The First Fight
967 Words
By the time fall crept into Los Angeles, Eijun’s glove had gone from a toy to a treasure.
It smelled like leather and sweat and pride. He kept it under his pillow, like a kid might guard a secret wish. Every day after school, he’d rush home, grab his gear, and crash into Chris’s room.
“Training time!”
And Chris would groan. Every single time.
But he’d follow Eijun out anyway.
They were falling into rhythm — their own kind of language.
But not everyone was happy.
Especially not Kenji.
It started small.
“You’re pushing too hard,” Kenji said one night over dinner. “He’s just a kid.”
Chris didn’t look up from his rice. “He asked me to help him.”
“He doesn’t know what he’s asking.”
“He’s tougher than you think.”
Kenji’s jaw tightened. “It’s not about toughness. It’s about balance. He needs school. Friends. Not just—baseball.”
Eijun blinked between them, mouth full of miso soup.
Ayumi’s eyes flicked back and forth. “It’s just practice. Eijun’s doing well in school.”
“It’s not just Eijun I’m worried about,” Kenji muttered.
Chris paused. His chopsticks froze.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked, too calmly.
Kenji didn’t answer.
The table went quiet.
---
It boiled over two days later.
Chris came home late after a team strategy meeting. His uniform was dusty, his face drawn from hours of drills. He stepped through the door and nearly collided with Kenji.
“You didn’t tell anyone where you were.”
“I told Mom,” Chris said, brushing past him.
“She didn’t know when you’d be home.”
Chris dropped his bag by the stairs. “I had practice.”
“Practice doesn’t go until 9:30.”
Chris’s back stiffened. “Coach had us review film. It ran long.”
Kenji followed. “Then pick up your phone. You live in this house.”
Chris turned sharply. “Do I?”
That stopped Kenji.
Chris’s voice rose. “I live here, but I’m always being reminded that I don’t belong here. That I’m not yours. That I’m—someone else’s kid.”
Kenji’s face darkened. “Don’t twist my words.”
“I’m not!” Chris snapped. “You don’t have to say it. You act like it. Every time you second-guess me. Every time you look at me like I’m doing something wrong just by being here.”
“Chris,” Ayumi said quietly from the hallway. “That’s enough.”
But Chris wasn’t looking at her.
“I’ve been trying,” he said, voice trembling now. “For years, I’ve been trying to be good enough. To earn a place. You think I don’t notice? That you never say the words you say to Eijun? Never tell me ‘I’m proud of you’?”
Kenji looked away. His fists were clenched.
Eijun stood frozen behind the stairwell, small hands gripping the railing. He didn’t understand everything. But he understood hurt.
He heard Chris’s voice crack, and it made something twist in his stomach.
“I know I’m not your son,” Chris whispered. “But sometimes I wish you’d lie to me and pretend I was.”
He stormed upstairs.
The door slammed.
Eijun flinched.
---
Ayumi sat with Kenji in the living room long after Eijun went to bed.
The house was silent. No TV. No music. Just the low hum of the fridge and the creak of furniture under weight neither of them could name.
“You knew this was coming,” Ayumi said softly.
Kenji rubbed his forehead. “I never meant to—”
“But you did.” Her voice was gentle, not accusing. Just tired. “Chris doesn’t ask for love, Kenji. He waits for it. He tries to earn it. That’s the worst part — he thinks he has to earn being your son.”
Kenji exhaled. “I don’t know how to be a father to someone I didn’t raise from birth.”
“You’ve been with him since he was six. He calls you Dad. You think that means nothing?”
Kenji looked down.
Ayumi reached out, placed her hand over his. “He’s not asking for the impossible. He just wants to belong.”
“I thought I was protecting Eijun. Giving him space to shine.”
“You were hurting both of them.”
---
The next morning, Chris didn’t come down for breakfast.
Eijun lingered at the table, staring at his toast.
“Mom?” he asked finally. “Did I do something wrong?”
“No, baby,” Ayumi said softly, brushing his hair back. “This isn’t your fault.”
“Is Niichan mad at me too?”
“No,” she whispered. “He loves you more than anything.”
---
Chris stayed quiet for two days.
No practice. No training. He disappeared into his room and only came out to shower or eat when no one else was around.
Eijun felt lost.
He waited by the porch every afternoon, glove in hand.
Chris didn’t come.
---
Then one night, a soft knock tapped on Eijun’s door.
“...Eijun?”
Eijun sat up in bed. “Niichan?”
Chris stepped in. He looked tired. But his voice was soft.
“Wanna play catch?”
Eijun scrambled out of bed, grabbing his glove.
They stood in the backyard under the moonlight. Chris didn’t say much. Just tossed the ball gently, over and over. The rhythm was enough.
Eventually, Eijun asked, “Do you still wanna teach me?”
Chris looked at him.
A long pause.
Then: “Yeah. I still want to.”
Eijun smiled.
And the next throw was a little faster.
- Writer
