The next day at school was a long, restless blur for Wakashi. His mind replayed the old man's mocking display, the ball dancing like a living thing, perpetually out of his reach. The humiliation still burned, but now it was a focused heat, melting away the aimless rage and leaving behind a hard, crystalline resolve. Power without control is just a tantrum. The words echoed with new meaning.
As soon as the final bell shrieked, Wakashi didn't head for the coast or home. He walked directly towards the school's dusty football field, his footsteps purposeful. He saw a few figures already there, including a teacher standing near the goalposts, observing a handful of students warming up.
The teacher was a man of average height with thinning hair combed neatly to one side, wearing a tracksuit that looked a size too small. His glasses perched precariously on his nose, and his posture was slightly stooped, giving him the air of someone perpetually deep in thought, or perhaps just tired. This was Harada-sensei, the middle school's football club advisor.
Wakashi strode directly towards him, his tall, imposing figure casting a sudden shadow over the teacher. Harada-sensei looked up, startled, his eyes widening slightly behind his thick lenses. He seemed to take in Wakashi's height, his intense, unsmiling gaze, and perhaps recalled whispers about the new "problem child" who had recently transferred. A flicker of apprehension crossed his face.
"I want to join," Wakashi stated, his voice flat, devoid of the usual preamble or polite request.
Harada-sensei adjusted his glasses nervously. "Join? The... the football club?" He cleared his throat. "You're new, aren't you? Tanaka, was it? Do you have any prior experience, Tanaka-kun?"
Wakashi simply shook his head. "No."
Harada-sensei's eyebrows rose. He looked Wakashi up and down again, his gaze lingering on the boy's formidable build. He seemed to debate, perhaps weighing the potential trouble against the sheer physical presence. With a sigh that sounded almost like resignation, he finally nodded. "Alright. Very well. Go join the first-years. They're over there doing their warm-up exercises. Just... follow what they do." His tone carried a subtle undertone, as if expecting trouble, or at least, a quick retreat.
Wakashi didn't argue. He didn't offer a single word of protest or question. He simply turned and walked towards the designated area. His powerful strides seemed almost predatory to the small cluster of first-year boys already stretching and doing light drills. They were mostly smaller than him, eager and energetic, but their chatter died the moment Wakashi's tall shadow fell over them. Their eyes, wide with a mixture of fear and awe, darted towards him. Whispers rippled through their ranks. They knew. They'd heard about the "clown" who'd nearly started a brawl, the new kid with the terrifying temper. Wakashi, with his unyielding expression, certainly looked the part of a bully.
Without acknowledging their fear or their whispers, without a single glance their way, Wakashi moved to the very edge of their group. He didn't try to join their circle, didn't attempt to make eye contact. He just found an open spot, dropped his bag, and began to mimic the exercises they were doing. When they did jumping jacks, he did jumping jacks. When they stretched their hamstrings, he stretched his. Each movement was deliberate, focused, devoid of the aimless energy that had characterized his earlier attempts at football. He was a silent, imposing shadow, moving in perfect, if detached, synchronicity with the intimidated first-years.
The first-year group consisted of eleven boys, a mixture of eager and nervous faces. After the warm-up exercises, Harada-sensei clapped his hands, his voice thin but clear. "Alright, everyone! Divide into groups of three for basic passing drills. One group of two for now. Tanaka-kun, you'll pair up with Haruto and Kaito."
Haruto was a short, stocky boy with a perpetually cheerful grin, while Kaito was lanky and quiet, his eyes constantly darting around. When Wakashi lumbered towards them, his sheer size seemed to make the space around them shrink. Haruto's grin faltered, and Kaito visibly tensed, shrinking back a step.
"Um, hello, sempai!" Haruto chirped, trying to sound brave. "You're, uh, really tall, sempai! How tall are you?" He glanced nervously at Kaito, who avoided Wakashi's gaze completely. "And... we heard you got into a fight the other day. Is that true, sempai?"
Wakashi didn't respond, his expression unreadable. He simply stared at the ground where the ball would be. Haruto's nervous chatter died, replaced by an awkward silence.
Just then, a purposeful set of footsteps approached. A sophomore student, lean and confident, dribbled a worn football towards the first-year group. This was Kensuke, one of the more skilled players in the club, with a sharp haircut and an air of quiet superiority.
"Alright, first-years!" Kensuke announced, his voice brisk. "We're going to work on basic passing. Two-touch, short passes. Keep it on the ground. Focus on accuracy and weight. Let's see what you've got!" He demonstrated a crisp, controlled pass, the ball rolling perfectly to Haruto's feet.
The passing drills began. Haruto and Kaito, though not exceptional, managed to keep the ball moving between them with a reasonable degree of control. Then it was Wakashi's turn. He looked at the ball at his feet, then at Haruto, standing a mere five meters away. He tried to replicate Kensuke's smooth motion, but his mind raced with the old man's words: Power without control is just a tantrum.
He swung his leg. Thwack!
The ball didn't roll. It rocketed forward, a blur of motion, slamming into Haruto's shins with bone-jarring force. Haruto yelped, hopping on one foot, clutching his leg. The ball, meanwhile, bounced off him and soared wildly over Kaito's head, disappearing towards the fence.
Silence. Then, Kensuke's sigh, loud enough for everyone to hear. "Tanaka-kun," he said, his voice laced with thinly veiled exasperation. "Gentle. Keep it on the ground."
Wakashi retrieved the ball, his face a mask of furious concentration. He tried again. This time, he aimed for a softer touch, but his powerful legs, accustomed to unleashing raw force, overcompensated. The ball barely rolled, a pathetic dribble that stopped halfway to Haruto.
"Too short!" Kaito muttered, audible even to Wakashi.
His next pass was either too fast, slamming into an ankle, or too short, barely moving. His accuracy was non-existent. The ball would sail wildly over heads, veer sharply to the left or right, or simply refuse to budge. Every first-year quickly realized Wakashi's level. He had the physical presence of a giant, but when it came to a football, he was a clumsy, uncoordinated mess. His passes were either cannon shots or pathetic nudges, but never, ever, controlled. The whispers started again, hushed but pointed.