A Conversation in the Umehara Family
Undeterred, a young reporter pressed on, "But arcades are complex environments; aren't you worried he might be led astray?"
Upon hearing this, the shop owner flew into a rage. He snatched the microphone, pointing to his clean and tidy shop. "Look at this! What's so complicated about my place? Smoking is prohibited here! Besides the machine noise, all you hear is people cheering for the kids! Learning bad habits? Here, they only learn to insert coins and try again if they lose, instead of crying and going home to their mothers!"
These crude yet truthful words left the reporters speechless for a moment.
The boss's words were broadcast Tokyo via video.
He himself didn't seem to think anything of it. He shooed away the flies, wiped his sweat, and turned back into the shop.
Daigo Umehara was still standing there, his small figure looking somewhat lonely in the noisy arcade.
"Daigo," the boss walked over, his voice much lower, "This has blown up."
He pulled a crumpled pack of cigarettes from his pocket, thought for a moment, then put it back, adhering to his "no-smoking" rule.
"Reporters are already blocking the door; your parents will see it on TV and in the newspapers sooner or later. Rather than letting them hear it from others, you should go back and tell them the truth yourself."
The boss patted Daigo on the shoulder; his palm was broad and rough.
"You're the champion, you won by your own merit, there's nothing to hide. Go, talk to them properly."
Daigo Umehara raised his head, glanced at the boss, and nodded heavily.
He didn't insert any more coins, picked up his backpack, and walked out of the arcade.
Umehara Family.
The atmosphere at dinner was somewhat subdued.
The father, Masao Umehara, was a taciturn man who worked as a middle manager at a construction company and was used to having absolute authority at home. The mother, on the other hand, kept putting food on her son's plate at the dinner table, talking about funny things that happened at school, trying to liven up the atmosphere.
The evening news was playing on TV.
"----The biggest upset of the year occurred in the Tokyo Metropolis qualifiers for the Sega Esports Tournament, with 11-year-old elementary school student Daigo Umehara defeating inaugural champion Nagai Kenta to claim the title----"
--
The image flashes, and then clearly appears on the screen: Daigo Umehara standing on a beer crate, giving an interview with a blank expression.
The mother's chopsticks fell to the table with a "clatter".
She glanced at the TV, then at her son shoveling rice into his mouth, her eyes full of questions.
"Daigo? This... isn't this you?"
Masao Umehara put down his chopsticks and bowl without saying a word, but the atmosphere in the living room instantly plummeted. His gaze slowly shifted from the television screen to his son's face, sharp as steel bars on a construction site.
Daigo Umehara.
Every word the news anchor read was like a heavy hammer blow to the couple's hearts.
Daigo also put down his chopsticks.
He took an envelope and a gold-embossed certificate out of his bag and gently placed them on the dining table.
I went to Akihabara.
His voice was calm, without the slightest ripple.
"I participated in the King of Fighters of Fighters tournament."
I won.
The mother hurriedly opened the envelope, and when she saw the check inside with a long string of zeros printed on it, she covered her mouth and let out a short gasp.
One million Japanese yen!
Masao Umehara's pupils also contracted slightly.
He picked up the championship certificate, on which the four characters "Daigo Umehara" were written clearly.
A long silence fell over the living room, broken only by the voice of the news anchor on the television.
After a long while, Masao Umehara put the certificate back on the table, leaned back in his chair, and let out a heavy sigh.
He looked at his son, who had always been expressionless and often lost in thought, and the emotions in his eyes shifted repeatedly.
"So, the Beast the newspaper was talking about," was you? Masao Umehara's voice was hoarse. He pointed to the television and then to the million -Japanese yen check on the table.
This amount of money is almost half a year's salary for him.
Daigo nodded.
"You—" Masao Umehara choked on his words, wanting to say so much, yet unsure where to begin.
He wanted to scold his son for going astray and going to such a chaotic place, but the gold-embossed championship certificate and the real check silenced all his words of reprimand.
A champion? An eleven-year-old kid, winning a championship in a place like Tokyo?
This sounds even more fantastical than the projects he's in charge of.
"Daigo," his mother's voice trembled with tears as she hugged her son's thin shoulders, "Why didn't you tell me? Are you alone at school, not getting along with your classmates because of your accent?"
Two years ago, the family moved from Hokkaido to Tokyo. Because of his heavy accent, their son was often teased by his classmates at school, and gradually he became less talkative.
The couple were busy with work and always thought their child was just introverted, but they never expected that he would bring all his loneliness into that noisy arcade.
Daigo stiffened for a moment, but didn't say anything; his reaction said it all.
He pulled away from his mother's embrace, lowered his head, and continued, "The boss is a very nice person; he didn't let me be bullied."
He began to speak, his voice soft but clear.
From the first time he walked into that shop, to how the owner tacitly allowed him to spend an entire afternoon playing games with just one coin.
From how the boss stood up and reprimanded him when he was surrounded by older kids, to today's competition, where the man, wearing an ill-fitting suit, clenched his fists for him from the audience.
He also mentioned his personal beer crate.
"I couldn't reach it, so the shopkeeper gave me a box; it was very sturdy."
A simple sentence made Masao Umehara's fingers tremble.
He imagined the scene: his son, standing on a dirty beer crate, defeating everyone with his small hands in front of a crowd of adults.
That's not addiction; it's a child finding a foothold in their own way.
Masao Umehara's anger had unknowingly dissipated, replaced by an indescribable bitterness and self-reproach.
He, as a father, was unaware that his son was being ostracized at school. On the contrary, a complete stranger, the owner of an arcade, showed him the most care.
"Husband—" The mother looked at her husband, her eyes red-rimmed.
Masao Umehara let out a long sigh, his imposing aura completely deflated.
He picked up the check, looked at it again and again, and finally put it back on the table with a sigh.
"Tomorrow," he looked at his wife, then at his son, and made a decision, "We'll take the gifts and go to that arcade."
The mother paused for a moment, then understood her husband's meaning and nodded repeatedly. "Yes, yes! We have to go!"
We really need to thank that boss!
She started frantically planning. "What should I bring? Sake? Or sweets? Should I buy a good pack of cigarettes? No, the shop owner on TV said he doesn't smoke in his shop—"