Box of Dreams
"Why are your clothes dirty?" Kiyoshi gasped at his mother's cold question as he entered the house, then gazed at the wooden floor, his bangs covering his astonished expression.
He told his mother he would give up soccer over dinner about five months ago. She taunted him to throw away his soccer belongings if he was serious, but all Kiyoshi could muster was stuffing them in a box and pushing it into the closet to gather dust. That was supposed to be the end of his dream.
"You were playing soccer, weren't you?" Kiyoshi imagined his mother crossing her arms in a disapproving manner, the shadow of her towering figure increasing the familiar, overbearing pressure between them.
Kiyoshi couldn't deny her words; he couldn't lie to his own mother. He pressed his back against the cold door, sending a shudder through his body, and nodded.
"Didn't you say weren't playing anymore?"
His head lowered further in a gesture of forgiveness, pressing his back deeper to hold himself steady as his legs trembled. This wasn't the norm for him, his mother asking a personal question that is. She usually hissed orders or comments that made Kiyoshi bite his lip and double his self-hatred and shame.
His mother would follow with criticism: he was too indecisive; he was a liar; or he was too attached when he didn't have the talent for it. To her, playing soccer was a waste of time unless he pursued it seriously, but after his second failure, she was dead set that it had no future in his son's life.
But there was silence. Kiyoshi took a shaky breath, filling his lungs with courage and lifted his eyes.
"I-I want to keep playing soccer!"
"What?!" His mother shrieked, her thin arms falling to her side and gave Kiyoshi a glare.
He inhaled sharply and repeated, his voice firm, crumbling at the end."I want to keep playing soccer!"
She took a step forward, a vein popping on her left temple. "Are you out of your mind! Get it through your head, soccer is not the only thing that matters!" She yelled loud enough for the neighbors to hear, but as far Kiyoshi knew, no one had ever come to complain.
Kiyoshi squeezed his eyes shut, his heart hammering against his chest. His voice lowered, holding his determination, "It has to be soccer! It can't be anything else!"
"The coach said you have no talent for it! You failed the tryouts twice in a row, you clearly aren't cut for it!"
Kiyoshi shook his head desperately, denying the words he wanted to hear the least. "NO! NO! I wanna play!" He was a failure, talentless, but he loved soccer. He loved it so much. His muscles were free from the tension of his everyday life when he was kicking the ball and laughing as he fought with Keima. And at long last, he felt in control over himself as he dribbled down the pitch. He couldn't find that freedom at home and school, only the soccer field.
"Let go of those childish dreams and look at reality, you foolish boy! You can't even keep your grades and you want to be among the best? That's not even good enough for a joke," she said, her words dripping venom, "Give up. That is not your place."
"No, I will continue playing soccer!"
Even if the Coach had pressured him, he reached out and took the chance to play again with his own hands. He wasn't truly living if he didn't kick a soccer ball. It was his air, and a replacement of his lost wing that allowed him to temporarily fly.
There was silence, Kiyoshi's ragged breathing echoing in solitude. He peeked at his mother from behind his bangs. They hadn't had a proper conversation in years, so he wasn't sure what she would do next.
But his mother's figure distorted as hot tears fell from his cheeks, blinding him completely.
"If you can't even keep a simple promise, how do you expect to make it to the world?" Her voice sounded calm, but he felt her intense gaze as if measuring his decision. "You are have always been indecisive."
". . . I won't change my mind," he said between stray hiccups.
Between the broken fragments of his sight, his mother turned her back to him as if rejecting his words. His heart twisted at the familiar scene. His mother disliked when her orders weren't fulfilled or ignored.
"Do what you want. Do not come to me when you fail. I taught you to take responsibility for your own mistakes. And clean your face, it's unsightly."
Kiyoshi did as she said, but the tears didn't stop, and his head started to throb. There was no more acceptance from his mother like when she commented he could finally focus on his studies instead of soccer, only disinterest and apathy. He was alone in this, again.
He refrained from breaking down in sobs at his mother's clear rejection and let his butt fall to the floor, relieved that her steps were fading away. He just had to focus on stopping the tears or his mother would make another comment anytime soon.
"What are you doing there?" His mother cut through his thoughts. "If you are serious about it, then do something about that box."
Kiyoshi lifted his head and tried to follow his mother's lifted finger. The closet door was open. He looked back at his mother swiftly then at the floor between his legs. His mind was hazy but he obeyed. He had learned to use half of his consciousness for measly chores.
Pulling out the sealed cardboard filled with his memories, feelings and love came back to him in a flash: when the coach took a picture of him and Keima lifting the trophy, the soccer uniform that fit him perfectly and allowed him to move the way he wanted, and the soccer ball he kicked when he went to the small park to practice on weekends.
It was then that he realized that even in the deepest, darkest moment, he couldn't give up what had saved him. It was his core, his essence. He hugged the box like the stray calico cat he cuddled in his secret place, forgetting his mother's presence for a fleeting moment, and a smile peeked on his face as he gazed at the box lovingly.
He ignored his mother's presence as he passed by and climbed the stairs to his room.
"It's impossible, isn't it? For me to not play soccer," he whispered to himself in the comfortable solitude of his room. There was a warm sensation in his stomach, and he knew exactly what it was. Chuckling gleefully , traces of his previous sadness and misery were steadily replaced by joy and contentment.
Kiyoshi spent a few hours putting back the items from the box while humming, nodding in satisfaction at his room adorned with posters of soccer players, a set of soccer-themed bed covers, and a cheap-looking soccer ball-shaped rug.
Kiyoshi's face had no trace of hesitation to fulfill his mission. He would do what he had to do for the sake of playing soccer on stage again, even if meant temporarily becoming a tool.