In my 18 years of life, I have only won an award once in something other than kendo.

When I was in junior high school, my homeroom teacher suddenly called my name. Although I had become immersed in kendo in high school, my grades in junior high were still average. My grades weren't anything to scold, and I didn't think my behavior was particularly bad. I stood up, surrounded by the strange stares of my classmates.

The homeroom teacher, who had just returned from Tokyo, declared in pretentious standard Japanese.

"Kikuchi's painting won the gold prize at the recent Kagoshima Prefecture Junior High School Painting Competition."

Immediately, a roar of "Oh!" arose, and applause broke out from nowhere. Not knowing how to react to this unexpected turn of events, all I could do was turn my relaxed face towards the teacher and whisper, "Thanks."

Although he is used to attracting attention in kendo, he considers himself to be rather shy outside of it. The fact that he sleeps through class isn't the only reason he doesn't stand out in the classroom. He's aware that his classmates tended to shy away from him because he's quiet and well-built. Even timid female students would look frightened when he tried to talk to them.

However, after winning the competition, his classmates gradually began to take an interest in him.

The popular captain of the soccer team approached him and asked him to draw his portrait. When he did, his classmates all praised him, saying it looked like him and was amazing. Perhaps the imbalance between his thick arms and the delicate depiction was amusing, but there was no end to the number of classmates, both male and female, who asked him to draw their portraits.

His younger sister, who attended the same junior high school, also boasted to her friends about her brother's drawing skills. She never mentioned his victory in the kendo tournament, but she seemed to tell everyone she met about his gold medal in the painting contest. He told his sister to stop, saying it was no good, but secretly he was pleased to see her spreading the word with such glee.

The only person who wasn't happy for me was my father. When I told him I had won the competition, he simply said, "Oh, I see. That's great," and nothing more. When my mother wanted to hang a painting on the living room wall, I told her, "It'll just be embarrassing to hang something like that," and told her not to.

I think it was around this time that I began to feel rebellious towards my father.

***

After that, we walked to the hotel in silence. Kensuke said, "I'm going to stop by the convenience store," and then walked off without waiting for a reply. I received my key from the front desk and returned to my room alone.

I turned on the TV and saw a news program. While watching it, I untied my tie and hung my slacks along the creases on a hanger. I was used to traveling. Traveling away from home had been a daily occurrence since my student days. Back then, I was a participant, but now I was the one leading the team.

I put on the thin yukata provided over my underwear. I thought it would be more comfortable than Kagoshima, but Tokyo was strangely hot. The sunlight was weak, but unpleasant sweat was building up around my neck.

"It's hot."

Still, the air conditioning was not turned on.

My father always said that turning on the air conditioner would make me catch a cold, so he never bought one. Even before he passed away last year, he was still living alone in a room without air conditioning. He would often say, "Summer is the time to catch a cold."

His father was a plumber, working on air conditioning piping in buildings and apartment buildings. However, he hated air conditioning, and would often say, "I don't like the air from an air conditioner because it's artificial." He was a craftsman at heart, and on his days off, when he had free time, he would tinker with pipes in the garden, saying, "My skills are getting rusty."

I opened the window and lay down on the bed, but all that blew in was the lukewarm breeze from the city of buildings. It would be better if it didn't feel like this. I got up and closed the window. I rolled over in my sleep, not minding that my yukata would come undone.

I wonder what his father thought when his son started kendo at the age of six. Their family was hardly wealthy. They couldn't even afford to buy the proper armor and bamboo swords, so he had to rely on hand-me-downs from his seniors. The strings on his armor were always torn. People at the dojo made fun of him for this, but he still couldn't help but enjoy kendo. He swung his bamboo sword with all his might every day, and before he knew it, he had become the strongest player in the dojo. In fact, there were hardly any players in his city or prefecture who could beat him.

I entered high school as a sports scholarship student. The reason was that there was no tuition fee. My father was very happy. At that time, he told me, "Mamoru, do your best in kendo," and that may have been the first time I was encouraged by my father. High school training was so tough that I wished I'd died, but my father's encouragement at that time carried me through to the end. Thanks to my participation in the national tournament in high school, I was able to go on to university in Osaka without paying tuition fees.

My father came to cheer me on only once. During my fourth year of university, he came all the way from Kagoshima to the Tokyo Budokan, the venue for the All-Japan Student Championships. Apparently, he struggled to find me, asking in his Kagoshima accent, "Where is a player named Kikuchi Mamoru?" I hadn't heard anything about him, but I was surprised when a fellow member of the team said to me, "I heard Kikuchi's dad is here." When I ran up to my father who appeared a while later, he muttered,

"My neighbors told me to go to the national tournament."

I came in third place, and my father said, "Not bad." That was an incredible compliment.

I had always wanted my father to praise me. But if he had praised me, would I have been able to become as strong as I am now? Perhaps it was my desire to impress my father that allowed me to continue with kendo. I thought about these things while lying in bed, unable to sleep.

Outside the window, I could hear the sounds of car horns and the squeals of young men and women. The sounds that filled the streets of Tokyo and Kagoshima were different. I wondered if Kensuke from the next room had already returned from the convenience store. Or was he still wandering around somewhere in Tokyo?

Kensuke was very close to his father, but he didn't cry at the funeral. The ceremony was held in Shibushi, where his father lived. After his mother's death, his father moved from Kagoshima City to his hometown of Shibushi. He also lived in this port town until he went to high school. Only about ten guests attended the wake, excluding relatives. Many of his father's acquaintances had already passed away.

On the way back from the funeral home, I took my family to the harbor. Son, father, mother, and daughter sat on the breakwater in that order and looked out at the sea shining in the sunset. Even the children, who were approaching their rebellious phase, were obedient that day. The sky was clear, and the sun was soon setting over the edge of the sky. Both the sea and the land were illuminated in an orange hue.

"Dad"

Kensuke, dressed in his school uniform and sitting on the edge of the breakwater, called out to me. It had been a really long time since someone had called out to me outside of kendo.

"Dad, do you think I'll cry if Grandpa dies?"

"I won't cry."

Tears had welled up in Kensuke's eyes. "You're a high school student, you're still crying," I said. Instead of saying that, I patted him on the shoulder.

"Grandpa raised me until I no longer cried."

Before I knew it, I had fallen asleep in a hotel room in Tokyo.

***

The next morning, I woke up at seven. The match was scheduled to start at three in the afternoon, but sleeping too late would make me feel sluggish. Waking up at the same time as on weekdays was best suited to my body's rhythm.

I did some light stretching in bed when I woke up. I felt fine. I had a leisurely breakfast of banana and mineral water, took a hot shower, and changed into my uniform. I wonder if my father is eating the breakfast buffet in the dining room right now. His self-control is so poor that it's hard to believe he's a top athlete.

I met up with my father in the lobby, shouldered my protective gear, and started walking. It was only a ten-minute walk, but walking on a public road in the middle of summer would quickly get me covered in sweat. We walked to the gym where practice was being held without saying a word to each other.