It is June. As I sit in my psychiatrist’s office for our first appointment, my first thought is, like most of my thoughts, self-flagellating: “I can’t believe you’re back down here again, how can you be this bad at recovery?”
"Her habit had eroded her until she was as faceless as a river rock. I watched her body turning in the mirror now; somehow, her reflection seemed more familiar than the flesh."
It’s a gray afternoon in June, on a sleepy side street in Flushing, N.Y.. Inside, however, on the basement floor of a church, a Korean pop song reverberates throughout a large hall as a group of 10 women, pretty faces glistening with sweat, flawlessly execute a dance routine.
On a late January morning in Los Angeles, Ryo Fujii emerges from the subterranean hallways beneath the Los Angeles Galaxy’s stadium to train alongside American soccer stars like Jermaine Jones, Jordan Morris, Christen Press and Becky Sauerbrunn. Slender at five foot 10 and topped by a spiky, black shock of hair somewhere between bedhead and fashionable, Fujii is about to begin his second season as a professional athlete. It is the first day of training for the Galaxy, American soccer’s marquee brand. Each moment promises a turning point for Fujii.
A starry-eyed 10 year old travels down a dirt path, fresh new baseball cap on and electronic device in hand. Suddenly a rustle in the bushes alerts the child, bringing forth a small bird. Reaching for a red and white ball, the child throws it towards the bird, capturing the creature as part of a collection. This was the image displayed onto my television screen every weekday at 3pm back in 1998. At the enthusiastic age of 9, I was immersed into Ash’s fictional Kanto thanks to knockout pairing of the anime series and video games from Nintendo.