The injury to Daisuke brought the already volatile game to a grinding halt. Wakashi stood there, frozen in shame, as Daisuke groaned on the ground, clutching his side. The unofficial referee, a man with a booming voice and a perpetually disapproving frown, immediately called for a penalty for Daisuke's team for the foul on their own player, and then, with a sigh, announced a substitution for Daisuke.
The game resumed, but Wakashi's presence had become a liability. The opponents, sly and opportunistic, quickly realized they could exploit his wildness. They began to "bait" him, drawing him in with feints and quick turns, knowing his unbridled charges would likely result in another foul. They didn't even need to be near the goal. If Wakashi was anywhere near, they'd collapse with a theatrical cry, and the whistle would blow.
Three more goals came before half-time, all from fouls Wakashi committed. His frustration reached a boiling point. He wasn't just fouling opponents; he was fouling phantoms, his rage turning every player into a target. Each conceded goal felt like a fresh cut, and he couldn't stop bleeding.
"What are you doing, Tanaka?!" one of his bewildered teammates screamed after the third such incident, throwing his hands up in despair.
"I'm trying to pressure!" Wakashi roared back, his voice hoarse, his temper completely unleashed. "You just stand there! Why aren't you getting the ball?!"
The argument escalated quickly. Wakashi, consumed by his own frustration and humiliation, began yelling at anyone and everyone. He accused his teammates of being slow, of not trying hard enough, of leaving him exposed. They, in turn, lashed back, calling him a liability, a menace, someone who didn't understand the first thing about football. The verbal fight bled over to the opposing team, who watched with amusement that soon turned into open mockery.
"Look at the giant! He's never touched a ball before!"
"Maybe he thinks this is a wrestling match!"
"Hey, clown, clown! Go back to the circus!"
The taunts hit a nerve, sharper and more painful than any physical blow. Wakashi lunged at the nearest opponent who called him a clown, his fists clenched, but he was held back by two of his own teammates, who looked more disgusted than helpful.
Amidst the escalating chaos, a new voice cut through the shouting, cold and severe. "Hey! What's going on here?!"
Wakashi turned, his bloodshot eyes narrowing. It was the lean man from the coastal path, the one he'd seen watching him yesterday. The man walked directly towards Wakashi's team, his gaze fixed on Wakashi.
"This kid... he's a danger to himself and others," he stated, his voice calm but firm. "I saw him hit his own teammate. And look at this brawl. You need to get him off the pitch."
One of Wakashi's teammates, emboldened by the presence of a seemingly authoritative figure, stepped forward. "Exactly! He's useless! He just fouls everyone. He even took out Daisuke! And he's got a temper problem. His father was just as bad, always getting into fights in Tokyo. His mother—"
The words slammed into Wakashi like a physical blow. His father. His mother. The pain of the past, the raw grief he carried, mixed with the current humiliation. Something snapped. All the suppressed anger, the sorrow, the shame, exploded. With a guttural cry, Wakashi broke free from his teammates' grip and launched himself towards the guy who mentioned his family, a wild, reckless fury driving him. He didn't care about the game, the money, or the ball anymore. He just wanted to shut them up.
Before he could reach him, the lean man from the path stepped in swiftly, intercepting Wakashi with surprising strength, a hand clamping onto his shoulder. But the damage was done. The other team, now thoroughly entertained, continued their taunts, louder now, cutting deeper.
"Clown! Clown! Get lost, you brute!"
"Get out of here, Tanaka!" his team captain finally yelled, his face contorted with anger and embarrassment. "You're done! We don't need a menace like you!"
Wakashi stood panting, trembling with spent rage, the man's firm grip the only thing keeping him from another outburst. The jeers of "Clown! Clown!" echoed in his ears, bouncing off the surrounding buildings. Kicked out. Publicly humiliated. He hadn't just failed to get the money; he'd made himself an outcast, a laughingstock. The sea breeze felt cold against his flushed face, but the heat of shame burned deep within him.
The jeers of "Clown! Clown!" echoed in Wakashi's ears, chasing him from the dusty lot. He didn't look back, didn't spare another glance at the angry faces of his former teammates or the mocking grins of the opposition. His legs carried him instinctively towards the one place that offered a vast, indifferent silence: the coast.
He walked until his lungs burned, the anger still a hot, suffocating blanket around him. The setting sun painted the sky in streaks of bruised purple and angry orange, mirroring the storm inside him. He finally stopped at the edge of the rocky shore, the relentless crash of the waves providing a brutal, honest soundtrack to his humiliation. He stared out at the boundless expanse of the Pacific, his thoughts a chaotic, churning maelstrom. Shame, rage, helplessness – they swirled together, making his head pound. He had failed. Miserably. Publicly. And he had no one to blame but himself.
He grit his teeth, fists clenched, wishing he could somehow punch the very air, shatter the vast, mocking horizon. The silence, however, was suddenly broken.
"Hey."
Wakashi stiffened, turning slowly. A figure stood a few yards behind him, silhouetted against the fading light. It was one of the guys from his team, a quieter one, with a mop of dark hair and surprisingly gentle eyes. His name was Hinata.
Wakashi braced himself for another lecture, another insult. He deserved it.
But Hinata simply walked closer, the familiar, slightly deflated football he'd been carrying held out in his hands. It wasn't the ruined orange and white ball from Hana, but a well-worn, scuffed leather one. He held it out to Wakashi.
"Here," Hinata said, his voice soft, devoid of judgment.
Wakashi stared at the ball, then at Hinata's face. He couldn't decipher the expression there. Pity? No, not quite. Something else.
"I... I saw it," Hinata continued, gesturing vaguely back towards the makeshift pitch. "The frustration. The fire in your eyes." He pushed the ball a little closer. "You don't know how to play, do you?"
Wakashi's jaw tightened. "No." The admission felt like sand in his mouth.
Hinata nodded, as if this was completely understandable. "It showed. But so did something else. That... raw power. That urge to just move." He then looked Wakashi directly in the eye, his gaze steady. "Don't go looking for revenge on them. Don't go looking for a fight with anyone else."
He extended the ball fully. "Fulfill your revenge on the ball."
Wakashi blinked. Revenge on the ball? He looked from Hinata's earnest face to the scuffed leather sphere, then back to the tumultuous ocean. The concept was strange, alien, yet it resonated with a peculiar clarity. He had destroyed one ball in a fit of rage. Now, this one was being offered, not as an apology, but as a challenge. A conduit for the wild energy still surging through him.
He reached out, his large hand hesitantly closing around the worn leather. It felt surprisingly light, yet heavy with unspoken promise. The "Clown! Clown!" chants still echoed in his mind, but for the first time, a different sound began to filter through – the distant, rhythmic thud of a ball being kicked.
This moment with Hinata is a crucial turning point, offering Wakashi a new direction for his frustration. It's a classic sports manga trope but delivered effectively here.