The trophy gleamed on the living room shelf, prominently displayed for visitors to admire. Hiroshi Tanaka sat at the kitchen table, a chessboard in front of him. His father, Akio, stood over his shoulder, arms crossed, his sharp eyes fixed on the board as Hiroshi replayed yesterday's championship match from memory.
"Your rook was exposed here," Akio said, pointing to a square. "Your opponent could have punished you if he had seen the opening. You were lucky he didn't."
"Yes, Father," Hiroshi replied quietly, moving the rook back to its original position.
"Luck is a weakness, Hiroshi," Akio continued. "You cannot rely on your opponents to make mistakes. Every move must be perfect. Understood?"
"Yes, Father."
Hiroshi's mother, Naomi, entered the room, a tray of tea in her hands. "Akio, he just won the championship. Can't he take a break?" she asked, setting the tray down.
"A true champion never rests," Akio replied, his tone firm but calm. "There's always room for improvement."
Hiroshi didn't look up from the board. He didn't argue. He never did.
After hours of analyzing the match, Hiroshi finally retreated to his room. He closed the door behind him, leaning against it for a moment as he let out a long sigh. His eyes wandered to the shelves lining his room, each one crammed with trophies, medals, and certificates. They were supposed to symbolize his success, his brilliance, but to Hiroshi, they felt more like weights, pressing down on him from all sides.
The chessboard on his desk seemed to mock him. It was always there, always waiting.
He sat at the desk, staring at the board, his fingers idly moving a pawn forward and back. His mind drifted to the match, replaying every move, every decision. It was a habit he couldn't break, ingrained in him by years of practice and his father's relentless lessons.
But instead of satisfaction, a familiar emptiness crept in.
Why didn't winning feel as good as it used to?
The door creaked open, and his mother stepped inside. "Hiroshi, dinner's ready."
"I'm not hungry," he said, not turning around.
Naomi hesitated before walking over to him. She placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. "You've done so much already, Hiroshi. You're allowed to take a break sometimes."
"I don't think Father would agree," Hiroshi replied, his voice barely above a whisper.
"Your father just wants the best for you," Naomi said, though even she sounded uncertain. "But... if you ever feel like it's too much, you can talk to me. You know that, right?"
Hiroshi nodded but said nothing. Naomi lingered for a moment before quietly leaving the room.
Late that night, Hiroshi lay awake in bed, staring at the ceiling. The house was silent, but his mind was loud. He thought about the countless hours he spent studying openings and endgames, memorizing strategies, and practicing under his father's watchful eye.
He didn't hate chess. In fact, he loved the challenge, the mental battle. But it was the expectation that wore him down—the constant need to be perfect, to win, to uphold the image of a prodigy.
Turning onto his side, Hiroshi's gaze fell on the television in the corner of his room. The remote sat on the nightstand, almost calling to him. Against his better judgment, he reached for it and turned on the TV.
Flipping through channels aimlessly, he paused when he saw the familiar green field from the night before. It was another football game, the energy radiating from the screen pulling him in immediately.
He watched as a quarterback barked commands, his voice confident and commanding. The play began, and players sprinted across the field, colliding with each other in a symphony of chaos and strategy. The quarterback dodged a defender, planted his feet, and launched the ball downfield. The receiver leaped, catching it midair and landing just inside the end zone.
The crowd erupted, and Hiroshi's heart raced.
He didn't understand the rules or the terminology, but the raw intensity of it was undeniable.
For a moment, the weight on his shoulders disappeared. The chessboard, the trophies, his father's lectures—it all faded away as he lost himself in the game.
"What if…" Hiroshi whispered to himself, his eyes fixed on the screen.
The thought was fleeting, but it planted a seed, one that would grow into something far greater than he could imagine.