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"No one will scout a Typhlosion" was what the coach told me during tryouts for my high school's Battler program. "You can try out with the rest of the freshmen," he had said, "but even if you make the team I can't guarantee you'll get a scholarship."

It took every bit of effort to keep up with everyone around me. I went to the gym six days a week, trained in the arena whenever it was open for free battling, took protein and carbos supplements three days a week, and kept myself on a strict diet throughout my entire time in high school.

New Bark High School was scouted regularly for Battlers. Scouts attended every match of every tournament, observing our progress and taking note of any potential standouts. And yet, even after becoming my team's captain, they never once asked the coach about me.

My teammates were some of the best in the region, trust fund kids with personal trainers and all the resources in the world to become the best Battlers in the league. Battling came naturally to them. They were carefree, coasting by on natural talent all the way to the championship. "Why do you try so hard?" one had asked me. "You haven't been scouted yet, and you're not on the starting squad for the finals, so why are you still training?"

He sprained his ankle a few days later, and I was picked to take his place in the finals. It was my last opportunity to impress the scouts, but they still ignored me. Only when I failed did I ever feel their attention on me. Every time I was thrown off balance, knocked out, or pushed aside by a bigger opponent, I felt it. Their eyes bore into me like knives, egging me on, daring me to fail.

Even after I won, coming back from a one versus three with a type disadvantage, they still found excuses. "We don't have room for a pure fire type," one had said. "You don't know that many moves. Maybe if you had more type coverage."

"Why do you try so hard?" my teammate's words burned in my ears. The locker room after the match was filled with cheers and celebrations, and yet to me it was only white noise. Everyone around me had been scouted. By the end of the Summer, they'd all be off to Silver U, EGU, and Indigo U.

"You can still apply," my coach tried to console me. "Even without a scholarship, you can still apply and try out for the team if you get in."

It was a lost cause. If the scouting agents now didn't acknowledge me, then neither would the coaches at any university. The day after the championship match, I told my dad that I'd be joining him at his berry farm. "It wasn't meant to be," he told me. "Leave battling to the stronger Pokemon."

But after a week, a surprise visitor came to visit me. He was a coach from Indigo University, with an offer from the dean for a scholarship in the Battler program. "We saw you at the finals," he said. "There's no way we can ignore talent like that. We're offering a full scholarship if you battle for our team."

After that, I thought I'd be satisfied. I proved them all right, didn't I? But nothing changed when I left for university. I was still struggling just to keep up. I trained just as hard, maybe even harder, and everyone still looked down on me.

"Why do you try so hard?"

It rang in my ears every day. Every time I had to drop a set, every time I was knocked out of the arena, every time I threw up from overworking myself at the gym. It was never enough. Everyone else could coast by. They could take vacations, skip the gym, eat what they wanted, and they were still better than me. Their attacks hit harder; their typings had less weaknesses; their moves had more coverage.

There was always something holding me back. There was always something keeping me at arm's length from everyone else around me. I nearly quit. It took every bit of determination and spite in me to not throw in the towel. But one day, everything around me changed.

"Um...would you be able to help me out?"

It was the first time someone had ever spoken to me at the gym. He was a Slowbro from the Galar Region, thickly built with a firm belly that bulged against his tight shirt. He wore a blue cap backwards, letting a tuft of his purple hair stick out of the hole above the adjustment strap. He seemed lost.

"I don't know how to use this machine," he said. I was too stunned to answer, though I don't think he noticed. "I see you here a lot, so I assumed you might know better than anyone else how these things work. Maybe I was wrong, though..."

"Um, sure...What machine are you looking at?"

He showed me to the deadlift machine. I talked him through how it worked and how it supported him as he did his lifting. He thanked me with a soft, warm smile, and I thought that would be the end of it.

A few days later, he came to me to ask about another machine. I gave him similar guidance. Later that same day, he came to talk to me again. "Thanks for your help, bro," he said. "I don't know what I'd do without you."

"There's plenty of people who could help you," I told him. "Just ask anyone."

"Yeah, true," the Slowbro admitted, "but you look like the most capable guy here."

I froze at that statement. The Slowbro did not seem to understand the irony of what he had just said. He simply smiled blankly. "Do you live here, bro? I feel like I see you here every day."

"No," I said, shaking my head. "I just need to train hard if I want to be a Battler."

"You're a Battler, too?" the Slowbro exclaimed. "We must be on different training schedules! That's awesome, bro! Maybe we can be on a team together."

"A...team?"

"Yeah!" the Slowbro chimed. "When they split us into teams of three, you and I can be on a team together. My friend Gar could be our third."

I only stared at him, unable to respond. It felt surreal, meeting someone like him. His warm smile felt almost fake. "What's wrong?" he asked, frowning. "Do you already have a team?"

"N-no," I stammered. "Just...are you sure you want me on your team?"

"Why shouldn't I?" the Slowbro asked, his face full of shock. "Look at how much you're lifting! A guy like you must be super strong!"

My face burned. I could not help but avert my eyes, but I only caused him to worry further. "If you don't want to," he said, "then I won't make you join."

"No!" I blurted out. "Um...yeah. I'd be happy to join."

The Slowbro beamed, his face lighting up like the sun. It was a look of pure joy, a look of excitement to have me join him on his team. I could not help but smile back at him.

"That's awesome, bro!" he exclaimed. "Oh, uh, my friends usually call me Bro! What should I call you? Typhlosion is kinda a mouthful."

"You can call me Ty."

When I was in high school, a teammate had asked me "why do you try so hard?". Looking back, I never really had an answer. Spite, determination, resolve. None of them ever sat right with me.

But looking at him, seeing him smile so broadly just from being with me, from becoming my friend...

I think I found my answer.