Chapter 7

Gonzaburo Tashiro, first-year. At the moment, I’m facing an insurmountable barrier. Namely, the fact that I can’t get out of the Ping-Pong Club. Even though I was supposedly only dipping a toe in it. If I wanted to leave the club, there’s only one way: I had to defeat the club president in a game of ping-pong. If I was going to overcome an adversary I couldn’t even keep up with when we were doing practice drills, I was going to need a very special plan. Namely, I was secretly doing rigorous extra practice on the side. That was intended to be my ace in the hole. But while I was busy practicing away, I didn’t know that from the moment I’d joined the club (thinking it was temporary!), I’d been tagged as a potential future president myself. I felt the breeze. A second later, there was a wssh of wind. Gah! Damn. I totally missed my mark. I was trying to end the volley with a big smash, but instead the ball came back my way. I failed to return it, and it was another point against me. I resumed my stance, paddle at the ready, aware of how intense that volley had been. “Knock ’em dead, Tashiro!” my friend shouted, but he didn’t sound very convinced. I didn’t even have the wherewithal to turn and look at him as I said, “Believe me, I’m trying!” On the far side of the table from me was the president of the Ping-Pong Club. I had to win this set if I wanted to have any chance of victory, but right now I wasn’t seeing a way to do it. I was reeling. I had no idea people played ping-pong at this level in high school. How the hell ’m I supposed to beat a third-year anyway?! My friend Shirahama had faced another first-year—but me? I got this! How could they have stacked the deck against me like this?! I knew complaining would get me nowhere, so I sucked it up and faced the table, but I was breathing hard. The gulf between points loomed, announcing my imminent defeat. And with that defeat, I would be inducted as an official member of the Ping-Pong Club. Like I said, I’d joined the club casually, figuring I just wouldn’t show up if I didn’t feel like it, but it turned out things weren’t that easy. When I tried to withdraw my provisional membership, I found myself hit with the challenge that I had to defeat a member of the club if I wanted them to accept my withdrawal. It was outrageous. And my alleged friend Kyouji Shirahama was behind it all. He was the one who’d said, “Hey, you like ping-pong, don’t you? How about we sign up? Just to try it.” It was his plan to drop in and then duck out again. His opponent had been a first-year, someone else who’d only just joined, and Shirahama had smashed him. But I ended up facing the club president! There was no way I would win. My naïveté had been my undoing. It’s true, I did like ping-pong, and I’d assumed that the Ping-Pong Club wouldn’t practice as rigorously as the other athletic teams. So, so naive. What I discovered when I showed up, assuming it would be easy and fun, was the exact opposite. The club had lots of members, and they were very good at ping-pong. It was obviously going to be hard work. I was out of my depth and decided to back out—which was what left me in my current situation. With the gauntlet thrown, I felt bad saying, “Naw, I wanna quit, see ya.” These people were working hard. I didn’t want to just show up, spit on them, and leave again with bad feelings all around. But, to reiterate, it was impossible for me to beat the club president. He was so much better than I was that I thought I might pass out from the sheer skill difference. This wasn’t one of those things where the more anxious I got, the more mistakes I made. No, it was a simple matter of one player being impossibly, crushingly better than the other. How many more times would I hear the squeak of my shoes across the floor? Even as I was considering the question, he took another point off me. “Game, set!” announced the referee, a second-year. Man, he sounds so cool saying that. The president’s name was circled on the whiteboard containing the tournament bracket. I wiped my face with one of my rolled-up sleeves, my eyes only half open. It’s over. I lost. I knew I would, but it still stings. “’Kay, see ya, guys,” Shirahama said, and took off, leaving me and my depression behind. We were the only two who had asked to leave the club, but there were still games going on, meant to assess the abilities of the new members. As I stood there, drooping mentally and physically, I was approached by the guy who had refereed our match—the club’s vice president, Hanzawa. He chatted with me and explained what it would mean to be a full member of the club. “We don’t ask much of you, but you can’t bleach your hair. It shows a lack of good discipline,” he said. “Uh… Seems to me like you’re asking plenty,” I replied. “You heard the man, President. What’s your call?” Hanzawa called out. “If he can beat me, he can make his hair whatever color he wants,” came the president’s answer. “Urgh…” I groaned loudly. “You say just what’s on your mind, don’t you, Tashiro?” Hanzawa said with a smile. It sounded like that was supposed to be a compliment, but I was so despondent about being railroaded into becoming an official club member that it didn’t make me feel any better. There weren’t any other clubs I wanted to join, and I really did like ping-pong quite a bit. I just couldn’t accept the logical conclusion of those facts. Something inside wouldn’t let me. It’s hard to get excited about going to a club you didn’t really want to join, and somehow my feet didn’t always find their way to practice. And once you skip once or twice, it only gets harder to go on day three. But the Ping-Pong Club only had practice three days a week, so if I skipped the first two, that only left the last one, Friday. The president and vice president would show up at the classroom together to drag me off, and I would end up at the club whether I liked it or not. I was starting to acquire a reputation as a bit of a handful around school, so much so that even some of the second- and third-years would call out when they saw me. What was this, the zoo?! Once I ended up at the club, I felt compelled to take it seriously, even if I was there under duress. After all, it was fun to see my skills improve. I felt doubly trapped because nobody even resented me for the fact that I didn’t really want to be there. They were all completely accepting of me. Sometimes the other first-years and I would go wherever after class, and I even got to know the upperclassmen. It wasn’t like I didn’t appreciate having some friends from the club. I go out of my way not to hold grudges, if I may say so myself, and that seemed to win over the club president. “I thought Tashiro’d be spoiling for a fight, but he isn’t. That’s what makes him a genius worthy of being in my inner circle. Remember that, Hanzawa, ’cause when I graduate, you’re gonna be the next club president.” “Yes, sir.” “And I think that guy might be a good successor to you!” That guy? That guy, like, this guy? Me?! It was just another day in second term, and the club president and vice president were chatting, smiles on their faces—but their conversation left me speechless. Here I was wishing I could quit, and they were looking at me as a prospective future president? I’d never even stuck around a single club this long before, and now I felt more cornered than ever. I’d played volleyball in elementary school and been on the track-and-field team in middle school. My all-around athleticism made me something of a pinch player on just about any team that needed me. I always joined clubs and teams on the assumption that I would eventually go play for someone else, so the idea that I might end up as club president shook me to my core. They can’t be serious, can they? Our president wasn’t the type to joke about club matters, though, and while Hanzawa might look like he laughed everything off, he had a sharp memory. It was only then that I realized I was truly in a bind. “I didn’t hear anything. Perfect,” I said to myself. It was simple: I just wouldn’t accept the offer to become president. The Ping-Pong Club held on to its members longer than most; it was customary for third-years to stay and participate in activities even after the official tournaments were over, so the president didn’t resign until December each year. In other words, they wouldn’t try to pin this on me until at least December of my second year. There was no point in worrying about it in the second term of my first year. I was sure that by the time he had to pick a successor, Hanzawa would have found someone more appropriate. Someone more serious about the club, maybe. “No club today, Tashiro?” I froze, pinned in place by eyes that were unwavering and determined. It was the first day we’d had club since the discussion of who would be the next club president. “Nah,” I said. “You going right home today too, Miyano?” He was normally pretty dedicated to the Disciplinary Committee, which had seemed awfully busy lately. “Uh-huh. I want to stop by this one bookstore. Make sure I get the special bonus material they’re offering.” Miyano had a habit of looking you square in the eye when he talked to you. It could be disconcerting. I guess I mean, like, a little startling. He was a really decent guy, though. He always seemed to be thinking about what other people needed and wanted. I didn’t usually understand what he meant when he talked about his favorite stuff, but I got the feeling he didn’t necessarily want to be understood. He sure never explained much. “Oh, you mean the follow-up thing by that author we were talking about? I ordered it, too,” said Kuresawa. He hadn’t really looked like he was listening, but from the way he interjected the occasional on-topic comment, he evidently had a pretty good idea what was going on. He’d mentioned to me one time that his girlfriend and Miyano shared the same interest, and Kuresawa sometimes asked Miyano for advice about it. “Wanna go together? The volumes aren’t numbered, so it can be tough to tell which is which.” “That’d be a big help.” They walked out of the classroom, chatting amiably, and promptly hit the road. Miyano’s hobby was man-on-man romance comics. I sometimes wondered about that (like, even though he’s a guy?), and Miyano explained to me that it wasn’t just comics, that there was “lots of stuff” in the hobby. I dunno. Manga and novels and anime were all pretty much the same as far as I was concerned. Kuresawa and Miyano really seemed to enjoy talking about it, so sometimes I would throw them a “What’s that mean?” I didn’t actually care that much, so I tended to lose track of the explanation halfway through. Oh well. They didn’t seem to mind that I didn’t understand, and neither did I. I didn’t have to get it for us to be friends. Meanwhile, I’d accomplished my objective of getting out of there before the Ping-Pong Club president dragged me off somewhere, so I said my good-byes to them with a light heart. Incidentally, Shirahama, the source of all my woes, had joined the basketball team in the meantime. I waved good-bye to the other guys, but I didn’t go straight home. Instead, I headed for the public bath. It was a pretty big place. They had these gorgeous rooms dressed up to look like an old-fashioned hot spring, plus there were rooms to rest and relax in. I’d been a regular there since starting high school. It was cheap, boisterous, and fun, and I loved going there on my way home. “Heeeeey, Tashiro!” I stopped when I heard someone behind me shouting my name. “Another round today?” It was Mr. Yamada, an older man with a slightly sketchy smile—and a woman, Ms. Toyoda, stood beside him. They were old enough to be my grandparents, but they’d been happy to shoot the breeze with me ever since we first met. It felt different talking to older people rather than guys my own age, and I enjoyed when people took time out for me, so I was always glad to see them. “Hey! You know it!” I kept a washcloth in my bag. That was all you needed—soap was provided. I told people the washcloth was something I needed at the club. That was half true; it was about fifty-fifty between that and the bath. Because on the second floor of the public bath was a rec room with a ping-pong table. I know it’s the same thing, but it feels completely different. When we played at the bath, we took our cue from the major tournaments in defining a match win as the first to win three games. At the moment, I was busy giving up my eleventh point as I failed to return a ball that had an inhuman amount of spin on it. It was enough to make me wonder if we were using the same paddle. Anyway, that was the third game—my loss. “Aw, yeah!” Mr. Yamada exclaimed. I had never once beaten him in a game of ping-pong. The second I thought I had some momentum going, he would turn the tables on me. I’d never even threatened him with a match point. His technique was overwhelming: his positioning, the power he put into the ball, the way he always knew how to receive my shots. A quick look at the score was enough to show just how good he was. Plus, he was an expert at the mental game. The better I was doing at the beginning of a game, the bigger difference he’d make between our scores in the middle, until he left me virtually crushed. He simply walked away with one game after another. It was psychological warfare. Even though I knew Mr. Yamada was just toying with me, I still couldn’t help but get excited at the start of a game, feeling like I was doing all right. After he shattered my illusions, I would become anxious, and I could never get my rhythm back. “Dammit! I’m still not even as good as some old fart!” I groaned. It was all I could do, seeing as he’d thrashed me yet again. I had this idea that I would just sweat a little before I got in the bath, but this was how it always ended up, with my pulse high and my head low. Mr. Yamada smirked. “Yeah, I’m an old fart, and this is how I play ping-pong. Ergo, this is how good an old fart is. That gettin’ through to you?” Now he was just mocking me! “Argh! This sucks! I wanna win!” I snatched a sports drink from my bag and downed the remaining contents in one gulp. “All right, boys, let’s go wash the sweat off, shall we?” Ms. Toyoda said. The little gaggle of us headed downstairs to the bath. There was a railing, but each of us had one armful of our bathing stuff, so it wasn’t easy for the older folks. I was trying to get out in front of them, but as I went by, Mr. Yamada suddenly tottered on his feet. Yikes! I reached out and held him up, but my heart was pounding. I let out a small sigh. “You work yourself too hard, old man. I don’t wanna see you get hurt.” Old age made it harder to walk, and right now he was tired, too. Even an extra beat picking your feet up could leave you prone to a fall, and I didn’t want Mr. Yamada to overdo it. “I won’t get hurt,” he grumbled. I could understand—he had his pride, and here was some kid fretting about him—but I felt like I had to say something. It really bothered me. “I know you’ve got great reflexes, Mr. Yamada, but it’s real easy to slip around here.” I pressed close to him, insisting that he at least let me hold his stuff. We resumed working our way downstairs, taking it even slower than before. Ms. Toyoda and the others behind me were whispering; I thought I heard someone say the word grandson. After we split off into our respective bathing areas—they were separated by gender—Mr. Yamada started giving me one of his lectures, which is to say a detailed analysis of everything I’d done wrong in our match. There were other veteran ping-pong players around, but he was the most interested in teaching, and he was always nice enough to tutor me. Not to mention he was very good at it. These moments when I got to sit there, sweating and getting his take on where I’d messed up and how I could do better, were special to me. There weren’t a lot of chances to get one-on-one instruction from the upperclassmen in the Ping-Pong Club, and the faculty adviser was no ping-pong player. Getting a breakdown of my most recent match almost immediately was great. It would have been even better if I could then incorporate Mr. Yamada’s advice into my playing, but I didn’t think I was going to get to that point for a while. Mr. Yamada, with his grasp of psychology, knew that sitting there listening to all the ways you’d screwed up could be pretty depressing, and he was also an expert at getting me fired up again, leaving me feeling almost as if he’d actually been complimenting me. I dipped into the tub, and before long, I was pouring tepid water over my head. I always seemed to overheat quicker than anyone. In fact, I was starting to feel a little light-headed. “Think I’m gonna get out, Mr. Yamada,” I said. “Sure thing. You never last long, do you?” He added the same little parting shot he always did: “Bath at home’s even hotter.” I ignored him and ducked out of the bathing area. It still felt a little funny to change back into my school uniform in the changing room of a public bath. The whole ritual didn’t take as long as a club meeting, but I was starting to think I was more suited to these shorter bursts, focused exclusively on a game. Sometimes we had to switch off between games if it was crowded, but everyone was happy to play against me, so I never had to wait long for a vacant table—something else I was thankful for. “I guess I just don’t like being forced…” If, after I’d joined as a provisional member, they’d said, “You can go check out the other clubs, but come back here when you’re ready to join something,” I might have been more flexible about being part of the Ping-Pong Club. The practice was hard, but the guys were pretty decent, and I enjoyed the unique camaraderie that came from being part of a team that was very, very good. Not to mention that I envied Mr. Yamada and his buddies. When they talked fondly of the time when they used to be active players, I felt like I was catching glimpses of them and their old teammates. As I emerged from the humid changing room, I felt a nice, cool breeze on my damp skin. I put down my stuff in one of the relaxation rooms—they were equipped with tatami mats to sit on, as well as sofas—and then I convinced the old guys to treat me to some milk. I swigged it down while it was still cold, and then I splayed myself out on the tatami, feeling so good, I thought I might just drop off to sleep. While I was lounging, Ms. Toyoda and the other members of Team Grandma finished their baths too, so the break room was getting pretty lively. Apparently, the vogue among the older ladies was anmitsu red bean paste. “Come here a second,” Ms. Toyoda called, and it turned out there was even some for me. The women had been reminiscing about their school days, and as I sat down to eat, the chatter quickly started up again. There was a lot of S this and yuri that, short words and abbreviations that made the conversation sound like it was in code. I was only half listening, and while I knew they weren’t really talking about English letters or names of flowers—yuri means lily—I definitely didn’t quite follow. Finally I asked, “What’s yuri?” “You don’t know? It’s stories of love between girls!” “Huh. Haven’t heard that one before…” I guess Ms. Toyoda and her friends had been into reading that sort of thing many years ago, and now their interest was being rekindled thanks to their grandchildren. “I didn’t realize women liked stories about girl-on-girl love, too…” An image of Miyano drifted through my mind. I’d always thought his hobby was sort of weird, but maybe I just hadn’t realized how widespread it was. We so rarely know what other people’s passions are. “Are you into anything, Tashiro?” Ms. Toyoda asked, and I flinched. “Uh, me? I dunno. I guess I hadn’t really thought about it.” I racked my brain for anything I might be passionate about, but nothing came to mind. “You’re all about ping-pong, ain’tcha?” Mr. Yamada shouted. I flinched again. When had he gotten here? “That’s just so I can get strong enough to defeat the club president!” Yeah, if I only practice in my enemy’s house, I’ll never beat him! Not if he saw all my moves, all my habits and tells, everything, just because I was a lower-ranking club member. Mr. Yamada didn’t seem convinced. “Excuses, excuses!” It ticked me off to have an adult wave away what I’d said, but the fact was, there was nothing I could say to that. I have to admit, I had an inkling. An idea of why it was so painful to learn from someone I couldn’t beat—someone I just kept losing to. Why it was so much fun to play with Mr. Yamada and Ms. Toyoda, but doing the exact same thing with the club president just…wasn’t. Where I got the energy to keep up this secret “training.” It’s because I want to win. I want to beat him. More months passed, and despite countless attempts, I never did beat the club president. And then it was December, so he left the club. Yes, that was late by the standards of the athletic teams, but from my perspective, it was all too early. I’d only been a member of the club, casual or not, for eight months. Not even a year. “So you’re never coming back, President?” I said. “I ain’t President anymore.” “Not the point! I haven’t beat you yet…” I clenched my fists, a yawning, lonely feeling of loss opening within me. “Ahh. You mean the thing about getting to quit if you win? The next president’ll keep that promise. Don’t you worry.” “What?” I don’t get it. What happened to the loneliness? The new president—in other words, Hanzawa. “Lookin’ forward to it!” Hanzawa grinned at me. He was plenty good—he would have to be, in order to be entrusted with leadership of the club. I knew he would be a formidable opponent. “Wha…?” So I was being passed off to the next guy? As I stood there dumbfounded, Hanzawa patted me on the shoulder and said, “Good luck, man.” He seemed so…not even worried. Definitely not like someone I could beat at ping-pong. Soon December was almost over, and of course, I still hadn’t toppled the club president. I wanted to quit, but I couldn’t win—but that didn’t stop the “new order” from taking shape. Winter break was too short for us to hold any practice, so my participation percentage in the club went up, and I found myself taking part in a tournament. I actually won my first game against a guy from another school. My heart started to race as I tasted victory for the first time. I loved the joy of winning, of course, but I also wanted to hear my teammates cheering for me again—to feel the encouragement their shouts gave me. I’d never felt anything like it before, but I quickly decided I could get used to it.