He snarled as he came home, throwing his laptop case down on the couch in a manner quite unlike his usual restrained behavior. Hearing the slamming of the front door, his grandfather poked his head around the corner to see what the noise was about. "Ochi?" he inquired.
The diminutive boy's face was set in his fierce protective scowl, but he refused to comment or even look at his grandfather as he pushed past and stomped up the stairs to his room.
In the safety and privacy of his bedroom, Ochi slumped to his computer chair and, head bowed, he finally allowed his held-in tears to overflow. It wasn't just that Shindou had beaten him . . . again. He could handle that. He could overcome it and prepare better next time; he learned a little more with each battle. No, it wasn't that he lost today. He lost to other players without feeling this, this overwhelming frustration, this strangling feeling surrounding his heart.
"I-it's not fair!" he shouted, pounding his fists on his knees. "No matter how I play, no matter what my game, they all look at HIM! Only him!" He was so tired of standing in the background, of hearing the others talk about him as "Shindou's opponent" instead of by name! Touya Akira had been there today. Still he only saw "Shindou" and "Shindou's opponent." Ochi swore that one day that would change. He would show Touya Akira and everyone else.
Slowly, Ochi's sobs subsided. The boy straightened, pulled off his glasses, took a tissue from the computer desk and rubbed the wet smears off the lens with focused precision. A momentary lapse, that all this was. He would regain control. He would return to the Go Institute tomorrow. He would learn to play a game to make everyone see him and his go.
Because that was the truth behind this pain in his heart. Playing Shindou made it feel like Ochi's go was worthless. And he wouldn't stop until he changed that.
Team Korea!
~ ~ ~
He snarled as he came home, throwing his laptop case down on the couch in a manner quite unlike his usual restrained behavior. Hearing the slamming of the front door, his grandfather poked his head around the corner to see what the noise was about. "Ochi?" he inquired.
The diminutive boy's face was set in his fierce protective scowl, but he refused to comment or even look at his grandfather as he pushed past and stomped up the stairs to his room.
In the safety and privacy of his bedroom, Ochi slumped to his computer chair and, head bowed, he finally allowed his held-in tears to overflow. It wasn't just that Shindou had beaten him . . . again. He could handle that. He could overcome it and prepare better next time; he learned a little more with each battle. No, it wasn't that he lost today. He lost to other players without feeling this, this overwhelming frustration, this strangling feeling surrounding his heart.
"I-it's not fair!" he shouted, pounding his fists on his knees. "No matter how I play, no matter what my game, they all look at HIM! Only him!" He was so tired of standing in the background, of hearing the others talk about him as "Shindou's opponent" instead of by name! Touya Akira had been there today. Still he only saw "Shindou" and "Shindou's opponent." Ochi swore that one day that would change. He would show Touya Akira and everyone else.
Slowly, Ochi's sobs subsided. The boy straightened, pulled off his glasses, took a tissue from the computer desk and rubbed the wet smears off the lens with focused precision. A momentary lapse, that all this was. He would regain control. He would return to the Go Institute tomorrow. He would learn to play a game to make everyone see him and his go.
Because that was the truth behind this pain in his heart. Playing Shindou made it feel like Ochi's go was worthless. And he wouldn't stop until he changed that.