Takeshi stared at the ceiling, his eight-year-old body tucked under cartoon bedsheets that felt like a cruel joke. His mind was thirty-four years old, carrying the weight of a lifetime that had burned bright and crashed hard.
God, where do I even start?
The memories hit him like waves, each one more painful than the last.
Age Seventeen: The Golden Boy
Tokyo FC had been everything back then. At seventeen, he wasn't just some youth player anymore—he was the player. Starting eleven, every single match. The newspapers called him "Japan's Next Superstar" and honestly? He'd believed every word.
The crowd at Ajinomoto Stadium would chant his name. "Yamamoto! Yamamoto!" It gave him chills every single time. He'd score these ridiculous goals, curlers from outside the box, headers that had no business going in, and the whole place would explode.
He remembered one match against Urawa Reds. Eighty-seventh minute, score tied 1-1. The ball came to him thirty yards out, and something just clicked. He struck it clean, watched it sail past three defenders and nestle in the top corner like it belonged there.
The stadium went absolutely insane.
His parents were in the stands that night, jumping up and down like teenagers. His dad had tears streaming down his face. His mom was screaming so loud she lost her voice for three days.
I was so damn cocky back then.
Age Nineteen: The Dream
Liverpool came calling when he was eighteen, but the real magic happened at nineteen. That contract signing... Jesus, his hands had been shaking so bad he could barely hold the pen.
"Welcome to Liverpool Football Club," the manager had said, and Takeshi felt like he was going to throw up from pure excitement.
But they shipped him off to Spain immediately. Valladolid, some tiny club nobody had heard of. "Development," they called it. It felt like exile.
Spain was hell at first. He didn't speak the language, didn't understand the culture, missed his mom's cooking so bad he actually cried into his pillow some nights. But football was universal, right?
Wrong.
Spanish football was different. Trickier. Meaner. Defenders would smile at you before breaking your ankles. But somehow, he adapted. Twelve goals in his first season, six assists. Not bad for a kid who spent half the year homesick.
When he flew back to Liverpool, he felt ready for anything.
God, I was so naive.
Age Twenty-One: Finally Home
Two years of waiting. Two years of cup games, late substitutions and watching better players take his spot. But at twenty-one, everything changed.
The manager pulled him aside after training one Tuesday. "You're starting against Chelsea this weekend."
Stamford Bridge. Ninety thousand people screaming. The kind of match where careers are made or broken.
He scored in the thirty-fourth minute... silence before the cheers!!!
A tap-in after a scramble in the box, nothing fancy. But when that ball hit the net, when the Liverpool fans went mental in the away section, when his teammates mobbed him like he'd just won the World Cup...
That was the moment I knew I'd made it.
From then on, he was untouchable. First name on the team sheet. The fans loved him, the media loved him, everyone loved him. He was living the dream every kid imagines when they first kick a ball around their backyard.
Age Twenty-Three: The Peak
Premier League winners. Champions of England. The medal was heavier than he'd expected.
That final day of the season, when they knew they'd done it, when the confetti was falling like snow... He'd found his parents in the crowd. His dad was crying, this tough construction worker, crying like a baby because his son had conquered England.
"We're so proud of you," his mom had whispered when he hugged her after the match. "So, so proud."
He should have savored that moment more. Should have held onto it tighter. Should have known that happiness like that doesn't last.
Because twenty-four was when it all went to shit.
Age Twenty-Four: The Year Everything Broke
It started with a stupid injury. Twisted ankle during training, the kind of thing that happens a hundred times in a career. Should have been six weeks out, easy.
But his body wasn't cooperating. The ankle kept swelling, kept hurting, kept letting him down when he needed it most. His performances started slipping. The manager started asking questions.
Then his phone buzzed with the call that would change everything.
"Takeshi, you need to come home. Your mother... she's sick. Very sick."
Cancer. Stage four. The doctors gave her three months.
Three fucking months.
He flew home, held her hand in that sterile hospital room, watched this woman who'd given him everything waste away while machines beeped around her like some twisted soundtrack.
"Don't worry about me," she'd said, trying to smile even though the chemo had stolen her hair, her strength, her everything. "You go back to England. Make me proud."
He went back. Because that's what professionals do, right? They compartmentalize. They push through.
Except he couldn't push through. Every match felt meaningless. Every goal felt empty. The crowd would cheer and all he could think about was his mom, alone in that hospital bed.
She died on a rainy Tuesday in March. He scored a hat-trick that weekend and felt nothing.
Six months later, his dad's heart gave out. Just... stopped. One day he was there, the next day he wasn't.
That's when Takeshi really started drinking.
Ages Twenty-Four to Twenty-Eight: The Spiral
At first, it was just to sleep. Just to quiet the voices in his head that kept replaying every conversation he'd missed, every moment he'd chosen football over family.
A glass of wine with dinner became a bottle. A bottle became two. Two became however many it took to make the pain stop.
His performances went from bad to worse. The manager tried to help, therapy, time off, all that shit. Nothing worked.
Liverpool kept him longer than they should have. Way longer. But even the most patient club has limits.
"We're accepting Juventus's offer," the manager finally said. "Fresh start, new environment. Maybe it's what you need."
What he needed was his parents back. What he got was Italy.
Ages Twenty-Eight to Thirty: False Hope
Juventus called themselves "The Old Lady," but everyone knew the truth. They were fallen giants trying to reclaim their past glory. Perfect for a fallen angel like him.
Italy was slower. Easier, somehow. His first season, he scored fifteen goals and thought maybe—just maybe—he'd found his way back.
Second season, twelve goals. Still good. Still enough to fool himself into thinking he was fixed.
The Italian fans loved him. "Il Samurai," they called him. The Samurai. He liked that better than all the English nicknames.
For two years, he almost believed he was okay.
Almost.
Ages Thirty to Thirty-Two: The End
The ACL tear happened in training. Just a stupid challenge, nothing malicious. But when he hit the ground, he knew.
This is it. This is how it ends.
His body, weakened by years of alcohol, didn't heal right. Surgery after surgery, complication after complication. When he finally returned to the pitch, he was a shadow of himself.
Slow. Uncertain. Afraid.
Juventus let him finish his contract out of kindness, but everyone knew he was done. Retirement at thirty-two wasn't a choice; it was mercy.
Ages Thirty-Two to Thirty-Four: The Darkness
Two years of nothing. No structure, no purpose, no reason to stay sober.
His apartment in Turin became a tomb. Pizza boxes and empty bottles, windows that never opened, phone calls he never answered.
The alcohol wasn't fun anymore. Wasn't even numbing anymore. It was just... existing. Postponing the inevitable.
He made it to thirty-four before his liver finally said enough.
What a waste. What a fucking waste.
Takeshi rolled over in his narrow bed, tears streaming down his eight-year-old cheeks. All that talent. All that potential. All those people who'd believed in him.
Gone.
But now... now he had another chance. A chance to do it right this time. A chance to choose differently when the hard moments came.
Family first. Always family first.
He was almost asleep when another memory surfaced, fuzzy and distant. A girl's face, laughing in the summer sun. Pigtails and a gap-toothed smile. Someone who'd mattered once, before England, before everything.
His eyes snapped open.
Wait, I can fix things with her this time...