If I were to name a turning point in my life, it would be the autumn of my first year in high school. As the younger brother of a legendary alumnus, I was disgusted with myself for failing to live up to expectations and was preparing to quit the rugby club. But a certain scene changed everything. I chose to stay, and that winter, I ran relentlessly. By the following spring, I could run like a different person—something inside me had changed.
The previous year, our team, led by captain K.M. and three other seniors, hadn’t achieved good results up to the summer. Still, in the Hanazono tournament qualifiers against AK-high, a perennial powerhouse, we realized that the outcome of a match can’t be predicted until it’s played. Our young team defeated them in a stunning victory. The joy was short-lived, however, as we were silenced by KN-high in the following match. We witnessed M kept diving into tackles, even after the outcome was decided. After the no-side, I felt it was all over and joined the team huddle around our coach. When I looked across, I saw M gazing firmly at the coach, tears spilling from his wide-open eyes and streaming silently down his dirt-smeared cheeks. I had never seen tears so pure, so calm, yet so fiercely burning. They were not born of simple sadness or frustration. They seemed to be tears that only someone who had burned themselves out entirely could shed. That image of M’s mud-stained face being washed clean by his tears took root deep in my mind and remains vividly etched to this day. On the walk back from the stadium, I found myself wanting to cry like that. From then on, the thought of quitting never came to me again.
We entered the same medical school and grew closer. After going into different specialties, our busy lives kept us apart. Still, M remained a monumental presence as a senior doctor. One day, I ran into him at the university hospital wearing a patient gown. Surprised, I asked what was wrong. Smiling, he said, “I’ve got fluid in my chest—they’re going to do a bronchoscopy now.” I quipped. “Tuberculosis? You’ve been working too hard.” “That might be true. It might be true,” he replied softly, as if convincing himself. I never imagined M could be stricken with cancer. The shock of fact that he had incurable lung cancer defies description.
When I visited his hospital room, desperately wanting to believe it was all a mistake, it was M himself who gently helped me face reality. Sensing my reluctance, he remarked, “I feel bad for the doctors treating me—they’re more worried than I am,” and, “I’ve pretty much learned what chemotherapy can do. I think it’s time.” He spoke as if it were someone else’s story, but with a calm resolve that I just couldn’t accept. I wanted to scream, “Why are you talking like that? Just be an ordinary person!” forgetting that, more than anyone, M probably wished he could. He confronted his fate with the same unshakable spirit he’d shown on the field, still fighting even after the final whistle. At 39, he passed away.
He never measured himself against others—only strove to elevate himself, often transcending results or victory, always continuing to challenge until the end. No matter who he faced, he met them with unconditional kindness. In every chapter of life, he quietly, yet completely, burned his passionate soul. His spirit never be burned out; yet unbroken. Since the tears, fifty years have passed that even telling his story feels difficult, but one thing is certain: M lives on, always, in our hearts.