The lean man, Daisuke, clapped him on the shoulder, the faint scent of stale cigarettes clinging to his jersey. "Alright, kid. You're with us. Just stand back here," he said, pointing to a rough patch of ground near their makeshift goal, marked by two faded plastic bottles. "When the other team has the ball, just... pressure them. Don't try to dribble, don't pass, just get in their faces. Understand?"
Wakashi nodded, though he understood little. Pressure. It was a word. He could do that. He was good at making people uncomfortable.
The opposing team, a burly bunch with tattoos and smug grins, snickered as Wakashi took his place. He was taller than most of them, but his youth and obvious inexperience made him an easy target for their jokes. The "field" was uneven, littered with pebbles and the occasional tuft of stubborn grass. The goals were just worn backpacks and discarded tires. This was street football, raw and unforgiving.
The game started with a blast of a whistle from one of the older, thicker men who seemed to be officiating. The ball zipped across the ground with surprising speed. Wakashi's team immediately looked disorganized, their passes sloppy, their movements uncoordinated. The other team, however, moved with a practiced ease, their passes crisp, their attacks direct.
Soon enough, the opposing team had the ball, driving towards Wakashi's end. He stood there, rooted, suddenly overwhelmed by the chaos. The ball was a blur of motion, feet flashed around it, voices yelled. Even his own team, chaotic as they were, at least seemed to know what they were doing—running, kicking, trying. Wakashi, however, just stood, frozen. He had no idea what to do, where to go, or what "pressure" truly meant in this chaotic dance. He watched, bewildered, as the opponent's winger danced past two of his teammates, the ball glued to his foot, moving swiftly towards the goal.
"Wakashi! What are you doing?! Pressure!" It was Daisuke, his voice cracking with frustration.
The yell snapped Wakashi out of his stupor. A hot flush of shame spread up his neck. He gritted his teeth, the familiar surge of frustration returning. Pressure, huh? He didn't know how to play football. He didn't know tactics, or positioning, or passing lanes. All he knew was raw motion.
With a sudden, almost desperate burst of energy, Wakashi bolted forward. It wasn't a calculated run; it was a desperate, aimless charge, fueled by anger and the need to do something. His long legs churned, covering ground with astonishing speed. He closed the distance to the opponent's winger in a few powerful strides, his height looming over the smaller player.
The winger, surprised by this sudden, wild rush, tried to shield the ball. But Wakashi wasn't aiming for the ball. In his blind, clumsy rush, he misjudged, his shoulder slamming into the opponent's back with a sickening thump. The player went down in a heap, the ball squirting away harmlessly.
A furious whistle pierced the air. "Penalty! Clear foul in the box!" the unofficial ref roared, pointing to the spot.
Wakashi stared, bewildered, as the other team cheered, and his own teammates erupted in angry shouts. "What was that, kid?!" "You just gave them a penalty, you idiot!"
He hadn't meant to foul. He hadn't meant to do anything but pressure. But the outcome was undeniable. The opposing team's burly striker stepped up, calmly placed the ball, and with a swift kick, buried it into the makeshift goal.
Goal! The shout echoed, raw and triumphant from the opposing team. Wakashi stood there, a towering figure of utter defeat, the chaos of the game suddenly very, very real. He hadn't earned any money. He'd only cemented his reputation as a clumsy, useless outsider. His father's death had made him a problem child. Now, this game had just confirmed it: he was a problem on the field too.
The goal was a hot brand on Wakashi's pride. He burned with humiliation, but it quickly twisted into a wild, untamed frustration. The game resumed, a chaotic blur of bodies and the elusive ball. Daisuke and the others yelled instructions, but their words were just noise to Wakashi, lost in the roaring torrent of his own rising temper. He didn't understand the rules, the flow, the unspoken language of the pitch. He only understood failure.
He became a whirlwind of aimless energy. His long legs, capable of startling bursts of speed, carried him across the uneven ground, but without purpose, without direction. He was a force, but a destructive one. Every time an opponent got near the ball, Wakashi launched himself into the fray, a towering, clumsy obstacle. Another whistle. Another foul. His tackles were less attempts to win the ball and more desperate, frustrated collisions.
"Watch it, beanpole!"
"Not like that, kid!"
"Oi! Are you even trying?!"
Daisuke's face grew increasingly grim. He barked less at Wakashi, his shoulders slumping with each blunder. The regret was palpable, a heavy cloud hanging over their side of the field. Wakashi could feel their irritation, their exasperation. It only fueled his internal fire, making him clench his jaw tighter. He just wanted to do something right, but every movement was wrong.
The opposing team, now confident and grinning, exploited his wildness, baiting him, drawing him into fouls. The score began to widen, each goal a fresh stab of resentment for Wakashi. His initial motive—to earn money for Hana's ball—faded beneath the crushing weight of his incompetence. Now, it was just pure, unadulterated rage at his own inability.
Then came the moment that truly sealed his humiliation. The ball had been cleared from their own box, a desperate hoof by one of his teammates. It was arcing high, coming down near midfield, heading directly for Daisuke. Daisuke adjusted his body, ready to chest it down and try to launch a counter-attack.
But Wakashi, still in his frustrated, aimless sprint, wasn't looking at the ball's trajectory, wasn't reading the game, wasn't seeing his teammate. He was just running, a desperate, wild dog chasing a scent. He saw the opponent charging towards Daisuke, and without thinking, without any sense of spatial awareness, he lunged.
His shoulder, once again, was the culprit. But this time, it slammed not into an opponent, but into Daisuke's back. The impact was sickening. Daisuke, caught completely off guard, gasped, crumpled, and went down in a heap, the ball bouncing away harmlessly.
Silence fell across the makeshift pitch, heavier than any whistle. Daisuke lay on the ground, groaning, clutching his ribs. The opposing team stared, their snickers replaced by bewildered stares. Wakashi stood over his fallen teammate, frozen, the reality of what he had done crashing down on him. He hadn't just given away a penalty. He hadn't just cost them goals. He had injured his own teammate, the very person who had given him a chance.
The silence broke with a furious shout. "Are you blind, kid?! You just took out your own man!"
The game, effectively, was over for him. Wakashi felt a wave of nausea. He hadn't earned any money. He had just piled shame upon shame.