Meiro (Blind Alley)
by acchikocchi
Scene: an anonymous green room, an anonymous television studio. Fluorescent lighting, hard plastic chairs, a table loaded bottled water and individually packaged snacks. You, leaning gingerly back in a parody of relaxation, looking around every so often as if this time you'll discover something new and interesting. Nakata, arms crossed over chest and right leg crossed over left, staring at nothing with a focus that shuts out everything around him. It's the second talk show of the day and you wish more than anything that it was over.
You can remember a time when a room empty of everyone except you and Nakata wouldn't have been suffocatingly awkward. You can remember when you got along pretty well, back when you were a still a prodigy fresh to national call ups and Nakata was Japan's golden boy.
You know Nakata's not the sentimental type (like you are) and that he could care less about "getting along" for the sake of getting along (like you do). That's why you're probably the only one who remembers.
The funny thing is, deep down, you still think of him as your senpai. In exactly those terms: you look at him, and the identification that immediately floats to mind is Nakata-senpai. In high school, everyone on your school team wanted to be him, the young hotshot playing in Italy, thousands of screaming fans everywhere he went in his home country. Before you had to play with him. Before you had to play against him. Before you were actually expected to be him, only "more Japanese."
He told you to drop the honorifics the very first time you met him, at the beginning of the run-up to Sidney. At the time, you were thrilled. You thought he was being friendly.
The scrape of a chair jolts you from your thoughts. You look over. Nakata's switched legs, left over right now; he gives no other indication he isn't carved from stone, or that he realizes there's anyone else in the room.
You know a second before it happens both that you're going to open your mouth and that you shouldn't do it. It never works - you can never figure out the right thing to say, the right key to fit the lock. But you keep trying, even when you wish you wouldn't, even though you're aware, somewhere in the back of your mind, that the dogged perseverance inculcated in you for as long as you can remember won't make a difference without some measure of understanding.
It's all you know how to do: try. No matter where you go and how well you learn to cope, you'll never be the type of fluid sophisticate who can instinctively adapt to the alien. You're an introverted Japanese kid from Yokohama who went to a sports school and couldn't have told anyone the name of the biggest city in Scotland until you went to play there.
"So," you say, and clear your throat. "What do you think about our draw?"
Nakata looks over at you and then, a fraction of a second later, actually tunes in. His expression flickers.
"Our draw," he repeats. You shift a little. "What is there to think about?"
Your brow furrows. "Isn't there plenty?" you say. "For example, what about the teams? Brazil's impossible, but I think Australia - "
You realize you've said something wrong (what?) by the sudden blankness of Nakata's expression, just before he interrupts. "You always," he starts to say, and then, cutting himself off, "Never mind the draw. Look. This morning. Why did you say that?"
You say, "What?"
"That answer, from the earlier show. 'We're going to do our best to enjoy the World Cup.' Why did you say that?"
"Well - " You stumble a little. "Because it's important to - we need to try our hardest, and appreciate the experience - "
"Because you don't think we're good enough," Nakata says in a brutally conversational tone, and you can't think of a denial quickly enough.
Nakata says deliberately, "Maybe you don't know what a World Cup is like. It's not - fun."
You can feel your face go cold, then hot. It's at times like this when you hate more than anything your stupid, stupid reserve. You wish you could spit out the sort of dry, cutting retorts that Nakata's way of speaking demands, but even if you were fast enough (and most of the time you're not), your tongue automatically locks up, defensive politeness springing up like a reflex, and you have to sit there in silence knowing - cold comfort - that at least you won't permanently offend anyone.
Something must show in your expression, because Nakata raises his eyebrows at you. When you don't say anything, he keeps going. "If you want to have fun, it's all the same to me. But you should know I don't care about 'trying', I don't care about a 'good experience'. When I try my hardest, it's to win. If the rest of you aren't - "
"I want to win, too," you snap, "but I'm smart enough to know when I can't!"
The words hang in the air. Either you've finally surprised Nakata, or - He doesn't look surprised, but his expression as he examines you is unreadable. He's turned toward you now, elbows braced against his knees, and as you watch, he lets out a breath and leans forward.
"Nakamura," he says. "I'm not your captain or your coach and there's no reason for you to listen to me, so I'm just going to say this once. Stop listening. Stop listening to people who don't know anything telling you what to think. Stop telling yourself what you can't do. Stop trying. Just get out there and do it."
You don't say anything. You don't have anything to say: your mind is utterly blank. Nakata-se - Nakata watches you for a long minute, and then, when you don't answer, shifts back so that he's no longer facing you and recrosses his arms. That's all you're getting from him today.
A minute later, a meek staffer comes in and apologizes and very politely herds you out to the set. You go out and introduce yourself and smile and make pleasant small talk and give upbeat answers because that's what a normal person does in a normal society.
At the end of the day, that's what you are.
Scene: an anonymous green room, an anonymous television studio. Fluorescent lighting, hard plastic chairs, a table loaded bottled water and individually packaged snacks. You, leaning gingerly back in a parody of relaxation, looking around every so often as if this time you'll discover something new and interesting. Nakata, arms crossed over chest and right leg crossed over left, staring at nothing with a focus that shuts out everything around him. It's the second talk show of the day and you wish more than anything that it was over.
You can remember a time when a room empty of everyone except you and Nakata wouldn't have been suffocatingly awkward. You can remember when you got along pretty well, back when you were a still a prodigy fresh to national call ups and Nakata was Japan's golden boy.
You know Nakata's not the sentimental type (like you are) and that he could care less about "getting along" for the sake of getting along (like you do). That's why you're probably the only one who remembers.
The funny thing is, deep down, you still think of him as your senpai. In exactly those terms: you look at him, and the identification that immediately floats to mind is Nakata-senpai. In high school, everyone on your school team wanted to be him, the young hotshot playing in Italy, thousands of screaming fans everywhere he went in his home country. Before you had to play with him. Before you had to play against him. Before you were actually expected to be him, only "more Japanese."
He told you to drop the honorifics the very first time you met him, at the beginning of the run-up to Sidney. At the time, you were thrilled. You thought he was being friendly.
The scrape of a chair jolts you from your thoughts. You look over. Nakata's switched legs, left over right now; he gives no other indication he isn't carved from stone, or that he realizes there's anyone else in the room.
You know a second before it happens both that you're going to open your mouth and that you shouldn't do it. It never works - you can never figure out the right thing to say, the right key to fit the lock. But you keep trying, even when you wish you wouldn't, even though you're aware, somewhere in the back of your mind, that the dogged perseverance inculcated in you for as long as you can remember won't make a difference without some measure of understanding.
It's all you know how to do: try. No matter where you go and how well you learn to cope, you'll never be the type of fluid sophisticate who can instinctively adapt to the alien. You're an introverted Japanese kid from Yokohama who went to a sports school and couldn't have told anyone the name of the biggest city in Scotland until you went to play there.
"So," you say, and clear your throat. "What do you think about our draw?"
Nakata looks over at you and then, a fraction of a second later, actually tunes in. His expression flickers.
"Our draw," he repeats. You shift a little. "What is there to think about?"
Your brow furrows. "Isn't there plenty?" you say. "For example, what about the teams? Brazil's impossible, but I think Australia - "
You realize you've said something wrong (what?) by the sudden blankness of Nakata's expression, just before he interrupts. "You always," he starts to say, and then, cutting himself off, "Never mind the draw. Look. This morning. Why did you say that?"
You say, "What?"
"That answer, from the earlier show. 'We're going to do our best to enjoy the World Cup.' Why did you say that?"
"Well - " You stumble a little. "Because it's important to - we need to try our hardest, and appreciate the experience - "
"Because you don't think we're good enough," Nakata says in a brutally conversational tone, and you can't think of a denial quickly enough.
Nakata says deliberately, "Maybe you don't know what a World Cup is like. It's not - fun."
You can feel your face go cold, then hot. It's at times like this when you hate more than anything your stupid, stupid reserve. You wish you could spit out the sort of dry, cutting retorts that Nakata's way of speaking demands, but even if you were fast enough (and most of the time you're not), your tongue automatically locks up, defensive politeness springing up like a reflex, and you have to sit there in silence knowing - cold comfort - that at least you won't permanently offend anyone.
Something must show in your expression, because Nakata raises his eyebrows at you. When you don't say anything, he keeps going. "If you want to have fun, it's all the same to me. But you should know I don't care about 'trying', I don't care about a 'good experience'. When I try my hardest, it's to win. If the rest of you aren't - "
"I want to win, too," you snap, "but I'm smart enough to know when I can't!"
The words hang in the air. Either you've finally surprised Nakata, or - He doesn't look surprised, but his expression as he examines you is unreadable. He's turned toward you now, elbows braced against his knees, and as you watch, he lets out a breath and leans forward.
"Nakamura," he says. "I'm not your captain or your coach and there's no reason for you to listen to me, so I'm just going to say this once. Stop listening. Stop listening to people who don't know anything telling you what to think. Stop telling yourself what you can't do. Stop trying. Just get out there and do it."
You don't say anything. You don't have anything to say: your mind is utterly blank. Nakata-se - Nakata watches you for a long minute, and then, when you don't answer, shifts back so that he's no longer facing you and recrosses his arms. That's all you're getting from him today.
A minute later, a meek staffer comes in and apologizes and very politely herds you out to the set. You go out and introduce yourself and smile and make pleasant small talk and give upbeat answers because that's what a normal person does in a normal society.
At the end of the day, that's what you are.