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A boy and a bike. Blindingly orange hair and even more bright aspirations.
It’s supposed to be soccer he’s into. That’s what he carried, and if he didn’t hurry up, he’d lose the field.
But the breaths he takes hitch and the screen zooms to ten, and that boy spreads his wings. His arm bends back to ungodly lengths and he cracks it forward. He scores a point. And another. By this point he’s lost the soccer field, he’s lost the love for that game all in simultaneous connection with a volleyball.
The boy with the bike moves forward and makes it far. He moves swift, and then more so. His athletics are beautiful, he’s strong, then he’s stronger.
Kageyama’s his enemy, or he’s supposed to be.
Tobio becomes his friend, and all of his friends are allies. Even Tsukishima over there who became too stiff to realize anything except that volleyball’s just a game.
The boy with the bike and the allies and the stiff and the king move forward, even though it’s tough. Rock-solid serves and strength outnumbering even thousands with solid knees beat them to the ground once, but not over again.
The ace holds them down into the floor, but they stop him, too. Vines grab at their ankles. They cut them.
They flock above. Hover above. Just a flock above. They strike. They win. They smile. There’s expectation. There’s perseverance.
Fly on, little bird.
You won’t be little forever.
You’ll do well.
You’ve done well.
Green fades to orange, tangerine fades to black, midnight fades to red.
Beautiful transitions of outspread arrival clothe the boy with the bike and the allies and the aspirations and the stiff and the new-crowned king. He’s not scared anymore.
A second time his fist connects with the new-crowned king's own and the overenthusiastic ace and the strength of a nation and the white-haired machine and the clean freak and the arrogance of Japan; all simultaneously lined up against the strength of a seeming thousand armies.
Then, it was time to fall. Now it’s time to rise.
When you fall, get back up. Dust yourself off well enough to see the path ahead of you, and move forward. Even if your wings are tied. Even if your wings are broken, shattered beyond repair, fly on.
A boy and a bike. Both skid to a stop. Bright sun shines over even brighter aspirations. He, too isn’t interested in soccer. Bight orange hair - and even brighter aspirations - dips nearly into the ceiling for a hit so powerful and strategic only God himself could put a stop to it. Crowds around the television cheer and through the set even everyone loses their minds.
The boy with the bike and the aspirations and the useless soccer ball’s breath hitches. He, too can fly like that?
For once: let us prove that today, today too, we can win.
For the last chapter presents challengers who challenge even the end.
The game hasn’t even begun, yet.