Chapter 11. Shoulders of the Retired Tiger

July in Aoyama. The season of cicadas had begun.

In the Circle, the measurement room beneath Life Compass, I was checking the tape. One afternoon appointment. A former pro baseball player — that much Kurosawa had told me. Nothing more.

Former pro baseball player.

The sound of it made my shoulders tighten, a little. An athlete’s body is built on a different plane from an ordinary person’s. The extreme development carved by years of hard use — and the extreme fatigue that lives beside it. And how it changes after retirement. From Sono I had learned a fragment of muscle and competition, but I had never read the body of someone who had climbed to the top as a professional and then come down again. To read such a body might still be beyond me.

“You’re nervous.”

Coh’s voice, from the phone in my hand. The basement room was dim even at midday. The lighting along the walls shed faint blue-white.

“Can you tell.”

“Your shoulders are up.”

I hurriedly let them down. Coh is merciless about these things.

“Iwao Ōyama. Forty-two. Former pitcher. Retired five years ago, I’m told.”

“Five years.”

“Referred by his wife, apparently. He may not be very willing himself.”

“His wife, not him.”

Coh seemed to laugh, a little.

“Well. That’s for after we meet.”

I

Iwao Ōyama appeared at two o’clock on the dot.

The footsteps coming down the stairs were heavy. Each step carried weight, as if treading the earth down. The walk a pro athlete trains into himself over years. Ordinary people do not walk like this.

He was tall. Over a hundred and eighty centimetres easily. His shoulders were broad enough that he had to be slightly conscious of them passing through the door. Thinking that those shoulders had once released a white ball in front of thirty thousand spectators, I swallowed a word or two.

But the body was clearly not active.

The line of his jaw must once have been sharper. A soft roundness sat around the belly. You could see it through the shirt. Over the outline that had once been trim, fat was laying itself, slowly but surely. The walk was still powerful. But the right knee was favouring itself, just a little.

“Himuro-san.”

Low, dry voice. A little hoarse. The voice that had commanded thirty thousand from the mound.

“Yes. Seri Himuro. Thank you for coming today.”

Ōyama looked at me steadily. An appraising look. The eyes of a man who had lived long in the professional world.

”…Young.”

“Yes. I’m still in training.”

“My wife insisted I come.” Ōyama glanced around the room, a little ill at ease. “Honestly, I don’t put much stock in this sort of thing. Showing a worn-out body to a young woman — I don’t see what good it does.”

It was prickly. And honest. I smiled a little.

“Ōyama-san. You said worn-out.”

“Ah. It’s bad, frankly. In my playing days I managed everything — weight, body fat — all by the numbers. Now I’m afraid to look at them.”

“Afraid to look.”

”…Ah.”

Ōyama unconsciously stroked his belly with his palm. I saw in the gesture the same remoteness one might have touching someone else’s body — a distaste.

I had once touched my own body like that. Like an enemy. Like a broken machine. Every time I saw myself in the mirror, what was there was not the me that should be but the me that should not be. So I knew, I felt, what that gesture meant.

“Ōyama-san. May I ask you something.”

“Hm.”

“Today — what is it that you yourself want? Your wife recommended it, you said. But in your own words, if you would.”

Ōyama was quiet. Then he dropped his eyes.

”…I want to go back. To the old body.”

The voice was like a soliloquy.

“Go back. To that time — when I could believe in my body, utterly. When standing on the mound and swinging my arm was enough, and the world was mine.”

II

“Going back is a difficult thing.”

I said it honestly.

“Ōyama-san. I can’t promise you that. To return your body to what it was. But —”

I set Contura beside the platform. The screen glowed faintly.

“I can read the body you have now. Not to go back. To hear what the you of today is saying. Would you let me try.”

Ōyama looked at me steadily. Then at Contura. The light from the screen painted his face blue.

”…A strange app.”

“Yes. A little strange.”

“My wife said you’d understand me with it. Understand everything. Like fortune-telling.”

“It isn’t fortune-telling,” I said. “Fortune-telling speaks the future. This reads the past and the present. We only listen to what your body says.”

Ōyama was quiet for a while. Then, slowly, he nodded.

”…All right. Read me. This — old body of mine.”

“It isn’t old.”

“Hm?”

“It isn’t old.” I said it again. “Only changed. I’ll read you now. May I.”

”…Ah.”

III

The Measuring went as it always did.

Ōyama stood on the platform. I told him he could leave his shirt on. In my mind I checked two of the Laws. Take consent before measuring. Do not flaunt what you have measured.

The Contura screen brightened. Pale blue light fanned out as particles and drifted around Ōyama’s body. The light traced the surface of him, slowly, as if it cherished what it touched.

I sensed Ōyama catch his breath, a little. The faint downy warmth when the light runs across the skin. First-timers are always a little startled. And then, a little abashed, to have their body seen so carefully.

Shoulder. Chest. Waist. Hip. Thigh. Upper arm. Neck.

The rings of light circled him. And into the air rose numbers.

Shoulder width 51 Chest 115 Waist 95 Upper arm 39

The numbers joined into an outline line, and a luminous body shaped like Ōyama’s stood up in the air.

I caught my breath.

It was a magnificent body.

The shoulders were broad. Not merely broad. The skeleton itself was broadly built. The deltoids ridged up thick. The chest was deep, layers of muscle stacked on the ribs. The back — I turned the luminous body — the latissimus spread like wings. How many tens of thousands of pitches had been thrown from it. All of it remained in the back as memory.

But over it lay a soft layer. Fat. A gentle roundness at the belly. A thin film over the chest muscles. The once-sharp outline was, a little, blurred.

Glory, and decline. Both layered in the same body.

I felt something like awe at this outline. Here was half a lifetime of a man — so much forged, and so much changed.

“This is —” Ōyama looked up at his own outline. His voice shook.

“Ōyama-san. Can you see.”

“Ah. My body.”

“Yes. Your body.”

Coh spoke quietly from the screen.

“Seri. Read the type.”

“Yes. Mesomorph. Thick skeleton, muscle that carries well. A body built by nature to store force. The type best suited to a pitcher.”

“Right.” Ōyama said. “In my active days, my coach told me — from the skeleton up, you’re made for the mound.”

“And the Core Number.” Coh went on. ”—— 23.8. High.”

My eyes widened. Twenty-three point eight. Nearly double mine. Equal to Sono, or beyond. Five years retired, weight up, training down — and still he held this height.

“Ōyama-san. Your core hasn’t gone.”

“Gone — it hasn’t.”

“No. The bottom strength of muscle is still there. Few people keep a core like this after a five-year blank. Your body still holds the memory of your active days, as root.”

Ōyama said nothing. But I saw his eyes go a little wet.

His Adam’s apple moved once. There were words he swallowed.

IV

“I’ll read now,” Coh said.

The numbers in the air burst at once into particles. The particles swirled, gathered, became letters.

Your shoulders spread wide carrying the cheers of thirty thousand. Now they are for you.

The room stilled.

Ōyama stared at the words. For a long time. I did not rush him. The story belongs to the person. So does the time of taking it in.

”…Thirty thousand, huh.”

Ōyama murmured.

“The last year. I looked out at the stands. Thirty thousand. A full house. The cheers hit the body, you know. Physically — the sound comes as pressure, against the skin. I carried that and pitched.”

“Yes.”

“After I retired, that pressure vanished. The cheers vanished. It went quiet. And — my shoulders seemed to forget it, curling in. Muscle came off, fat went on. Every morning, the mirror was agony.”

Ōyama’s voice shook a little.

“Where did those shoulders go. I lost that body.”

“No.” I said. “You didn’t lose them.”

”…”

“Not lost, Ōyama-san. Changed. Those shoulders didn’t disappear. The same shoulders are there now. Still broad. Still thick. You may not have noticed —”

I pointed at the luminous body.

“Your shoulders are still broad. Your back still spreads like wings. Fat has layered over them, that’s all. The muscle beneath, the skeleton deeper still — it is the same shape as five years ago. The same shape that carried the cheers.”

Ōyama reached a hand toward the shoulder of the luminous body. His fingertips passed through the light. But the gesture was one of confirming, of cherishing.

“Is that so. They haven’t gone.”

“No. Only resting. And over them, a new layer has come. That isn’t decline —”

I searched for the word.

”— it’s growth rings.”

V

“Growth rings.”

Ōyama turned the word in his mouth.

“Like the rings of a tree. One by one, a ring is added. The muscle of your active days is the thick core at the centre. Over it, the years since retirement have layered. Not to be peeled away. This body, as it is, is the entire record of your life.”

Ōyama stood silently, looking up at his outline.

And then, slowly, he laid his hand on his own belly. The place he had stroked with distaste a moment ago. But with a different touch now. Confirming. Accepting.

”…A medal, then.”

“If you can think of it so.”

“I’ve been thinking of it as the enemy. As decline. As defeat. But —”

Ōyama lifted his face. His eyes had cleared a little. As if a man who had stood long in fog were seeing the landscape for the first time.

“Maybe this too is a record of what I fought. Those thirty thousand. That stadium. That mound. All of it is still in these shoulders. Only a new layer has grown over them — if that’s so —”

“Yes. A medal. Your tiger’s growth rings.”

I had said it without planning to.

“Tiger’s growth rings.”

Ōyama bit the phrase.

And laughed. For the first time, a laugh from the heart.

“Good sound. Tiger’s growth rings. In my playing days, my nickname was the Tiger.”

“I know.”

“My wife — maybe that’s what she wanted to say.” Ōyama’s eyes went a little distant. “That I’d been carrying the glory of those days like an enemy. She kept telling me my shoulders hadn’t changed. I was the one who didn’t see.”

“She was watching your shoulders. All that time.”

“Yeah. From the stadium — from the farthest place, always watching.”

”…I see. You’re a Reader. Not just a trainer.”

“Just a trainer.” I laughed a little. “Only, a trainer who reads the body’s story.”

VI

By the time Ōyama left, the light outside had begun to slant.

When he stepped down from the platform he stood a little straighter. His shoulders were not curled. His stride was, certainly, lighter than when he’d come.

“Himuro-san.”

“Yes.”

“I’ll have to thank my wife. Good thing I came to see you.”

“Ōyama-san. There’s something I’d like to suggest.”

“Hm.”

“The Goal Outline. If you’re willing, next time you come, shall we draw a line — not back, but forward? A little ahead, from the body you have now. Not return. The body that is to come.”

”…Not return. From here, huh.”

“Yes. Your shoulders are yours now. Not thirty thousand’s. For yourself.”

Ōyama nodded.

“All right. I’ll come again. — To show you the tiger’s growth rings.”

I saw him out. The lift doors closed. I sighed. A good sigh. A deep breath.

“Seri.” Coh said.

“Mm.”

“A good reading. But remember. The story of his body is his. You didn’t read it. You translated it. The words of his body.”

”…I know.”

“I know, huh. Well. All right.”

I stood in the dim light of the room.

The retired athlete’s body. The body of anyone past his peak. The body of anyone who feels they have lost their glory. Reading the growth rings of such a body — it seemed specialised, but the theme was universal. Everyone, someday, passes their peak. Everyone faces a body that is changing. The postpartum mother. The girl in adolescence. The executive anxious about ageing. All of them stand in the same place. It is only that, for Ōyama-san, the top of the mountain was higher than most.

In that moment — to see decline, or to see growth rings. That is what changes how a person lives with the body.

I stroked the Contura screen with a finger.

“Who next, I wonder.”

Coh seemed to laugh, a little.

“Who knows. But Seri, remember. The body’s stories are ten thousand, in ten thousand colours. From here you will hear more voices, more various. Bodies fragile as glass, bodies heavy as rock. They are waiting for your letters.”

I nodded.

Outside the window, the cicadas were singing. The Aoyama summer deepened.

—