflies came out, using the headlights of his car so we could see the ball. I was playing for the man who worked double shifts after retiring from the league just so I could have the best cleats money could buy.
"Let's go!"
The captain, slapping the metal frame of the locker room door with a ringing clang that made everyone jump. "This is it!"
I walked into the concrete tunnel, the spikes of my cleats clicking rhythmically on the floor. The darkness embraced me for a brief moment, cool and quiet, before the light at the end consumed everything.
The roar of the crowd washed over me like a physical wave, vibrating in my chest, heavy and suffocating. Fifty thousand people. The stands were a sea of colors, shaking with the rhythmic chanting of the cheer squads. Brass bands blared fight songs that clashed in the humid air, creating a wall of sound that made it impossible to think. The summer heat was thick, a humid blanket that wrapped around my throat, tasting of dust and ozone.
I stepped onto the field, and the world narrowed down to sixty feet and six inches.
Bottom of the ninth. Two outs. Full count.
I stood on the mound, the dirt loose and dry under my cleats. My legs burned with a lactic fire, a deep, trembling ache that threatened to buckle my knees. My lungs heaved, gasping for air that felt too thick to breathe, as if I were trying to inhale soup. I was exhausted, having thrown over a hundred pitches in this game alone, pushing my body far past its limit.
But I refused to show it. I kept my chin up, my expression stony.
I looked toward home plate. The batter was a monster of a high schooler, a cleanup hitter with thighs like tree trunks who had already smashed a homer off me in the fourth inning. He was digging his cleats into the dirt of the batter's box, grinning at me like a shark smelling blood in the water. He knew I was tired. He knew I was on the ropes.
Block it out, I told myself.
My dad taught me this visualization. Block out the noise. Block out the heat. Block out the fifty thousand people screaming my name. Imagine a tunnel. A long, dark tunnel connecting my hand to the catcher's mitt. There is nothing in the world except that target.
I opened my eyes. The catcher flashed the sign.
Fastball. High and inside.
My breath hitched. A risky pitch. If I missed, it was a ball, and they walked. If I left it hanging, it was a home run, and we lost. It was a challenge. It was the catcher daring me to trust my stuff.
I didn't hesitate. I grinned, feeling the sweat drip down my nose. I wound up.
I channeled every ounce of adrenaline left in my system. I poured every hour of practice in the backyard, every late-night conversation about mechanics, every sacrifice my father had made into my right leg. I pushed off the rubber plate. My body uncoiled like a whip, the kinetic energy traveling from the earth, through my hips, locking into my core, shooting up into my shoulder, and finally exploding through my fingertips.
The ball left my hand with a snap.
It was a laser beam. Ninety-four miles per hour. It cut through the humid air, rising slightly as it neared the plate, a white blur of violence.
The batter swung. He put everything he had into it, a swing meant to end the game, a swing meant to crush dreams.
WHIFF.
The sound of the ball hitting the mitt was like a gunshot, sharp and final.
"STRIKE THREE!" the umpire's voice cracked through the air, his fist pumping into the sky.
For a second, there was silence. A total, absolute vacuum where the world stopped turning.
Then, the stadium exploded.
My catcher rushed the mound, ripping his mask off, tackling me in a hug that nearly knocked the wind out of me. Seconds later, I was at the bottom of a dogpile of cheering bodies and dust. I laughed, staring up at the blinding blue sky, feeling the weight of my teammates crushing the air out of my lungs, tears streaming down my face mixing with the dirt.
I scrambled out of the pile, my hat missing, my hair a mess. I didn't look at the scoreboard. I didn't look at the trophy being brought out by the officials. I looked up at the stands behind home plate.
There he was.
My dad. He was standing with his arms raised high, that goofy, lopsided grin plastered across his face. He looked ridiculous in his faded team cap, cheering louder than anyone else, his face red with pride. He caught my eye across the distance and gave me a thumbs-up.
I pointed back at him, grinning until my face hurt.
I did it, Dad. We did it.
Thirty minutes later, the locker room was pure chaos. Sparkling cider was being sprayed like champagne, sticking to the floor and our uniforms. Reporters were shoving microphones in faces, asking generic questions about "team spirit" and "grit." I sat by my locker, tuning it out, checking my phone.
One new text from "Dad."
"Incredible game, kid. You looked just like a pro out there. Better than I ever was. Go celebrate with the team, take your time. I'm heading home now to get the Sukiyaki started. Tonight, we feast like kings."
I smiled, my thumbs flying across the screen as I typed back: "See you soon, Dad. Make sure you don't burn the beef this time."
I didn't stay long. The party was fun, but I wanted to be home. I wanted to sit at our small dining table, eat sukiyaki until I couldn't move, and break down every single pitch of the game with the old man. I wanted to hear him tell me I was great.
I packed my bag, draping my heavy gold medal over my neck, and slipped out the back exit of the stadium.
The weather had turned. The oppressive summer humidity had finally broken into a heavy, rhythmic rain. I didn't mind. I walked to the station, took the train, and walked the final mile to our house. The rain beat against the pavement, washing away the sweat and the dust of the game.
I felt light. I felt like my life was just beginning.
I turned the corner to our street.
The house was dark.
That was strange. Dad usually left the porch light on when he knew I was coming home late. And if he was cooking sukiyaki, the kitchen light should have been blazing, casting a warm glow onto the driveway.
I walked up the driveway, the gravel crunching under my wet sneakers. A cold knot formed in my stomach, tightening with every step.
"Dad?" I called out.
Silence.
I unlocked the front door and stepped in. "Dad! I'm home!"
The house was silent. There was no smell of soy sauce and simmering beef. The air felt stale, cold, as if the house had been empty for hours.
"Dad?"
I walked into the kitchen. It was empty. The pot was on the stove, cold and empty. The vegetables were still in the fridge, chopped and ready in bowls, but untouched.
He never made it home.
I pulled out my phone, my wet fingers slipping on the screen. I dialed his number.
Ring... Ring... Ring...
Beep. "Please leave a message after the tone."
"Dad, where are you? I'm home. Call me back."
I hung up. The silence of the house pressed in on me. It was deafening, amplified by the drumming of the rain on the roof.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
The sound made me jump. I spun around, relief flooding my chest.
"Dad?"
I rushed to the door and threw it open.
It wasn't him.
Two police officers stood on the porch, water dripping from the brims of their hats. They looked grim. They looked... sorry.
"Are you the son?" the older officer asked, his voice gentle, practiced.
"Yes," I said, my voice trembling. "Where is he?"
The officer took off his hat, clutching it to his chest. "Son... there was an accident on the highway. A multi-car pileup. A drunk driver swerved into oncoming traffic."
My ears started to ring. The sound of the rain faded into a dull, distant hum.
"No," I whispered.
"He was pronounced dead at the scene," the officer continued, the words sounding like they were coming from underwater, distorted and slow. "I'm so sorry."
"No... that's bullshit... no."
I looked down at my chest. The gold medal was still there, heavy and cold against my hoodie. It mocked me. I just texted him. He was making sukiyaki. We were supposed to feast like kings.
"Son, is there anyone we can call?" the officer reached out a hand to steady me.
I slapped it away.
"Don't touch me!"
Panic seized my throat. I couldn't breathe in here. The house felt like a tomb. Every picture on the wall, every piece of furniture, it all screamed of him. The silence was choking me.
I turned and ran.
I pushed past the officers, sprinting out into the rain. I didn't know where I was going. I just ran. I ran until my lungs burned, until my legs gave out, until the roar of the Koshien crowd in my head was replaced by the roar of my own grief.
I ended up in the city, under the neon lights that blurred into streaks of color in the rain.
I stopped on a bridge overlooking the highway. I gripped the railing, my knuckles white, the metal biting into my palms. Below me, cars rushed by, oblivious to the world ending above them.
"DAMN IT, OLD MAN!" I screamed at the black sky. "WHY DID YOU DIE ON ME?!"
My voice cracked, lost in the sound of the wind. I gasped for air, gripping my hair with both hands, pulling until it hurt.
We were supposed to have more time. We were supposed to go to America next year. We were supposed to finish that anime series. We were supposed to be a team.
I looked down at the medal. It felt like a joke now. A stupid piece of metal. I unclasped it from my neck and held it over the edge.
"What's the point?" I sobbed.
I shoved the medal into my pocket. I couldn't throw it away. It was the last thing I won for him.
I turned away from the railing, wiping my eyes with my soaked sleeve. I needed to find a place to sit. To think. To figure out how to breathe again.
I turned into a dim alleyway, looking for a shortcut away from the noise of the traffic.
That's when I saw them.
A man was pressing a young woman against the brick wall. He looked to be in his mid-twenties, erratic and aggressive. The woman looked young, maybe a college student, her black hair plastered to her face by the rain. She was crying, shaking her head.
"Please, just stop! I don't want to talk to you!" she sobbed.
"You don't get to walk away from me!" The man slammed his hand against the wall by her head. "You think you're better than me? Huh?"
He had her pinned. His body language was violent, coiled like a spring.
My blood, already boiling from the grief, spiked into a sudden, blinding rage. I didn't care about my safety. I didn't care about anything. I just needed to stop the hurting. I needed to hit something.
"Hey!" I roared. "Get off her!"
The man whipped his head around, giving me a piercing glare. "This is none of your business! Walk away, kid!"
He turned back to the woman, raising a fist to strike her, grabbing her by the throat to silence her whimpers.
That was the last straw.
I didn't think. I bolted down the sidewalk toward him. I balled up my right hand, the same hand that had thrown the winning pitch just hours ago, and threw my weight forward.
I punched him square in the jaw.
The impact rattled my arm. The man stumbled back, falling hard onto his butt in a puddle. He looked up at me, his face twisting with murderous rage. I turned my back to him to check on the lady. She was trembling, pressed flat against the wall.
"Go! Run!" I shouted.
I stepped closer, blocking her from the man's view. "It's okay. You're safe n—"
SCHLICK.
A cold, sharp sensation punched into my back, piercing straight through to my chest.
I gasped, the air leaving my lungs instantly.
I looked down. Protruding from my chest, right over my heart, was the tip of a serrated blade. It was stained red.
My vision blurred. The world tilted violently to the left. I collapsed backward onto the wet pavement.
"You little shit!" The man stood over me, breathing hard, a bloody knife in his hand that I hadn't even seen. "You shouldn't have touched me!"
"Hey! Police! Drop the weapon!" A beam of a flashlight cut through the rain from the street entrance.
"Crap..." The man spun around and bolted, disappearing into the darkness of the maze-like alleys.
An officer rushed over, skidding on the wet pavement. He looked at the wound and his face went pale. He grabbed his radio. "Dispatch! Emergency! Requesting an ambulance immediately! I have a minor with a stab wound to the heart! Suspect has fled!"
He dropped to his knees and pressed his hands over the hole in my chest. The pressure was agonizing. "Hey! Stay with me! Look at me! Don't you dare close your eyes!"
It hurts. My heart feels like it's on fire, a white-hot poker twisting inside my ribs. I try to move, but I can't. I'm completely frozen, my body feeling heavy and cold as the heat leaves me. I try to speak, but my voice is nothing more than a wet, bloody gurgle.
So this is how it goes.
My father, then me. We didn't even make it through the same night.
I'm sorry, Dad. I guess I'm coming to see you sooner than we thought.
The streetlights above me started to smear into long, blurry streaks. The sound of the rain faded into a dull hum. The pain vanished.
Then, the world turned black.