The habitual smokers lit their cigarettes in front of the pachinko parlor. Their grey hair was plated to their heads, their faces scarred by age, their suits disheveled, and eyes reflecting a dull gleam. In an almost perfect unison, lulled by an exhaled cloud of smoke, they let their heads fall back onto the wall in a movement of fatigue. As the parlor doors slid open, the sound of metallic balls rattling in plastic trays, coins clinking, dropping into slots, the siren call of mechanical voices, all boomed in their ears. 

The bright neon pachinko lights slit the still dusk, only usually interrupted by the moan of a warm April breeze. The cherry blossom season had begun early that year; the last flowers nakedly hanging on boughs, or covering the ground, reminding all of what had once been.

The men slowly made their way from the parlor to the local run-down izakaya. Bathing in a sake-flavored darkness, slowly beginning to laugh more loudly, their faces flushed, a semblance of life crawling into them. As the hours went by, more and more habitués made their way in, emerging from the dark with sullen faces, tired from the haunting loneliness of the commuting train. The air, heavy with cigarette smoke, was made alive with chatter and roaring drunken laughter, as if a life that had been suppressed had entered the room.

Suddenly, in the midst of the noise, one man hastily made his way in to his habitual table, and before even greeting the regulars, threw the day’s newspaper on the table:  

“Hibiki Sato, undefeated Japanese boxing prodigy, dead.”

The entire room was reduced to a still silence, as the newspaper began to soak in knocked-over beer.

A large picture of a young man in a boxing ring, a brazen smile familiar to all was on the first page: there was no hint of fatigue in his eyes, his whole body glowing in a godly sweating glory. His arm raised by a cornerman, the movement of triumph seemed to eerily echo a tragic calling, a molded farewell. 

The men were compelled by the youthfulness of his flesh, wondering how such life could now be gone. They were caught in a trance where they could almost hear the crowds cheering in wild exultation, feeling the sweat trickling down their chest.

“Only nineteen…”, one of them muttered. 

Hachioji, Tokyo, five years before. He could see Mt. Takao from afar, towering above a landscape of office buildings. The cherry blossoms were in full bloom, their invigorating perfume permeating the suburban freshness. His knuckles were calloused and bruised, his lip burst open, yet he felt a sense of inexorable pride billow in his chest. He walked with his chest puffed, every one of his steps strong, determined. His eyes glistened, as if not yet disappointed by life.

Men from the other table, noticing, astounded, arose to try to get the paper. One of the men, almost shaking, after extinguishing his cigarette, grabbed the newspaper and began to read the article.

“Hibiki Sato, the popular undefeated featherweight boxer, dies two days after the match of the century against Ken Nakamura, which resulted in first KO.”

“Suicide?”

“No”, uttered a voice from behind.

The group of old men turned around to face a man sitting back of the bar, alone, much younger than the others. He looked at them with a cool, dispassionate gaze. He was of noticeably strong build, his jaw sharp and prominent yet, his eyes were glassy, his lips exsanguine, as if a restless previous life had drained him. 

“I used to know Sato”, he said, bringing a cup of sake to his lips. They all turned around in surprise, eyebrows raised. 

“He burned”, he continued. 

“Who are you?”

“One two three, one two three...”

“Sato”

He continued to box against the sandbag, muttering to himself. 

“One two three, one two three, hook...”

“Sato!”

He turned around, beads of sweat running down his face, spotting his white shirt. He brashly smiled, as if barely out of boyhood.

“Three years ago, I lost in a 15 second quick kill against Sato. Didn’t even reach him”, he said with a small bitter laugh. 

“He was unknown back then: a hidden gem from the outskirts of Tokyo. I was like him too, before he came along.”

There were indistinct screams and catcalls coming from every angle of the dark abyss. The lights around him were bright, blinding. 

“Come on, you gotta go the distance, he’s completely punch-drunk.” 

Punch-drunk. “Punch-drunk”, he repeated, the words hazily forming on her lips.

“That uppercut busted his ribs, the boy can’t even walk straight, let alone land one. You’re either gonna knock him out clean or the judge’s gonna call it a technical.”

Knock him out clean.

“What happened to him then?”

“What do you think?”

“Sato?”

“The knockout was out of the blue, a shiver of fate.”

He got up to open a window above, the window sill lined with flower petals. He stopped speaking for a moment, watching a nighttime bus round the street corner with a wheeze, coming to rest at a nearby stop. He saw people slowly make their way out into the night.

“He should’ve known when to stop”, he quietly said as he closed the window and slumped back into his chair. 

One of the men looked down at the article and read out loud:

“Cause of death is reportedly brain hemorrhage from head injuries sustained in the historic fight. His death marks the end of a generation of boxing. His loss will be mourned in all of Japan.”

Margaux Emmanuel is a senior at the International French School in Tokyo, and will be attending Cambridge University to study English literature this autumn. Emmanuel is also a book-blogger (The Young Reader’s Review) and amateur kickboxer.