After that, I spent my days seeing the people who had helped me and catching up with friends.

Before I knew it, the habit of updating this diary had completely slipped away.

As I’m writing this now, it has been one month since I came back to Japan.

So, let’s go back to where I left off.

About ten days had passed since the surgery, and I ended up temporarily moving to a different place.

Ever since I came to Portland, there has been a Japanese restaurant owner and his wife who have helped me so much. They were going away on a family trip for about a week, and since their dog would be staying home, they asked if I could stay at their house and take care of him.

He was a really friendly dog. Very cute.

I happily accepted the offer and decided to move there for a while.

It was my first time spending that much time with a dog.

At my parents’ house, we had a cat from around the time I was six until I was twenty-two. That cat has already passed away, and since then, I hadn’t really had animals in my life.

I had only met this dog a few times before, but he became attached to me right away. Wherever I went, he followed me like he was saying, “Pet me, pet me.”

For the first time in a long time, I remembered how healing it can be to spend time with an animal.

This is my eleventh year as a professional soccer player, and because I have spent most of that time living alone, I’ve built up my own routines.

The routine itself changes depending on the season of my life, but one thing has always been the same: I’ve always put my own schedule first.

As you get older, you start having more and more things you care about. More things you don’t want to compromise on.

What time I eat.
What time I take a bath.
What I do before going to bed.

Things like that.

But inside that routine, there wasn’t really any space for simply spending slow time with someone, or spending time with a pet.

My job also involves a lot of travel, and I’m away from home often. Since becoming a professional player in Japan at eighteen, I had mostly lived alone, so the idea of having a pet never really crossed my mind.

After I was discharged from the hospital, my head coach told me I could just relax at home for a while.

So for several days, I didn’t go anywhere. I just spent quiet days with the dog.

I don’t know if he understood that I was injured and had a cast on my left leg, but whenever he came near me, he always avoided my left foot.

I remember thinking, What a smart dog.

I would wake up in the morning, go for a walk with him on my crutches, eat, take a nap with him, go for another walk, eat again, and then he would climb onto my stomach while we watched TV together and we would fall asleep like that.

That was my week.

No soccer.
No going out to see people.
No crowds.

Just spending time doing nothing in a quiet house surrounded by forest.

I think it was the first time in my life I had ever lived like that.

At first, doing nothing made me feel restless.

But I also knew that chances like this don’t come very often, so I decided to just let myself be in it.

Because I suddenly had all this empty space, I started thinking about my life.

I thought about the past.
I thought about the future.
I thought about who I had become.

I realized how much I had changed over the last ten years.

And then I started wondering where I would be, who I would be with, and what I would be doing ten years from now.

Of course, there’s no way to know the answer.

But I imagined Masashi Wada at thirty-nine.

When I was nineteen, I probably thought twenty-nine-year-old Masashi Wada was somewhere far, far away. I probably couldn’t even imagine him.

But now, here I am.

I actually became twenty-nine.

There are so many things I want to say to the nineteen-year-old version of myself.

But if I could only tell him three things, these are the three that came to mind.

First, don’t be afraid to challenge yourself overseas.

Second, look at yourself objectively. See things from a long-term perspective.

Think about what you’re missing right now, and what you need to do in order to fill that gap.

And the last one is this:

Stop looking at other people’s lives on social media and comparing yourself to them. Stop letting yourself get happy or sad because of what you see online. Stop caring so much about how other people judge you.

Something like that.

Honestly, I feel like that was more than three things.
But anyway.

It’s not that I regret everything.

These are things I can only say now, and at the time, I didn’t realize them myself. So in a way, it couldn’t be helped.

Maybe in the next chapter, I’ll go deeper into each of those ideas.

Writing everything in chronological order is honestly pretty difficult, so from here on, I think I’ll stop worrying too much about exactly how many days it had been after surgery.

Instead, I’ll choose a theme each time and write from there.

I’m going to write honestly.

My weakness, my pathetic moments, all of it.

I’m not going to hide any of it.

Thank you for reading this far.

If this chapter meant something to you, I’d really appreciate your support.

And if you want to keep following this journey, stay with me for the next chapter.

— Masashi

It had been one week since I was discharged from the hospital.

Everything had been chaotic — the injury, the surgery, getting discharged — but things were finally starting to settle down a little.

Around the fourth day, the pain in my foot slowly started to ease.
The kind of pain that made me feel like I wanted to die was finally gone.

Of course, I was still taking about four different medications every few hours. And even with that, my foot would still throb in the middle of the night and when I woke up in the morning.

But once I took the medicine, the pain would ease up and I could fall asleep again.

Good, deep sleep is directly connected to your mental state, so once I was able to sleep again, I started to feel more emotionally stable too.

Even so, every morning when I woke up, I had to realize all over again that I had suffered a major injury. And somewhere inside me, there was still that faint, childish hope:

What if this was all just a dream?

On sunny mornings, I started going outside to sit in the sunlight.

Just those few days after leaving the hospital, when I couldn’t go outside or get any sunlight at all, were enough for me to feel my mind slowly being eaten away.

A day that starts with morning sunlight starts better.

Before we are human, we are animals.

Only humans, with all our intelligence, wear shoes and clothes.

Even the concept of time is something humans created afterward, as a way to make life easier and more organized. In truth, things like what time is it right now do not naturally exist.

I can’t imagine wild animals thinking,

Oh, it’s 7 p.m. — I should eat dinner.

Or,

It’s already 11 — I should go to sleep.

They don’t even have the concept of “what time” it is.

Human beings originally lived by the same rhythm: when the sun went down and darkness came, we slept. When the sun came up and it got bright, we woke up and went looking for food.

That’s why I think the best thing is to wake up with the sun, get light into your body, and reset your internal clock back to what it was meant to be.

On top of that, sunlight helps our bodies produce vitamin D, which is important for our bones and immune system. It also activates serotonin — the so-called “happiness hormone” — which helps improve sleep quality and stabilize your mental health.

So basically, what I’m saying is: go outside and get some sunlight.
lol

Even just 10 to 15 minutes is enough, I think.

That said, too much UV exposure can cause spots and wrinkles — what people call photoaging — so it’s important to avoid long stretches of direct sunlight and use sunscreen properly too.

If I’m going to be outside for a long time during the day, I wear a hat and put sunscreen on my face and neck.

Everything is about balance.

I think Japanese people tend to be extremely afraid of getting sun exposure, especially women.

Of course, protecting your skin from aging and keeping it beautiful is important, and honestly, Japanese people really do have amazing skin.

But sometimes people take it too far.

From the moment they wake up until they go to bed, they’re wearing sunscreen constantly — not just when they go outside, but even inside the house.

They won’t let their arms or legs get any sun at all.

On the other hand, since coming to America, I’ve noticed there are a lot of women here who genuinely enjoy being in the sun.

A lot of people like to sunbathe on their balconies, by the pool, or outside with more skin exposed, just enjoying the sunlight.

I don’t think either side is necessarily right or wrong. I just find differences like that interesting.

Today’s chapter has drifted pretty far away from soccer, so forgive me for that.
lol

Anyway, little by little, Masashi started feeling better again — just by going outside, breathing fresh air, and getting sunlight again.

My appetite came back too, and I was finally able to eat proper meals again.

Sleep.
Going outside.
Eating nutritious food.

Because of those things, one week after the injury, Masashi — who had felt like a complete zombie, physically and mentally — started feeling human again.

That’s honestly not an exaggeration.
That’s exactly how it felt.

That said, my foot still wasn’t in any condition for rehab yet, so every day I just repeated a very simple routine:

Go outside in the morning and get some sun.
Eat when I’m hungry.
Sleep when I’m tired.

I wasn’t doing anything especially productive, but I figured that was okay. I thought I could wait until the motivation came back naturally.

If I forced myself to do something before I actually wanted to do it, I didn’t think any of it would stick anyway.

So even when I was lazily watching YouTube or Netflix, I told myself it still counted as English study, because almost everything I watched was in English.

And honestly, I really do feel that watching shows with English audio and English subtitles has helped my English a lot.

Even when words or phrases come up that I don’t know, if I keep watching, I can gradually pick up the meaning from context. I start noticing things like,

I hear that line a lot in scenes where people are arguing.

And because of that, I think a huge part of my improvement has come from learning to understand English as English — without translating everything in my head from Japanese to English and back again.

In real conversations with native speakers, there’s no time to be translating every sentence back and forth anyway.

For about two weeks after I got discharged, I lived like that — slowly, quietly — feeling happy each day that the pain was getting a little better.

And then, around two weeks after the surgery, I ended up staying somewhere else for about ten days.

Next time, I want to write about what life was like there, and what I noticed while I was there.

Thank you for reading this far.

If this chapter meant something to you, I’d really appreciate your support.
And if you want to keep following this journey, stay with me for the next chapter.

— Masashi

Well, “at last” makes it sound longer than it was. In reality, it had only been one day since the surgery.

Apparently in America, being discharged right after surgery is normal. Someone even told me they went home the very same day they gave birth by C-section.

That’s hard to believe in Japan.

Still, maybe staying in the hospital too long after you’re already recovering isn’t great for your mental state either. They told me I could stay one more night if I wanted, but apparently one night in an American hospital costs over $7,000, and I also wanted to breathe outside air again, so I decided to leave.

Of course, I wasn’t the one paying for it. But once I heard the price, I did feel a little guilty—like I should leave as soon as possible.
lol

About a month later, the bill for the ambulance arrived: $1,000.
lol

Again, I wasn’t the one paying it, but I was still shocked that just calling an ambulance could cost that much.

Apparently in America, some people don’t call an ambulance even when they’re seriously unwell, because of the money.

In Japan, calling an ambulance is free. I’ve even heard that some elderly people call one for something minor and use it like a taxi to the hospital.

I remember thinking that noticing differences like this is actually kind of interesting, and a good experience in its own way.

Anyway, for the first time in two days, I stepped outside and took a deep breath.

Just being outside made me feel a little lighter.

I went home carrying about five different medications and a pair of crutches like souvenirs.

And as expected, home felt calm.

I sat down on the couch and checked all the messages that had piled up. There were messages from teammates, staff, opposing players I had never even met, friends, people I knew from Japan, and supporters.

What surprised me most was how many messages I got from Hearts supporters.

The club’s official account had posted an update explaining my situation, and seeing all those messages come in honestly moved me.

So I started reading through them one by one.

They were full of kindness. And what made me happy too was that I had gotten to the point where I could understand most of them without translating them into Japanese. Being able to understand the English directly made me both happy and emotional.

This Hearts of Pine community is incredible.

Of course, having so many supporters is something special in itself. But what’s even more special is the kind of people they are.

Win or lose, they always support us. They always say something positive.

Honestly, if we play terribly and lose, part of me even thinks maybe booing us would be fair.
lol

And it’s not just after games.

Even when I run into supporters out in town, they casually say hi. It’s never over the top. They talk to me almost like a friend. I really appreciate that. It feels good.

This Hearts of Pine community changed the way I think about what a soccer team can be.

Back in Japan, I had very few chances to interact with people outside the people directly on the field — players, managers, coaches, trainers, and staff.

I think culture has a lot to do with that. There was this feeling of the team is the team, and the company is the company, so naturally there weren’t many chances to connect.

But Hearts values relationships not only with the people on the field, but with everyone connected to the club — the people who work for Hearts, the sponsors who support it, the groups, organizations, schools, businesses, and everyone else involved.

And more importantly, they actually create those opportunities on purpose.

That’s why, even though the club has only existed for one year, it already has this many supporters and has already become part of the city.

I also think their marketing is extremely good. If you haven’t seen it, go check out Hearts’ Instagram.

It looks great. The Reels are stylish, polished, and cool. Honestly, I think there’s a lot J-League clubs could learn from Hearts when it comes to social media marketing.

More than anything, being with this team makes me feel home.

I think everyone connected to the club probably feels that the people around Hearts are like a second family.

And to everyone reading this who loves Hearts, I want you to be proud of the fact that you are an important part of this community.

And I want you to feel reassured too.

When work isn’t going well.
When you’re struggling with family problems.
When you’re tired of relationships or life in general.

No matter what, Hearts is there for you.

I don’t think it’s healthy for a person to depend entirely on just one community. When things go badly there, you have nowhere to escape.

If you have another community where you feel like you belong — a place where you feel like it’s okay for you to be there — then even when things are going badly in one part of life, you still have somewhere for your heart to rest.

You can think, Maybe things aren’t going well over here right now, but I still have this group.

That gives you emotional breathing room, and in the end, it can actually help you do better in each part of your life.

Work and family.

Work is something you have to do in order to live. It comes with responsibility, pressure, relationships, competition, salary, results — and unfair things you can’t control.

Family or your partner are the people closest to you, and the most important. But because they are so close, they are also the people you clash with, worry about, struggle with, and sometimes even get irritated with.

Because you love them, there are also things you don’t want to burden them with. Things you don’t want to talk about.

Family is the most precious and important thing in life — and also one of the most difficult.

But besides work and family, you also have Hearts.

When you come to the stadium, everyone is equal.

There’s no hierarchy there.

You forget about work, forget about relationship problems, and everyone becomes one in the moment, focused on the match unfolding in front of them.

You celebrate goals together.
You get nervous together.
You get frustrated together.
You boo together.
You fight together.
And you share the moment of victory together.

You don’t even have to watch the full match.

Just making friends with fellow supporters and having a beer and pizza together while talking — that’s amazing too.

What I’m really trying to say is this:

No matter what happens, you are part of Hearts, and you matter deeply to this club.

Without supporters, the club does not exist. Without supporters, our jobs as players wouldn’t exist either.

And more than that, players and staff sometimes cannot stay at a club even if they want to. Like I said before, for us players and staff, this is our job.

But supporters can remain supporters for as long as they choose.

That means the role you supporters play in building this club and keeping it alive is unbelievably big.

I want you to remember that you are important to this team, and that no matter what happens in your life, you always have a place to belong.

Of course, getting injured was a shock. Of course it was painful.

But because I got injured, there were also so many things I became aware of.

It made me happy to realize just how many people were worried about me.

That’s not something you can take for granted.

It made me think, I’m so lucky.

Since I hadn’t posted anything on social media after the injury, I made a post saying that I got hurt, that the surgery had gone well, and that I was going to work hard in rehab.

I wanted to personally tell everyone thank you, and let them know the surgery had been successful.

Of course, I still wasn’t 100% positive. My feelings were still low.

But a small part of the positive version of myself had started to come back, so I made a positive post.

After that, I still spent my time sitting on the couch doing nothing.

Whenever I wasn’t doing anything, the negative thoughts and the image of the injury started creeping back into my head again, so I felt like I had to keep myself occupied somehow.

But my leg still hurt, and I still didn’t feel well.

Which makes sense.
It had only been one day since surgery.

So I turned on YouTube and just let the time pass.

I obviously couldn’t take a shower yet, so I just washed my face and got into bed.

Whenever the medication wore off, I would wake up from the pain, so it became a cycle of waking up, taking medicine, and trying again.

That kind of life — not really being able to do anything — continued for two or three days after I got home.

Thank you for reading this far.

If this chapter meant something to you, I’d really appreciate your support.
And if you want to keep following this journey, stay with me for the next chapter.

— Masashi

Oh right. I had surgery.

It took me about two seconds to process that.
When I looked at the clock, it was 1:00.

I barely remember anything after entering the operating room.
The anesthesia knocked me out instantly.

I felt relieved that the surgery was over. And maybe because I had finally gotten some real sleep, even if it was under anesthesia, I also felt strangely refreshed.

But that came with a headache and nausea.
My head felt foggy too.

I was taken back to my room and laid down on the bed.

Then the nausea and exhaustion hit me even harder, and I had no energy to do anything.

I wasn’t hungry, and the only things I could eat were fruit and sweets.
So I ate those and just waited for time to pass.

I still didn’t feel like watching TV or even touching my phone.
The pain was still there, and I couldn’t seem to fall asleep either.

So I just lay there in a daze, waiting for time to move.

If only I hadn’t gone so hard for that ball.

That pointless regret started rising up in me.

And then the awful sensation in my leg and that horrific image came back again too, so I tried hard to think about something else.

But all that came to mind was soccer.

And then I found myself wondering:

Is there anything outside of soccer that I could ever truly love?

Maybe I just haven’t found it yet.

Then I remembered that I actually tried to find something like that at the end of the 2024 season.

That was when I thought about quitting soccer.

In 2024 — two years ago — I transferred to Thespa Gunma in J2.

The year before that, in 2023, I had scored double-digit goals for Iwate Grulla Morioka in J3, and then moved up to Gunma in J2.

Gunma had done well in J2 in 2023. They had momentum, and they played attractive soccer.

I thought, I’ll perform here and take another step upward.

But once the season started, the worst possible result was waiting for us.

Our league record ended up being 3 wins, 9 draws, and 26 losses.

We finished dead last by a mile, and relegation was already decided by September.

I had never lost that much in my life.

And to be honest, things inside the club were a mess too.
If you lose that much, of course things start falling apart internally. The whole place was covered in negative energy.

As for me, my knee had been bad the entire year, and in the summer I even threw out my lower back. I was nowhere near full performance.

I know exactly why that was, but I’ll write about that properly in another piece.

Nothing went well.
I wasn’t enjoying soccer at all.
The atmosphere around the team was awful too.

For the first time in my life, tears started coming out during training without me even meaning to.

I had hit my mental limit.

Soccer — the thing that was supposed to be fun — had turned into something painful.

And still, I had to go to training.
Still, I had to play matches.

But honestly, I couldn’t see how we were going to win.

Of course I was trying to win. But as a team, there was no clear path to victory. The players were all disconnected from each other.

We had developed a habit of losing, and that negative cycle just wouldn’t stop.

The season ended early, and I was told my contract would not be renewed.

Almost every player over the age of 27 was released. The club said that since we were dropping to J3, the budget would shrink, and they wanted to build around younger players.

That was the moment I really felt it:

As a player, I’m not young anymore.

By the middle of October, the season was over and the offseason had begun.

I had been playing the whole time with knee pain and heel pain, so I immediately went into rest mode.

I wanted to get away from soccer as fast as possible.

I didn’t want to see the field.
I didn’t want to see my teammates’ faces.

During the offseason, I traveled, talked to people in different industries, went to bookstores and read all kinds of books, and tried doing things I had wanted to do.

I stayed away from soccer for almost two full months.

I tried different things.

And in the end, I wanted to play soccer again.

I wanted to kick a ball again.

As frustrating as it was, soccer was the only thing that truly allowed me to express myself.

And more than that, I kept thinking:

Can this really be the end?

If I had met truly incredible players, or been in an environment at the highest level, and felt:

No matter how hard I work, I can never reach those guys—

then maybe I could have quit cleanly and accepted it.

But I still hadn’t had an experience that made me feel that way.

Maybe it was overconfidence. Maybe it was belief. Either way, I had never once truly felt my own limit.

Based on the personal training I had believed in and kept doing, and based on what I felt in matches, I knew I was still improving every day.

And over the six years since I moved to Akita at 22, no matter what club I played for, I had stayed needed, avoided major injuries, and played more than 30 matches every single year. That led me to over 200 total appearances across the J-League.

Of course there were many great players.
Of course there were players who had things I didn’t have.

But I had never met a player with the same style as mine who completely outclassed me in every single way.

I have a special talent that other people can’t copy, along with a way of using my body that makes it possible.

And back then, I was still only 27.

My body was clearly in better shape than it had been when I was 20.

In other words, I felt like I couldn’t quit until I found the true limit of either my ability, my physical capacity, my body, or my durability.

The reason was simple.

If I quit before I found that limit, I knew for a fact I would regret it.

And if I quit soccer while still carrying regret, there was no way I would ever be able to give 100% to the next job in my life.

That’s just the kind of person I am.

I wanted to know my limit.
I wanted to see how far I could go.

I wanted to be able to say:

Okay. This is as far as I can go. I gave it everything I had.

That’s how I wanted to walk away from soccer.

And once I started thinking that way, I wanted to play again.

It may sound strange, but at that time, this was the conclusion I came to:

I chose to keep playing soccer so that one day I could quit with no regrets.

It was a selfish reason, and maybe some people won’t understand it.
But I don’t care.

Because that was honestly how I felt.

Maybe back then, I didn’t have the emotional space to give myself cleaner, more beautiful reasons — like saying I was doing it for the people who supported me, or because I still wanted to become a better player.

There is no such thing as a perfectly correct reason for doing something.

You can always come up with neat reasons afterward if you want to.

I’ll skip the full story of how I ended up in America for now, but after coming here, I truly enjoyed being able to play soccer again.

See?

In the end, because I chose to keep going, no matter what the reason was, I was able to enjoy soccer again.

And I’m really glad I chose to keep playing.

While thinking back on all of that, I just lay there, spacing out, waiting for time to pass.

How long had it been since I had done absolutely nothing and just stared into space like that?

As I looked back on my life, I started feeling anxious about whether I’d really be able to make it through this first long rehab.

I had never had an injury that lasted more than two months, so I had no idea what to expect.

Even while feeling uneasy, I told myself there was no point in overthinking it, and just waited for night to come.

I still had no appetite and felt sick, so the only things I could eat were chocolate and fruit.

My leg was still throbbing.

I was also on strong medication, so I felt floaty — like I was somewhere between reality and a dream.

Before I knew it, it was night again, and once more it became a cycle of sleeping and waking because of the pain.

I started thinking, If I keep taking this medication for too long, this is going to get bad.

But the pain was still too strong, so I didn’t really have a choice.

Still, I told myself that I had to stop relying on it as much as possible, because if I kept using it like this, I’d lose my mind.

Somehow, I survived yet another miserable night.

And then, still feeling like an empty shell of myself, I was discharged from the hospital.

Thank you for reading this far.

If this chapter meant something to you, I’d really appreciate your support.
And if you want to keep following this journey, stay with me for the next chapter.

— Masashi

I had barely slept because of the pain. Rubbing my sleepy eyes, I was wheeled away by a nurse. It seemed like a different nurse came in every time, and each one asked me to confirm my name and date of birth.

And every single time I told them my birthday, without exception, they all said something like:

“Wait… you had this major injury on your birthday? That’s awful…”

But none of them said it in a deeply serious way. It was more lighthearted, almost joking.

So every time, I laughed and said,

“What a terrible birthday, right?”

I was joking too, but maybe my smile was a little stiff.

One nurse burst out laughing and said something like,
“That’s way too sad.”
And kept laughing.

I remember smiling to myself, thinking that if this had been in Japan, the nurses probably would have looked deeply serious and said something like, I’m so sorry, that’s truly terrible, and definitely wouldn’t have laughed.

The differences in communication and work culture between America and Japan still surprise me every single time.

For the first 27 years of my life, I lived entirely in Japan. This is my first time living abroad.

Japan and America are completely different worlds. Not just in language — in everything. I knew that before I came here, but even so, there were many things that confused me at first.

Things like shaking hands or hugging every time you meet someone.
The cashier at the supermarket practically throwing your groceries at you.
Having to wait three minutes for the cashier to finish a phone call with their friend.
And not finding natto, rice, and miso soup at a hotel breakfast.
(Well… of course not.)

What feels normal in Japan isn’t normal in America.
And what feels normal in America isn’t normal in Japan.

It’s not about which one is right or wrong, or good or bad. That depends on the person.

There are things I like about Japan and things I don’t.
There are things I like about America and things I don’t.

So I try not to force my own values onto other people. What feels right or just to me might look wrong to someone else. We have to respect each other.

If I was born and raised in Japan, came to America with Japanese instincts and common sense, and then spent all my time complaining about the differences here, then honestly, someone could just say, Then go back to Japan.

I chose to be here.
And if I choose to live here, then I should respect the place I’m in.

That said, there are still times when things happen that I can’t fully understand, or I see things I’ve never seen before, or daily life throws me off and leaves me confused or unsettled.

Whenever that happens, I try to take a deep breath and remind myself not to force my values on anyone else. I try to hold on to a sense of respect.

And at the same time, I’ve learned to enjoy those new discoveries too.

On the other hand, there are things I absolutely won’t let other people interfere with — my own beliefs, my own convictions, the things I can’t compromise on.

I show people respect. I don’t measure them only by my own standards. But I also live with pride in my own values and way of thinking, and I won’t let anyone deny that either.

America is home to people of all different races. Everyone looks different. Everyone has a different background. People live with confidence and pride in who they are, and they say what they think. At the same time, they respect others.

Japan is mostly made up of Japanese people. In school, we’re taught to fit in. To work together as a group. Not to stand out. To do the same thing as everyone else.

The education is almost the complete opposite.

The difference between Japan and America in this area is really interesting to me, especially in soccer, so I want to write about that in another chapter sometime.

While I was waiting for surgery, different doctors and nurses kept coming in, explaining things, and then leaving again. From the time I got to the hospital until the surgery, I feel like I spoke with more than twenty people.

It seems like in America, everyone has a very specific role.

When they started explaining the details of the injury and the surgery, there were a lot of words I didn’t know, and I couldn’t fully understand everything. But honestly, I didn’t worry about it too much. I hadn’t slept, my head wasn’t working, my foot hurt like hell, and all I could really think was:

I just want this surgery to happen already.

By then, about two hours had passed since I’d been brought in around 6 a.m.

And finally, I was taken into the operating room.

It was my first time ever having surgery in a hospital.

As I was wheeled in, I remember thinking,

This feels like one of those surgery scenes from an American TV drama.

I wasn’t nervous at all.

I lay flat on the bed, staring up at the bright lights. A doctor told me they were about to give me anesthesia and that I’d start feeling sleepy.

Please let the surgery go well.

That was my last thought as I closed my eyes.

Thank you for reading this far.

If this chapter meant something to you, I’d be happy if you subscribed.
And if you want to keep following this journey, stay with me for the next chapter.

— Masashi

i

This is what happened next.

I thought I could finally sleep.

The people who had been around me were gone, and I was alone.
Well, not completely alone — there was someone in the hospital room next to me watching TV, but we were separated by a curtain and I never even saw their face.

The moment I was left alone, a wave of emptiness hit me.

Then, maybe because the adrenaline and painkillers were starting to wear off, my ankle began to hurt again.

A nurse told me I’d be having surgery at 6 a.m. the next morning, so I had to finish eating and drinking before midnight.

People had brought me a lot of food.

But honestly, I couldn’t taste any of it.

It should have been good food, but my mood had sunk so low that it all tasted like nothing.

That had never happened to me before, so I realized, objectively, yeah… I’m really not okay right now.

I’m an optimist. I’m direct. I have strong likes and dislikes. I get bored easily, get interested in all kinds of things, and I tend to act first without thinking too far ahead.

I didn’t fully realize all that about myself before, but over time, through what people told me and by learning to step back and look at myself a little more objectively, I came to see it.

Because of that, there were definitely times when I unintentionally rubbed people the wrong way or ended up in unexpected trouble.

Still, I’ve always been helped by the people around me, and somehow I’ve managed to get through it.

So I had always thought I was someone with a pretty high tolerance for stress.

I’ve gotten through a lot of things by just telling myself, “Whatever. It is what it is.”
Even things that, from the outside, probably weren’t really the kind of thing you should just brush off like that.

But sometimes, there’s a gap between my thoughts and my heart.

I don’t even know how to explain it exactly.

In my mind, I might honestly believe, I’m okay. I’m not bothered. It is what it is.
Not as an act. Not fake positivity. I really mean it from the bottom of my heart.

But my actual body and heart are not okay.

I can’t sleep.
I start feeling physically unwell.
I rest, but I stay exhausted.
Something starts showing up as a symptom.

Maybe I’m forcing a lid on my sadness.

It’s not that I’m pretending to be strong or pretending to be positive.
Even when I truly believe I’m okay, sometimes my body proves that I’m not.

Over time, I’ve figured out what helps me when that happens.

I need to talk to someone.

Family, friends, a partner — anyone I trust, anyone who really understands me.

You should never try to solve everything by shutting yourself away and carrying it alone.

When it’s your own problem, it’s hard to look at yourself objectively.
Just talking already makes things feel lighter. Sometimes it helps you notice blind spots you couldn’t see on your own, or you find a new perspective or even a solution.

If you have a really close friend and real trust between you, sometimes they’ll even make a joke out of it, tease you with love, and make you laugh.

Honestly, sometimes that helps more than anything.

It also helps to spend time with people outside your own industry.

Of course, a lot of my friends are soccer players, and I have many close friends in the game. But every now and then, meeting people from a completely different field — people who have nothing to do with your job — can give you a new perspective and make you realize things you never noticed before.

People in the same profession naturally have a lot in common, but because of that, your conversations and ways of thinking can start to become too similar.

Sometimes widening your view and looking at yourself from the outside is really important.

Going out with friends.
Singing your heart out at karaoke.
Driving to the ocean.
Eating a huge meal without worrying about anything.
Laughing hard at comedy.
Trying something like golf.

When I do something I can genuinely enjoy without overthinking, my mind, heart, and body gradually start lining back up — and sometimes things resolve surprisingly quickly.

I think this is different for everyone.

In my case, if I live too strictly and push myself too hard all the time, I get stuck the moment things stop going well.

Sometimes I need to loosen up a little. Keep my own standards, but live at 70 or 80 percent instead of 100. Weirdly, things often go better that way than when I’m trying to do everything perfectly.

Of course, there are people who need to live in a stricter way or they don’t feel right. Everyone should try different things and figure out what kind of way of living actually fits them.

I really believe it’s important to have a place — or a way — to let yourself breathe.

I always thought I was strong.

But now I realize maybe I’m actually weaker than I thought.

And because of that, I’ve become even more aware of just how much the people around me have helped me.

But this time, my thoughts, my heart, and my body had all fully crashed.

I was in a horrible place.

There was no way I was going to become positive immediately after getting injured and being rushed to the hospital.

So I thought, Okay, I’ll just eat until I’m full, spike my blood sugar, and force myself to sleep.

I ate as much as I possibly could.

And then I realized something.

My leg hurts like hell.

Even though I was taking pain medication, my ankle started pounding.

It was like my heartbeat was inside my leg — throb, throb, throb — every second bringing a level of pain I could barely handle.

It even felt like my foot was on fire.

I had never experienced pain like that in my life.
It hurt three times worse than it did right after the injury happened.

There was no way I could sleep.

But I didn’t even have the energy to look at my phone.

When I closed my eyes, the moment of the injury came back.
I didn’t want to relive it, but the image came back vividly anyway.

And when I opened my eyes, I was met with the reality of my mangled ankle and the fact that I was lying in a hospital room.

There was nowhere to escape.

Pain.
Reality.
Questions.

Will I be able to play soccer again?
Will tomorrow’s surgery go well?
Even if I can come back, will I still have a contract next year?
Will my performance ever return?

Those were the only thoughts in my head.

I felt completely hopeless.

You can probably imagine how bad of a state my body and mind were in.

I never imagined my 29th birthday would turn out like this.

I remember thinking, God… what are you trying to tell me? This is a pretty brutal test to throw at me.

There was no way I was going to find an answer that night.

All I could do was endure the pain.

Eventually it got so unbearable that I called the nurse.

She gave me a very strong medication called oxy.

In Japan, it’s the kind of drug that’s used for things like cancer treatment — that’s how powerful it is. And of course, the stronger the drug, the stronger the side effects.

When I took it, the pain eased up.
I could finally drift off for a little while.

But then about thirty minutes later, the pain would come crashing back and wake me up again.

And because I’d taken so much medication, I started getting hit with the side effects too — nausea, dizziness, headaches, my head spinning, my vision shaking.

I couldn’t keep taking that drug back-to-back, so they tried to manage things with IVs and other meds while I somehow made it through the night.

Sleep a little.
Wake up in pain.
Endure it.
Repeat.

Over and over.

I kept checking the clock, but time barely moved.

And again and again, the memory of that moment would come back — the feeling of the injury, the sight of my own leg in that horrifying condition.

I honestly thought:

Is this hell?

I felt like I was going insane.

It felt like more than twenty-four hours had passed, but in reality it was only about six.

It was the longest and most painful night of my life.

I wanted surgery to happen as soon as possible.

At that point, I honestly didn’t even care whether it would go well or not.

All I wanted was for them to put me under with general anesthesia and let me sleep.

I just wanted temporary relief from that unbearable pain.

That’s how painful it was.
That’s how miserable I was.

Finally, morning came, and it was time to go to surgery.

I had barely slept, but somehow I made it through the night.

A nurse came to get me.

As they wheeled me toward the operating room, that was the first moment I actually started to feel nervous about surgery itself.

But then I thought, Well, this isn’t really something I can “do” anything about. I’m just going to be asleep. All I can do is hope it goes well.

And so, with the thought that I would finally be able to sleep under anesthesia, Masashi — only just turned 29 — was wheeled off to surgery.

Thank you for reading this far.

If this chapter meant something to you, I’d really appreciate your support.
And if you want to keep following this journey, stay with me for the next chapter.

— Masashi

The sounds around me disappeared. All I could hear was my own rough breathing.

I remember looking up at the sky.

It was blue. Beautiful.

And for one strange second, a completely random thought crossed my mind:

The sky looks really nice.

I don’t even remember how long I was lying there.

Then all of sudden, my parents’ faces came to mind.

I thought about how devastated they would be. And I imagined them back in Japan, watching the game on YouTube without fully knowing what had happened yet—just feeling anxious, helpless, and scared.

I was born and raised in Yokohama.

My father was a track athlete. He held the Japanese middle school records in the 800 meters and 1500 meters for more than twenty years. In Nagano, people called him a monster. Apparently, in the track world back then, everybody knew who he was.

My mother played softball. She was tall, naturally athletic, and physically gifted too.

I really believe their genetics gave me the body that allowed me to become a professional and make it this far without a major injury.

Growing up, I saw so many players with incredible talent and technique give up on becoming pros because they were too small, too weak, or simply didn’t have the physical foundation.

There are countless players who gave up on the dream because of things no amount of effort could fully overcome—things they were born with.

Every professional player starts with a certain physical base level. Then, on top of that, the differences show themselves even more clearly. If you don’t meet that minimum level, it’s hard to make a living in this sport.

Especially in modern soccer, physical ability and athleticism are demanded from every position.

So I’m deeply grateful to my parents for giving me the kind of body that made a professional career possible in the first place.

And there’s more.

In my third year as a pro, I met someone incredible. For the last eight years, he’s been personally training me in how to use my body properly. That training completely changed my soccer career. I want to write about that in detail another time.

Food probably played a huge role too.

My mom’s cooking is unbelievably good. She cooks fast, and her meals are always balanced. Every meal had huge colorful salads, protein, vitamins, minerals—so many dishes on the table. And she rarely gave me junk food like instant noodles, chips, or soda.

I’m sure that had a major positive effect on my body too.

Now that I’m older, I understand how important food and nutrition really are. But when you’re a kid, you can’t judge what’s good for you and what isn’t. What parents choose to feed their children has a huge impact on both brain and body development.

I’m truly glad I grew up eating well. That’s another thing I owe my parents for.

When I first became a pro and started living alone, my awareness around food slipped a little during the first three or four years. But once I really learned how much food affects the body and performance, my level clearly improved. I’d like to share more about that another time too.

Anyway, I got sidetracked.

What I really want to say is this: I can never thank my parents enough.

They gave me the best possible environment to play soccer, and they’ve always supported me. Thank you for always watching over me so kindly, even though I’ve always been impulsive, unpredictable, stubborn, and the kind of person who suddenly makes a decision and acts on it without warning.

I think the best thing I can do for them right now is to show them that I’m still enjoying soccer.

And to show them that again, I’m going to give everything I have to rehab.

Before I knew it, I was surrounded by people.

They lifted me up, put me on a stretcher, and loaded me into the ambulance.

The paramedics started asking me all kinds of questions in English.

My head was foggy, but somehow I could hear every word clearly. And for some reason, the English came out of my mouth smoothly too.

In the middle of all that, I actually found myself wondering:

Why is my English better right now than it normally is?

Since coming to the U.S., I haven’t had many chances to drink. But there was one time I went out with the whole team and got drunk for the first time in a while. For some reason, that was the most fluent my English had ever been.

And then, in the ambulance, it hit me.

Oh… when the usual tension, embarrassment, and hesitation disappear, I can actually speak this fast.

I remember thinking that and strangely feeling like it made perfect sense.

I was probably high.

By the time I finished thinking about that, we were already at the hospital.

The pain still wasn’t as bad as I expected.
Maybe it’s more accurate to say I couldn’t really feel much yet.

There were so many doctors and nurses there. They made me wait for about an hour.

That’s when reality started sinking in.

This really is a major injury.

And then a more practical kind of fear suddenly hit me.

What if the team decides they don’t need me anymore because of this?

As the panic started to calm down, a heavier, more realistic fear came rushing in all at once:

What’s going to happen to me now?

That thought hit hard. My mood dropped instantly.

I got through to my dad on the phone and explained the situation.

Hearing his voice made me feel relieved. At the same time, tears started coming out on their own because I knew I was making him worry.

He said positive things like he always does, but even through the phone, I could tell how worried and hurt he really was. We’re family. You can tell.

I figured my mom was probably so shocked and worried that she couldn’t even bring herself to talk on the phone.

Family matters more than soccer.

But soccer is also what allows me to make my family happy. That’s one of the reasons I love this game so much.

This injury was a trial given to me by the very thing I love.

What happened, happened.

Deep down, I knew that.

But in that moment, I couldn’t accept it so easily.

Honestly, I kept thinking:

Will that leg really go back to normal?
What if the trainer only told me I could come back because he was trying to be kind?
What if there’s actually no way back?

Negative thoughts came crashing over me in waves.

I got sick of everything.

I just wanted to go to sleep.

Whenever something truly awful happens to me, I always get overwhelmed with sleepiness.

It happens every time.

When I have the worst game of my life.
When something terrible happens in my private life.
When some kind of disaster or trouble hits.

Every single time.

I think I just want to sleep and escape reality.

I want to sleep, get away from the pain for a little while, and then wake up hoping it will somehow feel lighter. Usually, after sleeping, I can think more positively, or I realize the thing I was worrying about wasn’t as massive as it felt.

This time was obviously massive.

But still, I wanted to sleep no matter what.

I didn’t want to accept reality. I wanted to get away from it as fast as possible.

After a while, they told me I’d be having surgery early the next morning.

I felt a little relieved that it would happen soon, and they moved me into a hospital room.

It was separated by curtains, and I could hear a TV playing from the other side. I guess it was a shared room.

I lay down on the bed, and the nurse hooked up my IV.

Finally. I can sleep.

That’s what my naive self thought.

Without knowing that this was only the beginning of a long, brutal night from hell.

Thank you for reading this far.

If this chapter meant something to you, I’d be grateful if you subscribed.
And if you want to keep following this journey, stay with me for the next chapter.

— Masashi

In the previous chapter, it ended right after the keeper landed on me and I heard that awful sound.

This is what happened next.

The moment I looked at my leg, I couldn’t believe it.

My left ankle was bent in a direction it should never, physically, be able to bend.

And then I saw something even more unbelievable.

The shin bone from my broken leg had torn through my sock and was sticking out.

My bone was exposed.

What the hell.

The scene was too shocking.
Who ever imagines their bone actually coming out?

I’ve played soccer my whole life, and I had never seen anything like that before. Not on TV, not in person, nowhere.

That image lasted only a moment, but I know I’ll remember it for the rest of my life.

Ever since that day, it comes back to me every night when I close my eyes before bed.
And every morning when I wake up, I remember it again.

I wonder when the day will come when it finally stops coming back.

Is this what trauma is?

I always thought trauma had nothing to do with me.
I don’t even know the exact definition of trauma, but that image is burned into my mind and won’t leave.

Whenever I remember it, my body and face tense up on their own.
And the tears come out on their own too.

I probably won’t be able to eat meat on the bone for a while.
Seriously. lol

As I write this now, the number of times I replay it in my head is slowly starting to decrease.
I just hope it keeps fading out.

Anyway, back to the moment of the injury.

The instant I saw my leg, before I even had time to feel panic, I don’t know why, but I tried to straighten my ankle back into place.

The bone was sticking out from the inside of my ankle, and my foot was turned outward, so I held my ankle with my left hand, grabbed my foot with my right hand, and forced it back inward so it would line up straight again.

I think I did it on pure instinct before I had time to think.

And in that moment, I touched the bone that was sticking out.

It felt no different from the kind of bone a dog would chew on.

For one split second, there was this weirdly calm part of me thinking,
So human bone really feels like this...

Apparently some of my teammates saw me do it, and later they told me,

“How did you do that in the moment?”
“You are so brave.”

But honestly, I think I just knew instinctively that it was bad, and I acted before I had time to process anything.

Then I collapsed.

I could tell the players around me had realized how serious it was.

Not long after that, the team trainer came running over.

That part of my memory feels both vivid and blurry at the same time.

I was crying.

Not just tearing up.
I was sobbing.

It was the first time I had cried like that as an adult.

I wasn’t crying because of the pain.

I was crying because, looking at my leg like that, I thought I might never be able to play soccer again.

Strangely enough, it didn’t hurt as much as I thought it would.
There was a throbbing pain, sure, but compared to how it looked, the pain itself wasn’t overwhelming.

The adrenaline was probably a big reason for that.

I honestly thought I was finished.

It might sound dramatic, but my leg really was in that bad of a state.

I was in full panic.
Breathing felt hard.

All I could do was look up at the sky and cover my face while the trainers and doctors rushed over.

The trainer, out of kindness, covered my ankle with a towel so I wouldn’t have to keep looking at it.

Then he got right in front of me and started talking to me, checking if I was conscious.

I think I was answering him calmly, but there was only one thing I wanted to know.

Can I play soccer again?

I feel like that was all I kept asking.

Then the trainer looked me in the eyes and said:

“You probably won’t be able to play this season, but yes, you can.”

That realistic answer actually gave me a little relief.

More than the fact that this season was probably over, what mattered to me was hearing that I could come back.

Because at that point, I truly believed I might never come back at all.

What I needed in that moment wasn’t comfort.
I needed the truth.

But right after that, even more realistic, even heavier fears started crashing down on me.

I’ll write about that next time.

Thank you for reading this far.

If this meant something to you, I’d really appreciate it if you subscribed.
And if you want to follow the rest of this journey, stay with me for the next chapter.

— Masashi

i

On that day I suffered the first serious injury of my life…

This diary will record everything from that day until I’m back on the pitch again. The sparkly moments and positive feelings you see on social media. The upbeat version of me. And beneath that, the honest emotions: impatience, despair, negativity.

I used to think showing that side of myself was weakness and felt embarrassed. But moving from Japan to the U.S. has broadened my perspective; I’m starting to see that my vulnerabilities are part of me too, and I’m no longer ashamed of them in the way I was back home.

Enough preamble—starting with the day of the injury, I’m going to write this journey in a kind of novelistic way. I’ll weave in past experiences, the joys and struggles of being a player, my J‑League days, the realities we face, the world behind the scenes, and life beyond soccer. I’ve lived a fairly unusual life and I’m proud of it (laughs).

This is the first big injury I’ve ever had, and right now I can’t exercise at all. I have plenty of time, so I decided to use it to tell my story.

Here, I’ll show you the real Masashi you never see on social media.

I hope readers find a new discovery, a surprise, something to empathize with—or even something to criticize (laughs). If this diary can save or encourage even one person, or give someone something to look forward to in my comeback, that would be amazing.

If you’re interested, please keep reading.

Rewinding to before the match

I play for Portland Hearts of Pine. Portland is in Maine, the northernmost state on the East Coast of the U.S. Above New York is Boston, and above Boston is Maine.

Hearts of Pine joined USL League One for the first time in 2025. It’s an independent league separate from MLS, made up of three tiers, and we’re in the middle tier. The number and passion of our supporters is incredible—this season’s home matches are already sold out.

On the day of the home opener my heart was pounding. I’d played every minute of the first four matches. I’d scored and assisted in the opening game and got off to a good start. I woke up after nine full hours of sleep and felt that “good day” feeling in my body. Somehow, the moment I stand up, I can tell how my body is.

This is going to be good.

I was sure of it. There was something else, though. Over the past two weeks something strange had been happening: I kept seeing repeating numbers—what some call “angel numbers.” 11:11, 777. I’d glance at the clock, see them on shop signs, or notice them on license plates.

You might say it’s spiritual, but I believe in that sort of thing. I don’t worship a particular god or belong to a religion. I just believe there’s a kind of god within me—or rather that the universe itself exists with its own laws—and that I’m alive because of those laws.

And no, getting injured didn’t make me go into some spiritual funk (laughs). I’ve been thinking like this for five or six years.

Whenever those signs show up, I almost always score in the next game. It’s happened more than ten times. So part of me was thinking, “Oh man, I’m going to score today,” and of course I wanted to, but it also got to the point where the premonition was almost scary.

Those two weeks before the match, the number of times I saw repeating numbers was beyond anything I’d ever experienced. It made me a bit uneasy. At first I thought, “Maybe I’ll score a hat trick?” but as the match got closer the frequency was too high to dismiss as coincidence. It scared me a little, but I’m an optimist, so I just thought, “It must be a good sign!” and started preparing like usual, excited.

I arrived at the stadium, went through my routine, and the moment I stepped onto the field to warm up I thought, “Today’s going to be great.”

No matter how perfectly you prepare, some days your body feels heavy; other days you still feel tired but once the game starts your body feels light. Today I felt like my best self. My body was light but not too light. I felt strong and sharp. My energy was full and my stomach was empty.

Still, something felt off. I just didn’t know what it was.

Ready for kickoff

As I walk onto the pitch, I always thank God, the universe, and the people around me. I’m grateful that I get to stand on this pitch as a footballer. That I still get to make a living doing what I’ve loved since I was a kid. That there’s a place where I can pour out my soul. None of that is a given.

Every match I step on the pitch thinking, “Even if this is my last game, I want no regrets.” With one match I could suffer a major injury, my contract could end and I might not find another team. If I play terribly, I might never get another chance and get released. As glamorous as football looks, it always has that other side. On the other hand, the opposite could happen: if I score a hat trick in one game, I might immediately get picked up by a top team.

One game—sometimes even one play—can change everything. It’s that kind of gambling world.

Even so, I can’t quit. That moment when the ball hits the net and the crowd roars and my teammates rush over. The feeling when we hang on at the end and win. The sensation of turning past an opponent, feeling them get caught and gliding past. The thrill of nutmegging a defender who bites. The happiness of performing well and hearing the applause.

I’m addicted to soccer. I think everyone who plays can relate.

Kickoff. The match begins.

Playing in a full stadium is an incredible feeling. Once the game starts, I become absorbed; I play by instinct, guided by the sensations built up from all the matches I’ve played. Rather than thinking with my head, I sense the opponent in front of me, the state of my teammates, the flow of the game with my body and just play.

For some reason, right after kickoff I felt a strange tightness below my left knee. The match had just started, so I wasn’t tired, and it felt odd—but since it wasn’t a problem I didn’t worry about it. Looking back now, maybe that was the final warning.

We started well; everyone was lively. About ten minutes in we had a corner. My role was to attack the second ball if there was one. The cross went to the far post and a teammate headed it back toward goal. It came toward me, but instinctively I sensed it was slightly closer to the keeper. I saw out of the corner of my eye that the keeper was coming, so instead of going for the ball I shifted to get ready to pounce on a spill.

I saw him fumble it and thought I might get there, so I moved in. In that moment the keeper came at a speed and with a power I’d never experienced—full extension dive with all his weight—and landed on my left leg.

“Are you kidding?” I thought, and tried to pull my foot away, but my leg was already trapped. Even now as I write this I can feel the pain of that moment and my face involuntarily contorts.

And then in the next moment—

Crunch.

You might think I’m exaggerating, but that’s exactly how it sounded. I’ve heard people say time slows when you’re in an accident; it was really like that. Now, whenever I recall that moment, my vision shakes, a white mist seems to settle, my breathing goes irregular. The sounds around me recede. My head hurts. It’s so vivid it’s like I’m reliving it. It felt less like an injury and more like an accident. Is this what trauma is?

The tears come. Ever since that day, I think about it every day. I don’t want to think about it, but it keeps coming back and I can’t stop it. Before I sleep. When I wake up in the morning. To be honest, I may have to live with this forever. If a single moment stays with you for life, it feels longer than forever.

And then, in the next moment, I saw something even more shocking.

I’ll end here for now.

I’ll write about what happened next next time.

Thank you to everyone who has read this far.

See you in the next installment.

— Masash