I’m reposting what I wrote last year and adding a little drawing. I discovered that you can schedule posts, so I took advantage of that. For Oikawa, I chose a gladiolus. Maybe it’s a simple choice: it’s simply the quintessential flower for those who face battles. I think it suits him perfectly. A flower for anyone facing a battle—like the one a very important person is facing today. I hope everything turns out all right.
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Oikawa Tooru is one of those characters who, at first glance, seem easy to figure out. He is brilliant, charismatic, outgoing, provocative and competitive to the point of obsession. He seems to love the limelight, the attention of the public, the cheers from the stands. He often walks as if the world were a stage and he was the leading actor. Yet, when you really get close, you immediately sense that this ostentatious confidence is only the tip of a much more complex iceberg.
There is a loneliness in Oikawa, a constant sense of inadequacy that has accompanied him since he was a child. He is not a natural genius like Kageyama or Ushijima. From the outset, he did not have the blessing of raw talent, but he built everything through hard work, study and discipline. His talent has been sculpted, honed and refined day after day. And in some ways, that's what makes him extraordinary — but also what wears him down.
The need to be the best does not stem so much from a narcissistic desire as from a deeper hunger: the hunger to feel ‘good enough’. Oikawa trains at night, repeats movements, watches his opponents on video, not because he just wants to win, but because he is terrified of being surpassed (you can see it in his eyes when he is replaced by Kageyama in middle school). He cannot accept the idea that, no matter how hard he tries, there will always be someone who will beat him thanks to something he cannot control. So he controls everything else. Everything he can. The patterns, the passes, the dynamics of the team. His own emotions. Sometimes even the people around him.
“Talent is something you make bloom, instinct is something you polish” — this is one of the most intimate keys to accessing the inner world of Oikawa. And it is deeply revealing of his psychological journey, not only as an athlete, but as a person.
For Oikawa, who has always looked at players like Kageyama and Ushijima with a certain anger and a touch of envy — yes, even this feeling, although he would never admit it — the distinction between talent and instinct is not academic, but deeply personal. He is the kind of person who had to struggle with the knowledge that, no matter how hard he tried, there would always be someone more “natural” than him. And that hurt him deeply.
But this phrase — “Talent is something you make bloom” — gives him dignity. It redeems him. Because it reminds him that talent is not just an innate gift: it can also be something you cultivate, something you nurture day after day. In this regard, Oikawa is a master. He is the result of every night spent studying strategies, every extra hour spent practising that challenging serve until he felt confident with it. He likely trained to the point of exhaustion (not only emotionally, but also physically) in order to improve.
And instinct? For someone like him, instinct is never blind improvisation. It is a refined instinct, as the saying goes: intuition born of knowledge, analysis and experience. Oikawa's instinct is not “divine”, it is constructed. And perhaps that is why it is even more valuable.
Iwaizumi tells him — perhaps not only in words, but in actions — that the strength of a team lies precisely in its imperfections: where one is weak, another covers. Where one stumbles, another holds the position. That's how you win. It's the team that wins.
It's not about beating Ushijima on your own. It's about finding a way to win together, building harmony where individuality isn't lost, but complemented. It is the most difficult lesson for someone like Oikawa, who for years believed that he alone should bear the weight of victory.
And perhaps it is precisely when he manages to accept this — that he is not alone against the world, that he is not alone against fate — that Oikawa begins to truly mature. Not giving up on his ambition, but discovering that greatness can also be shared. That it does not diminish the value of an individual, but rather amplifies it.
Oikawa is not a “normal” player. He is not the kind of setter who simply imposes his own rhythm. Nor is he the kind of leader who relies solely on charisma. Oikawa is, first and foremost, a reader. A keen observer. Of matches, of opponents, but above all of people.
This is his true strength, which transcends pure technique: Oikawa knows how to read his teammates like few others. He understands when a spiker is at his best, when he needs confidence, when he needs an easier ball, when – on the contrary – he needs to be provoked with a risky ball to bring out the best in him. He knows the mental timing of every player next to him.
That's why they say he maximises the team's potential. It's not just a cliché: it's the core of his emotional and tactical intelligence. He takes a teammate with perhaps average qualities and makes him perform as if he were a champion. He knows exactly where to send the ball, how high, how fast, and with how much responsibility. He is surgical. He is calculating.
And this ties in perfectly with the previous sentence: “Talent is something you make bloom, instinct is something you polish”. Because Oikawa didn’t just polish his instinct: he put it at the service of others. He built his game not to shine on his own, but to make others shine. Paradoxically, this is the most generous and frustrating gesture for an athlete like him: because Oikawa is often not the protagonist of the final action. He is the one who made it possible.
And what about the timeskip? At first, Oikawa finds himself outside his comfort zone. Argentina is not just another country: it is the homeland of his idol, José Blanco. A new language, a new culture, unfamiliar teams, and — most importantly — no one who really knows him. No one knows who ‘Oikawa Tooru, the brilliant setter from Aoba Johsai’ is. No one has seen his battles with Ushijima, his inner struggles, the tears he hid behind his smiles. Abroad, he is just a name. And this forces him to start over, in a sense, from scratch. But certainly with a wealth of better experience.
That's where Oikawa risks everything. Not against an opponent, but against himself. Against the voice that has always whispered to him: ‘You'll never be good enough.’
Yet he doesn't give up. Despite the fatigue, despite the language barrier, despite the loneliness. And this, for him, is already a miracle: Oikawa has always been obsessed with being the best in his field. Now, however, he has the courage to be mediocre in a new context — in order to grow.
This is his maturity. Because he has always lacked natural talent, or at least that's what he believed. But he has never lacked fierce determination. That has always sustained him.
And over time, that determination transforms him. He learns the language. He adapts to new dynamics. He makes himself available to the team. And once again, he does what he does best: he reads others. He builds, organises, supports. And quietly, step by step, he becomes part of the beating heart of an Argentine team.
When we see him at the Olympics, there's no need for dramatic dialogue. He doesn't need to say anything. His mere presence is a response to everything he has been through.
He, who always felt inferior to Kageyama.
He, who never managed to beat Ushijima.
He, who never made it to the Nationals.
He, who seemed destined to remain just a high school star.
He's there. Wearing the Argentina jersey. In a olympic arena.
He may not have won everything, but he managed to win over himself.
I'm not good with words, nor with character analysis. But I love Oikawa and I want to write something on his birthday. I hope no one feels offended by these words. This is just my perception of Oikawa. If you think differently, feel free to think whatever you want.
