Yowamushi Pedal/弱虫ペダル Athletic Policies

**Athletic Policies**

Disclaimer: All recognizable characters are the property of Wataru Watanabe and Shonen Champion. I don't own them; I just examine all their possibilities.

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They always handed out these cheaply printed booklets at the beginning of every school year. Arakita recalled squirting lighter fluid on his ones from junior high and ceremonially burning them.

Now he was paging through one of these, this one actually bearing the emblem of Hakone Academy on the front.

_At Hakone Academy participation in athletic club activities is a privilege. Athletes are expected to maintain a high standard of character. Whether playing in this community or being hosted by another community, every athlete is a representative of our school and is the image of our school's reputation and values._

A loud, mocking chuckle escaped Arakita's throat as he read this. Who the hell writes this crap?

It was the standard script for any athletic club. The wording was different every year of junior high, but the basic message was the same: "You represent our school" blah blah blah. Normally no one even read these things; they just signed by the X like they were supposed to. Yes we've received the guidelines, yes we've read the rules and we understand them, let's play some damn ball.

The question now was why was he actually reading this crap?

_Any student found guilty of the following acts will face disciplinary action including ejection from the club (see Section 2.b "Disciplinary Action."):_

_1\. Consuming alcoholic beverages._

_2\. Using tobacco products._

_3\. Using illicit drugs._

_4\. Fighting and assault._

_5\. Vandalism and destruction of school property._

_6\. Being arrested, detained, and charged with any crime._

Arakita looked away from the list, rolling his eyes. He then looked at the lit cigarette between his fingers with a grimace. The end glowed in the dark, the white smoke wisped in the air with the light breeze coming off the mountains. He leaned his head against the Plexiglas front of the vending machine and took a drag, looking up into the night sky.

Normally he would just do this on campus, go to his favorite bench and light one up. Sometimes he would just do this in his room; crack a window open and have the fan running. Occasionally the dorm manager would do these lectures about someone reporting the smell of cigarette smoke in the hallway, but he sure as hell wasn't the only one doing this.

Now he was about a kilometer away from school, his scooter was parked by the wooden guardrail. He sat on the concrete slab in front of this vending machine, legs splayed out in front of him. He tossed the booklet down for a second and picked up his bottle of Bepsi, adjusting the cigarette to his other hand and looking out.

At a certain time of night, anyone at the top of this hill could see the scattering of lights coming on in the town. On a clear night the stars would be out. Anyone up here would see pretty twinkling lights all over flanked by the large shadows of the looming mountains and the shapes of the trees and brooks in the valleys below.

Arakita would never actually admit being into this kind of sentimental crap, but he at least had to admit it was a nice view. It was just he and the stars out here. Occasionally a car would pass by but that was it. It felt nice to be alone; for the last few years that's all he wanted.

In the twilight he was actually trying to make out all the roads below. He observed their widths, the surface composition, the slopes. He was actually sizing them all up like an opponent; it was a thought that made the side of his mouth quirk up a little in a momentary smirk.

How many of those roads had he taken on in practice? How many more could he conquer on that simple bicycle he now had in his possession? He felt his heart beat a little faster with the thought. How stupid was this: he was now getting excited about goddamn roads.

He shook his head a little; then put a hand through his short, choppy hair. It still felt weird to have flat hair again, just how long did he have that damn pompadour? Long enough to get used to the feel of it bouncing around his head. At some points he would swing his head using his hair to illustrate a point. In hindsight it looked really dumb.

If anyone told him that a few months ago he would have decked them. "Fuck you, you don't get me!" he said a few times to some old people shaking their heads or classmates whispering while staring. He wanted them to be disturbed; he wanted to offend all their delicate sensibilities.

Yasutomo Arakita was all about pissing people off; he wanted to be the nastiest, scariest little asshole. He wanted everyone to fear him; it was better than having them laugh at him. It was better to be seen as fierce than as weak.

He took a long drag from his cigarette to illustrate the point to himself, though the lingering ache in his chest was talking for itself. Doing this was stupid; he knew this. He remembered all the PSA's and lectures in heath class from elementary school through junior high through now. He knew all the horrible shit smoking does to your body.

He was one of those good kids to lecture any of his teammates who even mentioned finding a place to buy cigarettes on all the ways it hurts one's athletic performance. You take in less oxygen, your blood doesn't flow as well, hence you get tired and winded easily and you lose points. What a good little trooper he was back then.

What's another thing that fucks up your athletic performance? Snapping your elbow. What's the point of maintaining your stamina if it gets you nowhere? Why take care of a body that can't win?

That's why he took that first cigarette. That's why he would go out and drink beer until he puked. That is why he would race his scooter down busy streets at 120 kilometers per hour. Who cared if he pissed off some guy much bigger than him in a bar or sassed off to a bunch of yakuza with pool cues? So what if he swung a fist at some dude had the telltale bulge of a knife under his baggy pants?

Who gave a shit if he destroyed himself? His school? They only cared if they got their money. The cops? The cops were just there to harass people but they never did anything. They'd get in your face about how you're under the legal age to buy alcohol or cigarettes, but they'd just take the beer or the pack from your hand and tell you to go do something constructive. They would pull you over and lecture you against reckless riding but it was all the same story.

"If we ever see you punks out here again…" same shit as always.

Arakita looked back down at that stupid booklet: "Hakone Academy: Club Policies." Why was he reading that stupid book? He knew the answer; he just didn't want to admit it to himself.

He looked back down over the hill at all those winding roads; the buzzing of tires and the feel of rubber grips in his palms played out in his mind. The muscles in his legs still ached a little from those hills he climbed that afternoon. He looked at fingers and saw the building white calluses along the tips of his pads, right by the filter of the cigarette in his hand.

Arakita took a long drag and exhaled slowly, forming a few smoke rings. Fuck everything, I'll still do what I want; the thought through is head was a bit weaker than usual.

There was the thought that maybe he could take on those hills a little harder if he wasn't gunking up his body. Stone Face said he would make a good…what did he call it? All-rounder? That meant you were all talented on a bike; you could take on any terrain and win.

He took one last drag from his cigarette and crushed it repeatedly against the concrete with a grunt. Dammit, he really was back in this routine again. He was a fucking athlete! The thought of what that meant made his insides clench.

How many times did he spit in athletes faces, how many times did he loudly declare "Sports are stupid!" to anyone? He already went through all of that crap, why was he putting himself through this again?

Arakita picked up the booklet and weakly tossed it into the street. Hopefully a big truck would come by and run over it, turn it into confetti; that's all it was good for. He took a long sip of Bepsi and let out a few hard breaths. What the hell was his problem? Who gave a shit if he was an "athlete" or just another Yankee? Why should he care what the rules were?

He had been a star athlete once. Even in his second year of junior high people were talking about how quickly he would get scouted in high school. That's what this was all about, wasn't it. Deep down that day had always haunted him.

Bottom of the ninth; one guy at first, one out, he was on the mound. They were already two runs ahead, but the other guys were having a lot of luck. He didn't even remember who they were playing, it was all lost to the horrible memories of that day.

He just needed to get two more guys out and the game was theirs, only the umpire kept on calling his throws as balls. He swore a few were strikes, but the damn umpire called ball another time. Then it was a full count - three balls, two strikes. That's when he started to get pissed and made some bad decisions. The guy ended up getting a single hit. Arakita's throws weren't great for the next hitter either.

That's when he threw that one pitch. He knew he aimed it at an awkward angle but just followed through. That's when he heard the snap and the sensation of his arm tearing apart.

Arakita rubbed his elbow a little just at the thought. Sometimes he still felt the sting from that day; usually when it got cold though mostly from just thinking on it.

He reached into the pack on the concrete beside him and took out another cigarette. He flipped it end over and caught the filter in his lips, then lit it with a cheap lighter. What would his junior high self say to him about this? His junior high self was already going through enough shit.

He remembered the pained groans of sympathy from the crowd, the coach running off the bench and guiding him to the dugout and the medics on the scene. Soon after there was an ambulance ride, a bunch of x-rays and doctors poking around and making the agony worse.

They told him a bunch of technical names for what happened, but in plain speak it was a broken elbow. They would all be really happy he didn't need surgery, just a bulky cast and a sling for months. His teammates signed a big card with a cartoon frog in a baseball uniform.

There was physical therapy, there was extra coaching, there were so many assurances he would be back to a hundred percent by the start of the next season. It never happened. There would never be another strikeout; he was lucky if he could throw the ball a meter away. All those sympathetic teammates who signed that ugly card would yell at him to straighten up or snicker behind his back that he was a has-been.

Those echoes in his mind now sounded like Fukutomi, only this time the voice wasn't jeering but firm.

"What the hell is wrong with you? and "Wow, you're such a loser" were starting to sound more like "Push harder!" "Lean into that curb, Arakita-san!"

Yes, he was an athlete again. Just the thought of it didn't feel real. He was going to practice again, wearing a jersey, hearing the echo of enthusiastic voices against the steel lockers.

And here he was now potentially fucking that up.

Arakita took another drag from his cigarette with a smirk. He looked back out into the road at that booklet, that list of prohibited actions burned into his brain. What would his junior high self say to him? No, the question was what would his current teammates say to him. He pictured his teammates rolling their eyes. "Typical of that thug," they would say.

Then he pictured the look on Fukutomi's face if he found him here. The guy never had an expression, but just the thought of his eyes falling on him right now made his stomach twist. Shinkai would take the pack and crush it, "Just what the hell are you doing, Yasutomo-kun?" he would say. Toudou would absolutely freak out, in fact he would have yesterday.

Arakita took a hasty drag, then knocked back his Bepsi. He had a close call with Toudou; just the thought of the whole thing pissed him off. He knew full well that was why he was reading that stupid athletic book.

They had finished a few laps around the town; all the other guys were outside talking while Arakita just went right into the clubroom. Toudou was the only one there, but he just glanced at Arakita when he came in. His nose was back in his locker and he was chatting away to someone on the phone, probably to his boyfriend…sorry "best rival" at Sohoku.

That's when Arakita pulled his backpack out of his locker, the pack of cigarettes came flying out of the unopened front pouch and fell on the floor, just centimeters away from where Toudou was standing. He must have shoved them in there last night. Now Arakita watched the pack land on the floor in plain sight and immediately went cold.

He got lucky though. Toudou was still leaning in his locker, probably admiring himself in the mirror as he chatted on the phone. All the shrill repetitions of "Maki-chan" made Arakita's teeth hurt but it masked the hollow sound of the pack hitting the linoleum floor. He was able to snatch it up and shove it in his bag before Sleeping Beauty knew a damn thing had happened. Everyone else started filing in just a few minutes later. He was one lucky son of a bitch.

Of course the question was why he still did this crap. Anyone could come up here right now and see him. For once that actually bothered him; maybe things were changing. Maybe for once he now had people who actually gave a damn about him. He had people he actually respected.

Maybe for once there were people he didn't want seeing him here, not because they would chew him out, not because they would get him kicked off the team, but because they would actually be disappointed. That thought hit a little soft spot he didn't think he had; one he didn't want to have. Arakita took a drag and exhaled in a long sigh. Maybe they would be disappointed because they actually cared.

Was that even possible? In junior high they only cared about him because he was a star pitcher. Once that ended he knew who his real friends were. The other guys in high school just were scared of him, or thought being with such a tough guy would make them look tough.

What about the Hakone Academy Cycling Club? Did they really give a crap about him? Most of them thought he was a thug and they were right, though maybe a few kind of cared. Fukutomi cared didn't he? How about Shinkai? Toudou was a pain in the ass but maybe there was a glimmer of hope for him.

"This is so fucking stupid," Arakita spat to himself, rubbing his head with the heels of his hands.

Emotions were stupid, friends were stupid, and so was acting like a stubborn little kid. He was in high school after all. Wrecking his body was stupid too; after all he did have another team relying on him.

Arakita gradually came off the ground and stood up, snatching up the pack of cigarettes on his way up. He took his phone from his pocket and flipped it open: the front screen read 8:35 p.m. He looked out over the valleys again. It was completely dark now; all the lights of the town below were now on, the sky was clear. He was now staring out at a sea of tiny lights flanked by the dark outlines of imposing mountains.

The streetlights below illuminated pieces of those winding roads, his eyes then followed the lights up this road. He would conquer all of them: above and below. And yes he would have teammates beside him; he would show them he was a force to be reckoned with.

He took a long drag from his cigarette. It was best to savor it while it lasted. Finally tossed it out on the road, watching it land a few meters from the booklet that was still lying here. No cars had been by yet; the book remained sitting where it was. He looked both ways and ran into the road, snatching the booklet off the asphalt and running back to the vending machine.

He looked at the pack of cigarettes in his hand and crushed it without a thought; the few cigarettes he had left snapped. Then he tossed the pack into the nearby waste barrel. Yeah he was going to feel like shit for a while, he would probably be a bit louder and pissier than he was now. He could take his aggression out on the road and maybe the teammates who looked down their noses at him.

After all he was an asshole, but yes he was also an athlete. Maybe that didn't have to be such a daunting idea; maybe he could pick up where he left off and leave on a better course. No one said he had to be a complete prince along the way, just maybe less of an idiot.

Arakita picked up his Bepsi bottle then tossed it in the storage box on his scooter, the booklet falling on top of it. He slammed the lid closed, then he moved the vehicle back onto the road, turned the key, punched the gas, and rode off toward school.

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**Author's Note: **This is my first time writing anything from Yowapeda. I probably do not have a firm hold of the characters and probably took some liberties. I'm still feeling everyone out and want to work with more characters.

This was an idea I got after reading and watching Arakita's story. I wanted to go a little more in depth of his time as a hooligan, especially after reading a few things on yankii subculture.


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