The hall was already packed with athletes practicing. This was because not only were the athletes competing in today's individual competition, but also those competing in tomorrow's team competition. Even though there was a gymnasium specifically for practice, there were far too many people there. I undressed in the hallway and put on my kendo uniform. As I put on my hakama and buckled my obi, I realized that my facial expression had taken on that of a kendo athlete. When my father put on his uniform, his gaze became sharper, as if he were a completely different person. Even now, when I practice kendo, I feel a sense of awe for my father. After some careful stretching and practice, the two of us sat seiza side by side in the corner of the hall.

First, the athlete puts on the tare. A name tag bearing the athlete's family name and school name, commonly known as the tare name, is attached to the front of the tare. The sash of the tare is tied behind the waist, and then the dohimo string is tied. After securing the torso with three knots, a hand towel is wrapped around the head. On top of that, the athlete puts on the mask, and after passing the menhimo string through the mengane at the front, it is tied behind the head. After checking that the mask fits, the athlete puts on the kote on both hands and stands up, taking the shinai.

The gym was packed with people, but just as I was passing by, a group was leaving. I tapped my father on the shoulder as he walked ahead of me and pointed to an empty spot. I didn't shout. In the hall, where shouts and the sounds of bamboo swords clashing echoed, unless I spoke very loudly, the other person would not be able to hear me.

With my father as the starting point, we started with two sets of Kirikaeshi. Kirikaeshi is one of the basic drills, where you strike the opponent's left and right men. After that, we practiced basic techniques such as men-uchi and kotegee-uchi, as well as counter techniques such as somen and dekote, before moving on to a short period of kakeri practice. In kakeri practice, the attacker strikes the opponent without rest. In regular practice, we might be made to practice until we could no longer stand, but there's no point in being exhausted before a match. We always cut it short just before a match.

The moment I turned around to deliver my final strike, something crashed into my left foot. I instinctively stumbled, my foot getting caught, and fell to the right. Thinking that my right hand might get crushed under my body, I instinctively put my left hand down. It was an unconscious reaction. My left arm went numb from the sudden reaction, but I managed to protect my right hand.

"Sorry. Are you okay?"

A man wearing protective gear called out to me, peering in. The name "Minato" was written on the drape. It was a name I didn't recognize.

Minato had a concerned look on his face, but at the same time he was constantly stroking his knee. It seemed that the reason he had fallen earlier was because Minato's knee collided with his left leg the moment he turned around. He quickly got up, assuring Minato that his injuries were not serious.

"It's okay. Sorry, I was careless."

"No, thank you."

As the sounds of bamboo swords striking each other echoed throughout the gym, Minato and I bowed to each other. After bowing several times, I turned around and saw that my father seemed concerned about my left leg, which had been hit by my father.

"Are you okay?"

"Yes. I can move."

As a coach, I make it a rule to use honorific language when speaking to my father.

"It should be bigger."

My father was muttering under his breath.

Finally, they completed one set of turns and finished their pre-match practice.

***

After warming up, they changed into suits and headed to the adjacent competition venue. Kensuke was still in his gi and hakama. The women's team preliminary league had been taking place there since morning, and even from outside the building, the girls' spirits and the sounds of their bamboo swords striking could be heard.

In just an hour, the first round of the men's individual competition would begin. I glanced over at Kensuke, who was sitting on a bench in the hallway, sipping a jelly drink. The 18-year-old no longer had the face of a child. Kensuke's profile showed the face of someone fighting, with something at stake.

I was convinced that painting was now more important to my son than kendo.

When Kensuke collapsed during practice earlier, he protected his right hand with his left. It was such a quick movement that it must have been unconscious on his part.

Kensuke had always been taught from a young age that the left hand is the hand that swings the shinai. The little finger of the left hand swings the shinai, and the remaining fingers simply cover it. That's why the left hand is the lifeline for a kendo practitioner. Kensuke used his left hand to protect his right hand. I immediately understood what significance his right hand, his dominant hand, had for him. He had chosen the hand that would be used for drawing, rather than the hand that would be used for kendo. And he did it unconsciously.

During his student days in Tokyo, he worked hard to learn standard Japanese. He hated being laughed at by girls for speaking Kagoshima dialect. He gathered his kendo club members from Kyushu and corrected each other's pronunciation, and perhaps it was worth it when, upon returning to Kagoshima as a teacher, his father told him, "Don't speak standard Japanese!" This comment also contained a sense of hostility towards Tokyo.

Kensuke's generation didn't speak much Kagoshima dialect to begin with. Moreover, because kendo club members frequently traveled around the country, they had many opportunities to hear standard Japanese. Even if they could hear the Kagoshima dialect, the way they spoke naturally became closer to standard Japanese. Even though Kensuke had desperately practiced standard Japanese, this annoyed him a little.

The time for the match to start approached. Kensuke sat upright, watching the women's team match intently. Due to a delay in the match, the men's individual matches had already begun on the other courts, but the women's match was still going on on that court. Before the match began, there was nothing the coach could do for the players. Of course, neither could his father.

Tatami mats were laid out next to the court. This was where the coach would wait. He sat upright on the tatami mat, ruminating on what Kensuke had said the night before.

"If I make it to the top eight, I want you to quit kendo."

Why did my son make such an incomplete request? If he wanted to quit, he should have just said, "I'll quit kendo after this tournament," and I would have been happy to accept it... After thinking about it, a thought occurred to me.

When you hear that, can you really accept it?

If he had suddenly told me yesterday that he was quitting kendo, I might have immediately opposed it. I had no idea that Kensuke was thinking of quitting kendo. There was no way I wouldn't have panicked when he suddenly told me he was quitting.

Perhaps that half-hearted offer was a way to avoid immediate opposition. If he had said he wanted to quit, his father would have opposed it. So if he added the condition that he would achieve better results than last year, his father would reluctantly agree. That may have been what Kensuke thought.

I thought I understood Kensuke better than anyone. To me, Kensuke was a player, a student, and a son. Looking only at him from those perspectives, I thought I understood Kensuke. But in reality, it seems I didn't understand him at all.

When I was in high school, I thought that my coach, teachers, and father couldn't understand me, but when I put myself in their shoes, I completely forgot about that.

"That's no good."

I couldn't help but mutter that.

***

My first match was against a player named Kiyama representing Akita. We may have crossed swords in a practice match or something, but I don't remember it clearly. He was about the same height as me, 175 cm, with broad shoulders and a similar, stocky build.

At the referee's signal, Kiyama leaped towards the men. The shout was as high-pitched as a bird's cry. The strike was fast, but the step was shallow, so Kiyama could easily avoid it by taking a half step back. Kiyama's fighting spirit was too high. He immediately met his opponent's strike with his men, but the distance was too close.

For the first two minutes, I barely had to take any shots myself. From experience, if you can win the first match in good form, you can often continue to win in succession. I wanted to play carefully and go for the win.

He immediately realized that Kiyama was trying to make him pay attention to his mask, but for a while he pretended not to notice and carefully handled the mask.

When he was cornered at the edge of the court, Kiyama closed the distance and slightly raised the tip of his sword. In response, he raised his kote to block the men.

Bring it on.

Just as he'd predicted, Kiyama seized the opportunity to turn the tip of his sword and unleash a kote. He unleashed a kote with his men exposed. To dodge Kiyama's kote strike, he raised his bamboo sword. The opponent's bamboo sword, which was meant to land a kote strike, cut through the air with a clang. All that was left was for him to swing his bamboo sword straight down at Kiyama's wide-open men.

The flags of the three judges rose in unison.

"With face"

It was a perfect example of a kotegaeshi men. After that, whenever Kiyama invited him, he controlled the tip of the sword and took the initiative, not making any forced strikes. After four minutes, the referee called "stop." In the end, he managed to hold on to that point until the end of the match.

He returned to his nine-step range, bowed, and exhaled. He'd finished with an ideal victory. He turned around to ask his coach who his next opponent would be.

"He's a player from Ehime."

Before I could ask, my father said that. After we left the arena together, I looked down at the pamphlet he had given me. Nomura, my next opponent, was a player I knew. He was definitely a tall, upper-ranked player.

He sat down on a bench in the hallway, clenched his fist, and opened it. He could still feel the impact of the slash he'd thrown at Kiyama.

I was convinced that I could do it.