Pathway to Japanese Literature

About the Fishmonger and the Barber’s Quarrel

That day was the fishmonger’s regular day off.
Kinsan slept in quite late and then showed up at the neighboring barber shop.

“Business as slow as ever, huh?”

There was only one customer.
Gensan was sharpening his razor and glaring,

“What’d you come here for?”

“I figured it’d be a shame to let your razor rust.”
“If you’ve forgotten how to use scissors, that’d be a disgrace to the whole town.”
“Right?”
“As per the monthly routine, since today’s my regular day off, I brought my head over for ya.”

“I’m terrible at this.”
“I’m well aware.”
“The fee’s steep.”
“Yeah, I’m well aware. It’s charity work.”
“Might draw a bit of blood, I warn ya.”

“That’s no good.
“In my thirty years scaling fish, I’ve never once nicked a fish’s skin.
“A razor’s something that’s naturally easier to handle skillfully compared to a fishmonger’s knife.
“Hey.
“Miss.
“Your touch is softer, and the razor glides gentler—good on ya, I tell ya.
“I’m countin’ on ya.”

Just as the young female apprentice was about to begin her work, Gensan’s eyes flashed, and he stopped her.

“Stop that!”
“Don’t you dare!”
“Will you do it yourself, Master?”

“As if I’d do that! Hey, weirdo. That lumpy head of yours doesn’t suit our razor—take it somewhere else.”

“Oh! Smooth talk, ain’t ya? Not bad... for Genji.”

“Every time I see your damn face, I wanna shave off your nose instead of your beard. Noses are important. Scram while you can still see where you’re going. As of today, I’m cutting off all dealings with you next door too—you better believe it.”

“That’s no good. You’ll be stuck with nowhere to dump your leftover rotten fish, y’know.”

“Hey, you.”
“Listen up.”
“I’ve long known you’ve got a foul mouth, but there are things you can say and things you can’t.”
“You said my Sho-bo’s shogi doesn’t amount to squat.”

“Oh, I said it.”
“I said it. What of it?”

Up until then, Kinsan had remained perfectly composed, but now he turned crimson and began straining—there was clearly history behind this.

"The hell you know about shogi?"

"Know enough."
"You call Genji’s barber’s snot-nosed brat a genius?"
"Don’t make me laugh."
"Beating some back-alley shogi bums in this podunk town makes him a ‘genius’?"

"Not just the town."
"In this city of a hundred thousand, there’s only one real shogi club."
"Every last decent player from all hundred thousand comes there to play."
"That’s leagues above street-corner games!"
"Now Sho-bo—"
"He’s counted among the top five at that club."

“That’s exactly what makes you a doting parent.”
“A real genius in shogi or go has to be one in a hundred across all of Japan by the time they’re snot-nosed brats in indigo smocks.”
“Isn’t this city’s population just a measly hundred thousand?”
“A measly hundred thousand people and you’re bragging about top five?”
“Ha.”
“Eighty million? You’d run out of fingers to count ’em all.”
“Eighty million divided by a hundred thousand, and—”
“Hmm.”
“Don’t you have an abacus?”
“Eighty million divided by a hundred thousand.”
“Eight there is.”
“Zero there is.”
“Another zero there is.”
“Another zero, zero, zero.”
“Nope. Hmm.”

Kinsan held out his palm and calculated by tracing characters with his finger.

“Eighty million divided by a hundred thousand makes eight hundred, don’t it?”
“Five times that makes five times eight hundred—four thousand people.”
“How’s that?!”

“He’s a fourteen-year-old kid.”
“If he’s one in four thousand at just fourteen, then he’s a proper genius.”
“Look.”
“What about your Chosuke?”
“You claim he’ll be the shining star of professional baseball someday?”
“Don’t make me laugh.”
“‘Doting parent’—it’s written all over your face.”
“He don’t even do his schoolwork proper, and you got him practicin’ pitches till dark—then what?”
“In the city tournament—the qualifier for the prefectural qualifier for the regional qualifiers of nationals—right from the first prelim round, they’re sprayin’ wild pitches and gettin’ crushed flat, ain’t they?”
“It’s a town school.”
“You donated cash and went cheerin’—too pitiful to even look at.”
“A wonder that dotin’ parent’s eyes ain’t opened yet.”

“Baseball ain’t a one-man show. When you’ve got eight weaklings backing you up, losin’ ’cause of their errors can’t be helped.”
“Chosuke’s a second-year middle schooler.”
“Even as a second-year, he’s the ace pitcher for the whole school, ain’t he?”
“And even with third-years around, ain’t a single one in the whole school who can match Chosuke’s pitching.”

“The whole school—even including the girls—is just four or five hundred at most, isn’t it?”
“Even if you just glance around this narrow town—the tinsmith’s son, the confectioner’s second boy, the doctor’s kid, the bathhouse’s Sanpei, the soba shop’s Yonetomo, the ironworks’ fatty, the bank errand boy—you’d run out of fingers counting them all.”
“Guys who throw fastballs way beyond anything your Chosuke could ever hope to match—there’s a goddamn army of ’em.”

“You’re talkin’ ’bout the bathhouse’s Sanpei—that’s Sansuke, ain’t it? The soba shop’s Yonetomo’s just a delivery boy. The ironworks’ fatty ain’t nothin’ but a laborer, right? They’re all decent young men. Adults, ain’t they?”

“So they’re adults—what of it? A real genius’s gotta be one in four thousand across all Japan while they’re still snot-nosed brats. If we’re talkin’ ’bout folks who can hurl better than your Chosuke’s limp-armed pitches—even in this piddlin’ city of a hundred thousand—you’d have four thousand of ’em lined up neat as you please. In all Japan’s eighty million? Figurin’ whether he’d rank a hundred-millionth or ten-thousandth? Couldn’t tally it if you tried!”

“Heh. You still can’t handle multiplication and division properly. You’ve been lousy at arithmetic since elementary school days. Well? Still got your times tables memorized? Heh. Go and shogi are math through and through. With your kid? No way he’ll ever amount to squat.”

“What about you? When you hung on that horizontal bar, you’d just dangle there forever. You’re no butcher’s ox, yet somehow you can shoulder a carrying pole properly now—must be heaven’s mercy at work, I tell you. That son of yours isn’t at some jellyfish carnival—how’s he supposed to become pro baseball’s golden boy? Best he can hope for is fetching balls in sandlot games.”

“Just you wait!”
“I’ll make sure that in ten years, he’s a star player celebrated throughout the land as so-and-so!”

“In ten years, our Sho-bo’ll be the shogi master of all Japan!”
“Hey.”
“Sprinkle salt on that bastard’s back and chase ’im off!”
“What kinda cursed talk is that?”

And so, diplomatic relations between the two households were thus severed.

Barber Gensan Spreading Rumors of the Fishmonger’s Madness

These days, it seemed child prodigies were running rampant all across Japan.

It was only the parents whose eyes gleamed with obsession.
No one else considered them geniuses.
Of course, this included the teachers making a living off their tuition fees.
A violin genius.
A volleyball genius.
A pop song child prodigy.
Though none differed in parental obsession, it was perhaps baseball where this fever burned most conspicuously.

“Today’s batting average is .333.”
“Since the opposing pitcher’s getting on in years and balking, let’s call it a day here.”

And so, parents would play coach at riverbanks and vacant lots for their kids’ baseball games, keeping score with officious gravity, then hatch plans to splurge on a single egg for dinner based on the day’s performance.

“It’s fine for kids to put their all into baseball practice since it’s for their future, but...”
“You can’t just go neglecting your work to tag along with the kid’s baseball practice—it’s a problem!”
“You go out to deliver sashimi orders and don’t come back for three whole hours.”
“Even though there are two boys here, you don’t need to be delivering orders. Starting tomorrow, you can’t go out on deliveries anymore.”

“That’s not gonna fly.”
“I’ve just formed next year’s new team.”
“The new team’s prefectural tournament qualifiers are gonna start next Saturday!”
“The control of Chosuke’s left arm’s powerful pitches has been off lately—gotta make him do some solid, focused practice.”

“Because you’re standing there in rubber boots, straddling your bicycle with one foot, dangling rice cakes and craning your neck over the fence from outside, Chosuke’s grumbling that he can’t throw the ball calmly at all.”
“If you were some baseball expert who had to instruct Chosuke yourself, I’d get it—but you can’t even throw a ball thirty feet, for crying out loud.”
“Dangling rice cakes, straddling your bicycle with one foot, leaning against the utility pole.”
“There’s no idiot like you who’d stick their head out from outside the fence for three whole hours!”

“Quit your yappin’.”
“Look at Genji next door.”
“Had a fancy haori made.”
“That tightwad who rented his wedding haori went and got a brand-new one made—took the day off work, dragged that snot-nosed brat by the hand, and swanned off all dignified-like to the shogi tournament!”
“Then they came crawlin’ back losers.”
“Serves ’em right.”
“Me standin’ around three hours ain’t nothin’.”

About a month ago, the barber’s Sho-kichi appeared in the newspaper.
There was a prefectural shogi tournament, and among the hundred or so skilled players who had gathered from various towns and villages was Sho-kichi, the youngest participant.
He was defeated in the second round but received a special Fighting Spirit Award.
The article even included a photo of him mid-match.

The emergence of a shogi prodigy boy from their town caused quite a stir for a time.
The one who wasn’t pleased was Kinsan.

“Shogi’s the sort of thing any adult or kid can do just the same,” I said. “It ain’t like holding a shogi board over your head in some endurance contest.”
“Baseball ain’t like that.”
“First off, he’s gotta build up his body proper.”
“Ain’t it pitiful? Kawakami of the Giants—body solid as a rock—still whines he needs more strength!”
“First thing’s first—gotta stretch Chosuke’s frame and pack meat on his bones.”
“Three square meals of nourishing grub daily—baths every night without fail—”

“You planning to soak him soft to make him grow?”

“You damn fool!
“Even plants grow faster when watered.
“Take four-legged beasts—whales and hippos get bigger ’cause they live in water.
“Water’s what fattens things up.
“Just feeding him fish won’t build a pro’s body, trade or no trade.
“Gotta stuff him with beef, offal and eggs daily.
“Lose to that barber’s snot-nosed brat and we’ll shame our ancestors.”

It was precisely because Kinsan applied himself so diligently with this mindset that the child was absolutely delighted. He got to eat delicious food, enjoy baseball to his heart’s content, and even if he couldn’t manage schoolwork, his parents didn’t complain—there was nothing better than this. Yet Kinsan was someone who had never actually played baseball himself—precisely the type to voraciously absorb secondhand knowledge, bury his nose in books and magazines, and doggedly drill himself on the game’s theoretical logic. What took players five years to master through practice could be grasped theoretically in half a day—so Kinsan bought mountains of books and magazines, devoured Eastern and Western battle records and theories, and lectured with insufferable intensity.

“According to biographies of America’s great pitchers, first thing a pitcher’s gotta do is strengthen his hips.”
“They say running’s number one for that.”
“They’re clockin’ five miles a day.”
“And they ain’t just lollygaggin’ around—they pick routes crammed with steep hills on purpose, runnin’ so hard their chins jut out to build up those hips.”
“You’re doin’ that too.”
“I’ll tail you on my bike—start tomorrow mornin’.”

Because he was a fishmonger, mornings started early.
He would rouse Chosuke at dawn and take him out running.
He pedaled his bicycle up the slope, sweat dripping down his face.
In the early morning streets, people resembling them would pass by—but these weren’t folks making humans run; the difference was that they were walking dogs instead.

“To build a pitcher’s body, it says wood chopping’s damn effective.”
“Since you’re at that damn growth spurt stage, you gotta do this too.”

He went out of his way to buy logs and made him chop wood every evening.
In the backyard, firewood was stacked into a mountain, so that while the front remained a fishmonger’s shop, the back looked like a firewood dealer’s.

Seeing this, the one who was pleased was the neighboring barber, Gensan.
While trimming a customer’s beard,

“The neighboring fishmonger has finally lost his mind.”
“Now that you mention it, even back in elementary school, there were things about him that struck me as odd.”

“We were in elementary school together?”

“Yes, indeed we were.”
“Speaking of Kinko the fishmonger, he was famously known as a crybaby weakling.”
“He had a habit of wetting the bed.”
“That bastard’s late parents must’ve been worried sick about him.”
“With all that, he ended up becoming even more of a crybaby, you see.”
“But then, you see, once he grew up, he went and changed completely—not only started throwing proper fishmonger tantrums but even got strangely full of himself!”
“It was oozing right out of his skull all along, you see.”
“After throwing himself into his son’s baseball training two or three years back, he’s finally gone completely mad, you see.”
“He rides his bicycle from the crack of dawn, pulling his child along like a dog and running around.”
“At night, he makes the kid chop wood in the backyard.”
“He just stands there idly by, crossing his arms and staring fixedly.”
“He doesn’t say a thing.”
“He must think he’s the official witness to some serious match—ain’t no mistake about that.”

“He hasn’t skipped it even when it rains—the backyard’s piled full with a mountain of firewood, I tell ya.”
“What’s he planning to use all that firewood for anyway?”

“Isn’t that a side job?”

“This is no joke! A fishmonger might take up side jobs like selling sushi or peddling ice in summer, but nobody does firewood selling as a side job. Just take a look at him standing there with his arms crossed next to the wood chopping, staring fixedly. He’s got the grudging obsession of a living ghost in him, I tell ya. It’s terrifying, absolutely terrifying! Just watching it sends shivers down your spine, I tell ya. If he suddenly flies into a rage, brandishing his wood-splitting axe, I just hope he doesn’t go and slaughter his whole family.”

“Hunh.”
“He isn’t stable, is he?”

“No, w-well—he’s anything but stable.”
“I’m worried, I tell ya.”
“And if he barges in here too, it’ll be downright unbearable.”
“I wonder if there’s anyone out there lookin’ to take in a fierce guard dog, I tell ya.”

Barber shops are the birthplace of rumors.
Because they occupied an advantageous location without fault, Gensan’s rumors spread through the town in an instant.
Belatedly, the rumors reached Kinsan’s ears as well,

“Hmm.”
_This rumor was definitely started by that bastard Genji._
_Alright._
_Just you wait._
“I’ll get you back for this.”

Kinsan was absolutely furious.

He requested the fortune-teller to find a pint-sized prodigy.

Behind the fish shop stood Kinsan’s rental property, where the Tobi family leased the storefront.
The one subletting its second floor was a fortune-teller called Ten’endo.
Each time Ten’endo peered through his window at the swelling mound of firewood below, he resolved to somehow purchase it cheaply and turn a tidy profit.
One day, after calling at the fish shop,

“Master, that firewood out back is such a waste. Knowing your ways, you wouldn’t sell it for business—but what do you say?”
“Please sell it to me cheap—at cost price.”
“Let me turn a tidy profit off it.”
“I’ll owe you big time.”

Kinsan remembered that Ten’endo had been one of the top shogi players in the city.

“You’re s’posed to be good at shogi, eh?”

“Well, I did end up ruining myself over it, you see.”
“Got obsessed with gambling shogi and lost more than I made, I must say.”

“Then you must be damn strong.”
“How’s this sound?”
“How good’s that barber’s snot-nosed brat anyway?”

“For a child, he does play well, but I too played at about that level when I was his age.”

“Huh. Is that so.”
“So it’s not uncommon for kids to beat that snot-nosed brat.”

“That’s right.”
“It’s not uncommon for kids two or three years younger than him—fifth or sixth graders—to beat him.”
“In Tokyo’s shogi parlors, there’s bound to be one or two kids around the same age who could beat that child even with a two-piece handicap, you know.”

“That’s just the kind of news I wanted to hear!”
“Alright then, how about we do it like this?”
“I’ll sell you this firewood at 20% off the original price, so I want you to find a pint-sized shogi prodigy in Tokyo for me.”
“A kid two or three years younger than that barber’s snot-nosed brat—someone devastatingly strong enough to silence him completely with a crushing defeat.”
“But here’s the thing.”
“I want some scrawny-looking brat who seems like he’s had meningitis—real pathetic-like.”
“Bring him to this town, have him play a match against the barber’s snot-nosed brat in front of a big crowd, and make sure he crushes him flat—that’s the plan.”

“So you’ll sell me the firewood at 20% off?”
“That’s a relief.”
“Since this is a moneymaking job, I’ll head to Tokyo and find a pint-sized prodigy exactly as you said.”
“But, you see.”
“It’d be great if there’s someone who looks like they’ve had meningitis, but this part I just can’t guarantee.”
“Well, I’ll do my best to find and bring back as scrawny-looking a kid as possible, so I humbly ask for your kind consideration regarding the firewood.”

So Ten’endo set out for Tokyo to find a pint-sized prodigy.
When he visited a shogi parlor he was previously acquainted with and inquired,

“We do have three boys helping out here, but since they’ve been entrusted to us by a high-ranking master, I can’t just lend them out on my own authority.”
“Also, they’re a bit older.”
“As for twelve or thirteen-year-old kids... Hmm, right.”
“I haven’t played against that child myself, so I don’t know his actual skill level, but they say there’s this disreputable sort in Mukojima—the son of a butter seller—who’s devastatingly strong at shogi.”
“When they say he’s a disreputable sort, they mean despite being a kid, they say he’s making a living off gambling shogi.”
“Since he’s that sort of brat, there’s no kind soul wanting to take him under their wing nor any teacher willing to adopt and raise him—but despite being a little runt, they say his skills are downright fearsome.”
“Since plenty of folks who’ve been taken for 30 yen, 50 yen, even 100 yen by that brat come to this parlor too, I’ll ask around for you.”

When they inquired with a few people, various things became clear. In a certain part of Asakusa, there was a parlor akin to a gambling den where disreputable sorts making their living through gambling shogi gathered, and while the brat had been frequenting there, it was said that even that place had started turning him away at the door. This was because, with the marks dwindling and profits drying up, he had taken to filching things like pocket watches now and then. Not only at shogi but in all matters he was quick and dexterous with his hands, so whenever this brat showed up, they could never let their guard down even for a moment—and thus he ended up being turned away at the door, or so it was said.

“That’s one hell of a kid.”

“But they say he’s devastatingly strong.”
“He’d been preying on gambling shogi professionals as marks, or so they say.”

“What a piece of work that brat is.”

“If you ask there, they say you’ll find out.”

They gave him the address.
When Ten'endo went there, it was a butter seller collective, and the leader was scratching his head while,

“That brat, you mean?”
“His registered address is here alright, but...”
“Nobody knows where he’s slithering around.”
“Well, I’ll ask for ya though.”
“Hey!”
“Memezu Kozō ain’t around here, right?”
“Huh? He’s here?”
“That’s odd.”
“Why’s he refusing? Eh?”
“You mean Memezu Kozō?”
“That’s what they call ’im.”
“Since nobody knows where he’s holed up, that’s how everyone refers to ’im.”
“Who knows if he even has a proper name.”
“That shack over there’s the kid’s place—go have a look inside.”

When Ten'endo peeked into the kid’s place, a shabby-looking dirty child was busily working on some sort of contraption.
He was attaching a bent wire to a leather ring.
It seemed to be a tool of rather dubious nature.
As Ten'endo peered closer inside, the kid glared,

“Get lost.”

“You’re making something strange there.”
“Shut it.”
“You got a shogi board here?”

“…………”

“How about I wager thirty yen?”

“For real?”

“Of course.”

“Heh heh.”

The brat suddenly smirked smugly and ushered Ten’endo inside. When they tried playing on the brat’s customary wooden board, he proved genuinely formidable. Ten’endo dropped his bishop and found himself checkmated in three moves. His skill appeared roughly equal to the boy’s. Against the barber’s Sho-bo, even giving a two-piece handicap would have made for a precarious match. Having honed his craft preying on gambling shogi professionals, the boy moved with the eye-plucking swiftness of one accustomed to ruthless competition—agile and tenacious in equal measure. His face showed no sagging flesh.

Yet paradoxically, the longer one observed him, the more wretched he appeared. This was truly a meningitis face—a slack, slug-like visage seemingly on the verge of dissolution. No structure anchored its features. His perpetually damp eyes and tearful mien completed the pitiful picture.

"What a marvel of creation," he mused. Where such nimble talent—swift enough to pluck the eyes from a living horse—could possibly hide was utterly impossible to discern from his appearance. Indeed, this explained why people let their guard down. It was no wonder gambling shogi professionals fell for it, nor strange that they had their pockets picked. That brat might as well have been born to pluck eyes from living horses. At first glance—no, even when stared at intently—wasn't he just sprawling even more listlessly than a slug? Memezu Kozō—the name fit perfectly. He was like some gutter-crawling creature. Ah. Damn. "Are my belongings safe?"

With that, Ten'endo had to clutch his chest in alarm, his eyes darting wildly.

Having discovered the perfect brat, Ten’endo was delighted.
He promptly returned and reported this to Kinsan, which sent Kinsan into such ecstasy that he was beside himself with delight.

“Thanks a ton.”
“I wanna get a look at that brat pronto. Shoulda just brought ’im back with ya.”

“Well, you see…”
“If I bring him back, I’d have to put him up at my place, wouldn’t I?”
“Living with that brat is out of the question.”
“He’s like some bug that crawled into this world just to pick pockets—a creepy little runt.”
“But if you’d take him in at your place, master, I could fetch him anytime.”

“That ain’t happenin’.”

“That’s right.”
“Therefore, I’ll set out first thing this coming Sunday and bring him.”
“I’ve already made the arrangements.”
“Since we can return before the hill, we’ll have the match start in the afternoon—though we’ll have to finish playing in time for him to catch the last train back to Tokyo.”
“I’d rather sleep in a ditch with the real Memezu than have that brat stay at my place.”

Thereupon, Kinsan headed over to the neighboring barber’s.

“Oi! Genji! Quit turnin’ yer face away! I’m here on proper business today. Let’s settle once an’ fer all—is my head cracked or yours? I’ll fetch some Tokyo brat to play shogi against Sho-bo. Kid’s two years younger but says he’ll take the bishop.”

“Two years younger makes him a sixth grader.”

“Damn straight. ’Cept he ain’t exactly enrolled no more. Came down with meningitis—hasn’t darkened a school’s doorstep since.”

“If Sho-bo were to take the bishop, he’d be a first dan—but does some sixth grader even have a first dan?”

“In Tokyo, they’re apparently a dime a dozen. I happened to spot him on my way back from the fish market. In my town there’s this so-called genius Sho-bo, and the adults here have run out of decent opponents—it’s become a real problem. So I said, ‘Why not come play a game?’ But if it’s some country kid, well, I’ll let him play with a bishop handicap. If you want, I’ll even let him play with a two-piece handicap—that’s the deal here.”

“So he’s some great master’s disciple?”

“Apparently not.”
“But when I asked around, turns out brats like him are a dime a dozen in Tokyo.”
“The big-shot Tokyo masters don’t even blink at runts his level.”
“A sixth grader with a first dan? Won’t amount to squat.”
“They start carving shogi pieces at three or four, mow down grown-ups by five or six—gotta have first-dan skills by first grade, they say.”
“A second-year middle schooler needing a handicap just to reach first dan? Wouldn’t even hire ’em to scrub toilets at a shogi hall.”
“I’ll bring him this Sunday—how ’bout lettin’ him school you with a bishop handicap?”

“All right. If Sho-bo wins, what’ll you do? Just beggin’ for mercy won’t cut it.”

“Ah, don’t you fret none. When that time comes, I’ll get a chindonya troupe marchin’ up front, hoist a flag sayin’ ‘Kintaro the Fishmonger’s a Madman,’ and parade myself around town three times over.”

“Done. Consider it settled. Bring him this Sunday.”

With the matter settled, Kinsan reserved the second-floor hall of the beef restaurant and made arrangements to hold a splendid match on the day.

The battle had ended.

At last, the day of the shogi match arrived, but complicating matters further, that same day was the youth baseball quarterfinals, and Chosuke was scheduled to play in the afternoon game.
To make matters worse, the opposing team had a pitcher named Ishida, who was reputed to be number one in the prefecture.

“Somethin’s off here.”
“I can’t stomach that Chosuke ain’t gettin’ no recognition while some Ishida brat gets called the number one pitcher in the prefecture.”
“Wasn’t the newspaper company bought off?”
“There’s no way that’s true!”

“However, it seems that’s not the case.”
“Everyone who’s seen him is saying so in astonishment.”

Kinsan’s shop boy answered thus.

“Huh? What’re you sayin’?”
“They say he’s incredible.”
“If we’re talkin’ ‘incredible,’ ain’t Chosuke the one who’s incredible?”

“No.”
“He doesn’t even compare.”

“What?!”

“No.”
“That’s what those who saw him are saying.”
“They say he’s not even in the same league.”
“Whether it’s speed, curveball, or control—they’re on a whole different level.”
“Everyone from town who’s seen them says the same.”
“Tomorrow, they say our school team won’t stand a chance.”
“Folks were all saying there’s no point even going to cheer.”

“Who’s saying that? Just some jealous bastards bitter about Chosuke!”

“The homeroom teacher said it too.”

“That guy seems to hate Chosuke.”
“First off, the townsfolk wouldn’t understand the subtleties of pitching.”
The heavy, late-breaking ball unleashed from Chosuke’s left arm curved sharply at the batter’s hands.
“Only a batter can understand how incredible this ball really is.”
“All right!”
“Just you watch tomorrow’s game!”

An unexpected ambusher appeared. Now that things had come to this, he was more worried about his own son than about the match between Memezu Kozō and Sho-bo. Since even the townspeople and the students from his alma mater were saying that going to cheer would be pointless and thus wouldn’t go, Kinsan couldn’t sleep the night before due to his agitation.

“Outrageous! Do you think prefectural youth players can hit Chosuke’s pitches? Even high school baseball players shouldn’t be able to stand a chance against him that often. They don’t know ’bout the strides he’s made since all that intense trainin’ this summer break!”

Kinsan roused Ten’endo on the second floor from outside the window in the predawn hours of the following morning,

“Quit dawdlin’ or you’ll miss the first train!”

“It’s still too early.”
“It’s before four o’clock.”

“Look, I...”
“I gotta go to Chosuke’s baseball game this afternoon."
“When the baseball ends, I’ll rush over, but till then I can’t show face at the shogi match. So tell ’em you’re my proxy and handle it proper.”

“Well now, not that I can’t handle it proper-like, but master—what a waste after all your efforts.”
“You will sell us that firewood at twenty percent off, yes?”

“I’ll sell it to ya, but that Memezu brat ain’t gonna lose, right?”
“Would he ever lose? As long as the firewood’s settled, master, you can go wherever you please.”

Meanwhile, the barber Gensan.

Since his was a late-night business, he slept in quite late that day as well.
He washed his face and prayed to the kamidana and Buddhist altar.
This was his usual routine; it wasn’t because of today.

“What about Sho-bo?”

“He said he’d go play until noon and went out.”

“Hmph.
“He’s keeping calm, isn’t he?”
“That’s how it’s gotta be.”

“Is he going to be alright today?”

“Of course he’ll be fine. How could there be some audacious brat two years younger than Sho-bo who’d beat him even after taking a corner handicap? That’s why I told Sho-bo that: ‘Since you’re certain to win, you mustn’t panic.’ But having some younger brat take a corner handicap—it makes my blood boil. Mustn’t get angry. As long as he plays with a calm and composed mind, there’s no way he can lose.”

“Then he’ll be alright.”

“Of course he’ll be fine.”
“That Kintarou bastard.”
“There’ll be no mercy today.”
“With a street band leading the way and a banner saying ‘Kintarou is a lunatic,’ I’ll have them march around the city three times.”

When the appointed time arrived, Gensan donned a suit, of course had his apprentice trim his beard, slathered ample pomade on his head, and led Sho-bo into the venue.

Kinsan was also in a suit that day.
Of course, his shoes were not rubber boots.
He put on blue sunglasses and took up his position behind the net.
At last, it came time for Chosuke’s team to take the field, but no one in the crowd applauded their entrance.
The cheering squad had not come at all.
A deafening roar of cheers and applause erupted for the opposing team’s entrance.
It wasn’t just the cheering squad—the majority of the entire venue were sending applause.
They were the top-seeded team expected to win—the prefecture’s great hope.

“This ain’t fun. But just you wait! I’ll make you bawl your eyes out!”

Kinsan, determined to put the fear of God into the crowd of fools, held a Beautiful Voice Lozenge in his mouth and waited for the moment to arrive.

But then—
When the game began, it was truly unexpected.
Unexpected—utterly unexpected.
Pitcher Ishida’s fearsome prowess.
His height was about the same as Chosuke’s, but his speed was on a different level.
His control was sharp, and even when he threw a curveball, his speed didn’t drop.
Kinsan had believed that a curveball was something that, instead of curving, would lose speed and float up softly.

“Ugh.
“He’s one hell of a guy.”
“It’s a speed that doesn’t lose to Bessho’s.”

Kinsan inadvertently let out a groan, prompting the neighbors to burst into laughter.
Kinsan got worked up and snapped at the person next to him.

"He's a goddamn super-special genius pitcher!
That's one hell of a fastball!"

"It's just a sponge ball, you know."

"Even Bessho throws like that.
That curveball's too fast for the naked eye!"

"He's cracked."
"This guy."
"Mister, you that school's coach or somethin'?"

One of the neighborhood children asked.
The child accompanying him said.

"That’s the pitcher’s old man, right?"
"He’s spouting way too much nonsense."

Then, everyone laughed.
However, no one realized he was such a deluded father.
Kinsan turned somewhat pale.
One after another, by the third inning, every member of Chosuke’s team had struck out.
Chosuke was hit repeatedly and had five runs scored against him by the third inning.

“They’re really teeing off on him.”
“That pitcher’s skilled too, though...”
“That left arm conjuring up powerhouse pitches—”

“Those aren’t powerhouse pitches.”
“Aren’t those just limp-armed tosses?”

“Idiot.”
“It’s ’cause that other pitcher’s too damn good—makes him look bad!”

“Bull!
“That limp-armed toss? Never seen anything so pathetic!”
“They only scraped through to quarters ’cause they lucked out in the bracket draw!”
“Put ’em in any other group, they’da been out first round!”
“Hey—look alive!”
“Ishida’s benched! Second pitcher’s takin’ the mound!”
“Even this reliever’s throwin’ twice as fast as that noodle-arm!”

“Damn—he’s quick.”
“Control’s razor-sharp.”
“That ain’t no schoolkid level.”
“Straight-up pro material!”

“Cut the crap!”

Chosuke’s team couldn’t hit even the second pitcher, and by the fifth inning, it was eleven to zero.
The game was called due to the mercy rule.
Kinsan stood dumbfounded.
He rose as if waking from a dream.
When he spotted Chosuke’s team trudging back and caught up to them, they seemed almost cheerful about their loss, acting like the defeat meant nothing at all.

“Didn’t even nick us.”
“They were crazy fast.”

They marveled at their opponents, genuinely enjoying themselves.
Kinsan approached the manager-teacher.

“We just had bad luck.”
“Running into someone that strong—just bad luck.”

“Yes.”
“We were lucky.”
“The fact we made it this far is a miracle.”
“Truth is, we should’ve been knocked out in the first round.”

“Is everyone else really that strong?”

“Meaning we’re just too pathetic.”
“We’ve got no real pitcher.”
“When someone like this has been our ace for two straight years,”
“A ‘left-handed pitcher’ in name only—no firepower at all.”

The manager laid out his merciless assessment.
Kinsan found no words.
Looking at Chosuke, even the boy wore a pained grin.
Kinsan had finally woken up.
Exhaustion crashed over him.
When Kinsan climbed to the beef shop’s second floor, it stood empty.
A maid was sweeping.

“Is it over already?”
“Yes, it wrapped up in less than two hours.”

“How’d it go?”

“The barber’s child lost as the third batter, I heard.”

“That figures.”
The world was vast.
“What about Ten’endo?”

“He dragged the kid off to the station.”
“He kept muttering something about how leaving him in this town would be dangerous or whatnot.”

Kinsan stood in front of Genshō.
A "Closed Today" sign had been hung, and the curtains were drawn.

Kinsan passed through the alleyway and called out from the barber’s back entrance because he had seen Gensan lying sprawled out.

“Genji.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t go glaring at me like that.”
“I came to apologize.”
“Honestly, I’ve done a terrible thing.”
“But y’know…”
“You must’ve been disappointed too, but maybe this was for the best.”
“Our Chosuke’s a total flop too—ain’t even worth talkin’ about.”
“He ain’t anywhere near a future star player.”
“I’ve come to fully realize just how vast the world is.”
“I came to my senses early—well, guess that’s for the best.”

Gensan, having now grasped his opponent’s intent, raised his upper body and stretched. Then he said.

“What a foolish dream I had.”

“Damn right.”

“Chosuke’s a total flop too, huh?
Ah-ha.
Ridiculous... just ridiculous.”

“Closed today?”
“Took a loss there, huh?”

“You—how much’d you blow?”

“Ah-ha.”
“Ridiculous... just ridiculous.”

When Kinsan returned to his shop, Ten’endo was in the middle of carrying firewood from the backyard up to his own second floor.
He was busily working with a twisted headband and his hem tucked up.

“Hey, master. It’s all wrapped up without a hitch. With a corner handicap, he got crushed in the third batter position, I tell ya.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“Can I go ahead and move the firewood?”

“Shut it.”
“I’m movin’ it already, ain’t I?”

“Therefore, may I proceed with moving it?”

“Just hurry up and move it already…”

Kinsan shouted in a voice like a cracked bell and then burrowed into the house.