Lavender | Wakatoshi Ushijima

44 | An Unfocused Cycle

"Focus." Coach Washijo says sharply as I down my water, panting not nearly as fast as that afternoon.

I catch it, flashing in and out of his face. Faster than light. Not as fast as my own contempt. Disappointment. A streak in his furrowed brows, most in his eyes.

Of course. What could you expect when the ace of the team isn't precise? When he doesn't hit strong enough, close enough. When his receives aren't quick enough. When he's not enough. When he's dull, not as sharp as before.

All I do is think. It's an all time low when the only think you're good at is thinking. Operating a machine on a couple hours of sleep, energy drinks, protein bars, and expecting it to work. Even in the matches where I'm supposed to be at my best, I suck. I zone out and I stray. Anything but the game can attract my attention. I get lost somewhere I've never known before.

All I've done is misread Semi's signals and jump for spikes late. I hated playing for the first time. I was messy, but luckily I'd use all my strength. A newfound strength of anger.

I'm beginning to find that I'm at my lowest point. I've never felt this drained. I've never been empty or hollow, I've always had something to put on the table, even if I had to overwork myself to produce something. I've never been shorthanded. I've never seen things as meaningless and meaningful at the same time. Maybe I'm just desperate for a sign or a call or a symbol. I've never been this lost, never been this hard-headed and empty-headed at the same time. I've never been this observant, paying attention to the little things that pull me out to sea. 

Everything feels like a trap. It's like my mind plays tricks on me. I look for rapture only for it to escape, and I'm beginning to doubt what I'm seeing. Things feels surreal, like the conscious part of my mind is turned off and I'm running subconsciously. It plays tricks on me, I don't know how to control it. It spills tears that aren't mine when the skies darken. It throws my things around for me to search for them. It makes me crave sleep, only for me to lose half of it and hardly get through what's left. It gives me regret that feels too thick to measure. It isn't mine. This is not me. Food has never tasted this bland or disgusting. My insides have never been inside out.

I've never failed to recognize myself. Always, I've known my father's eyes, nose, teeth, my mother's hair, my face. I look and I barely see everything stay together. I've never lost any part of my physique before. I've always kept in shape.

At the locker rooms, Goshiki told me I've gotten more toned. I'm not fazed or moved. Generally, I've come to realize that's a problem. Semi told me the bones in my back are narrowing outwards. He tells me I look tired. I don't believe him.

When Coach Washijo gives me a scornful look I point that arrow straight to my chest and let it sink in. I get it. I know I'm a mess. I'm trying. He doesn't see it. He doesn't want to know what I'm struggling with. He's waiting for me to perform better. That's what he wants. He walks away and the conversations take off. Opponents. Tactics. Spikes. Runs. Reflexes. Attitudes. Dirty looks. Coaches. Referees. Shoes. Shorts. Running shirts. Water. Knee pads. Bath salts. Snacks. Comics. Sleep. Snoring. Drooling. Slippery floors. White lights. Commentators. Protein bars. Cheering families. Funny posters. Finger tape. Bruises, sores, aches. Family members. Burnt-out shoes. Scabs. Compression socks. Points. Calls. Yells. Signals. Dirty laces with ripped aglets. Techniques. Remarks. Physiques. Work out routines. Triceps, Biceps, Quads. Electrolytes and energy drinks. Recommendations. Naps. Drills. Wishes. Runs. Walks. Jogs. Ankle socks. Alarms. Videos. Split-second occurrences. Memories. Nationals. Teams. Puns. Attendances.

I excuse myself early from the team's snacking and match-watching session taking place outside on the grass. The last hour or two, I've been staring at the sunset, watching the city die down with the wind whistling against my head. Watching the clouds fade ever so calmly to give Matsushima its space to sleep. Searching for the strings of light in the sky. Lights, noises, and liveliness fading. I wonder what she would've thought. Strawberry pocky sticks out at the side of Suzuki's mouth.