The Day I Returned to the Gym with a Cane: A Story of My 'Rehearsal' for Returning to Society as a Cervical Cord Injury Survivor.

Introduction: The Moment I Pushed Open the Gym Doors

When I pushed open the heavy doors of the Katsushika gym, the 'everyday life' that had been a part of my existence was still swirling around inside, unchanged.

The high-pitched sound of basketball shoes squeaking on the floor.
The low-frequency thud of brown balls bouncing.
The cheers of children.

However, as I stood at the edge of the court, having finally managed to put on my basketball shoes, my right hand was gripping a cane.

With every step I took, I put strength into my right hand, walking as if to confirm my body's balance.

The shadow of the person I once was, running freely across this court, was no longer there.

The day of my return to work was approaching. Before that, I wanted to regain the feeling of 'being back among people' one more time.

So, this reunion was not just a return to practice for me, but the most raw 'rehearsal' for returning to the vast ocean that is society.

Chapter 1: The 'Business as Usual' of My Comrades Was the Best Medicine

The first to welcome me were the director and the coaching staff.

“You’re finally back.”

“We’ve been waiting for you.”

Short, yet warm words.

And a casual 'Hey there,' just like always.

These are the colleagues I have worked with to manage the team for several years.

They didn't make a special face when they saw my cane.

No surprise, no pity, no excessive worry. There was only the atmosphere of 'let's do this together again.'

How much of a relief this was.

I am sure that on my first day back at work, there will be colleagues who will act just as 'business as usual' for me.

The presence of those people will surely support me. I was convinced of that in the gym.

Chapter 2: The Weight of Adult 'Kindness'

On the other hand, the reactions of the parents were like a mirror reflecting my 'current self' back at me.

Seeing me with my cane, many of them widened their eyes and were lost for words.

“Coach... are you really okay?”

“Please don't push yourself. You should sit down.”

“Let us know if you need anything.”

Every word directed at me was undoubtedly well-intentioned.

But I was sensitive enough to pick up on the nuance of 'pity' mixed into the depths of those voices.

The loneliness of a relationship where we once passionately discussed the children's growth together, suddenly shifting into one of 'the supporter' and 'the supported.'

This feeling will definitely come at work, too.

“Are you okay?” “Don't push yourself.” “It's fine to sit down.”

Every time these well-intentioned words piled up,, I felt the sensation of being defined as 'someone who needs special consideration.'

While accepting that, I still had tokeep showing that 'the person inside hasn't changed'. I was able to practice that difficulty in the gym.

Furthermore, the reactions of the parents who came for a trial session that day were more direct.

Not knowing who I was, they looked at me—leaning on a cane, occasionally breathing deeply as if in pain—with expressions that clearly asked, 'What is going on?'

The silent suspicion of, 'Is this person really a coach?'

That was the 'reality of society' itself, where the value of me as a human being is evaluated as something completely different the moment it passes through the filter of physical disability.

People I meet for the first time at my new job will surely look at me that way at first, too.

That is just how people are.
But I have no choice but to take the time to show them 'who I am inside.'

The gym quietly taught me that.

Chapter 3: The Children's 'Intrusion' Saved Me

“Oh, Coach... long time no see.”

The new sixth-grade captain started to run over, but stopped for a moment when he saw my cane.

“Ah, it’s been a while. ...Phew.”

As I tried to return the greeting, I unintentionally took a deep breath.

For me, now that I have a cervical spinal cord injury, the act of taking a deep breath sometimes inevitably sounds like a loud 'sigh'.

“...Are you angry about something?”

The captain peered at my face, looking anxious. I hurriedly shook my head.

“No, that’s not it. This is just the sound of me taking in as much air as I can right now. I’m not angry, so it’s okay.”

“Is that so... Then what does it sound like when you’re actually angry, Coach?”

“That’s a different look, so you’ll know. Keep that in mind.”

Hearing that, the captain smiled, looking a little relieved.

This conversation will definitely be necessary at work, too. Whether or not I can naturally explain, 'This isn't me being in a bad mood; it's just the sound of my breathing.'

I’m glad I tried it out at the gym first.


It was the fourth graders who cut through the atmosphere between us.

“Whoa! Coach, what’s with that cane! That’s cool!”

“Where are you hurt? Can I touch it?”

“Why are you using a cane? Did you break your leg?”

They wouldn’t let me be a 'pitiful patient'.

They found my cane interesting as an accessory and turned my disability into entertainment just like that.

“Coach, your hand is shaking. Playing too many games?”

“Wait a second, can I take a video of that?”

“What level are you at now, Coach?”

“Maybe so. I’m currently challenging a bit of a difficult stage.”

Laughter escaped me.

“Then at what level will you be able to run with us again?”

“...I don’t know that yet, but I can still be a coach at my current level, so don’t worry.”

While the adults were being considerate and swallowing their words, the children’s innocent 'intrusion' dragged me out of the lonely shell of silence.

To them, I wasn’t a 'poor person who got hurt', but rather,remained simply 'a coach with slightly different specifications'all along.

In the adult world, there are almost no people who will intrude like this. Everyone is considerate and chooses words that only skim the surface.

I realized once again how much the innocent, straight-shooting nature of children can be a salvation.

Chapter 4: There Were Things I Could See Because I Was Sitting

When practice started, I sat on the bench and watched the children’s movements intently.

I can no longer demonstrate by myself or perform intense steps like I used to. I can’t run around the court and shout instructions either.

But there were things I could see precisely because I was sitting.

The expression on each person’s face. The position of their feet after passing. The direction of the defense’s gaze. The fine details that I had overlooked in the flow of things when I was standing and moving around were clearly visible from the bench.

“...Nice pass, just now.”

I conveyed the short words as if placing each syllable with care.

“Coach, if it’s hard for you to speak, we’ll come closer.”

The children said this and took a step closer to me than before when listening to me talk.

“Hey Coach, what did you think of that move by number 2 just now?”

“Coach, would it have been better if that pass was faster?”

Questions came flying one after another.
I answered each one slowly.
When my words couldn’t keep up, I asked them to wait a little.
Even so, the children waited for me.

This kind of situation will happen at work, too.

The moment I try to speak in a meeting and the words don’t come out.
The moment I can’t keep up with the speed of the discussion.
I felt like I had practiced 'having people wait' at the gym.

Not hiding my disability, but exposing it.

Laughing and showing them, 'This is the best I can do right now.'

That might be a form of 'strength' that I could never have taught back when I was the 'perfect coach'.

Epilogue: Rebooting While Still Incomplete

Practice ended, and it was time for the children to start heading home.

“Coach, are you coming again next week?”

“Will you come to watch our next game?”

“I feel kind of safe when you’re here, Coach.”

When I heard those words, something deep inside my chest loosened.

The day of my return to work is definitely approaching.

I’m still scared of riding the train and of stumbling over my words in front of others.

The anxiety that I might only be treated as a 'vulnerable person who needs consideration' hasn’t disappeared even now.

But in the gym, a microcosm of society, my comrades-in-arms waited for me, and the children accepted me as I am now.

Adults are considerate, and children intrude.
Both are forms of 'acceptance' in their own way.

Even with an incomplete interface, as long as the content is solid, I can connect with someone again.

The sound of my cane and the sound of my heavy breathing.

While marking that 'sound of me right now', I intend to return to the world one step at a time.

Thank you for reading this far.
People are all different, but I hope this is of some help to those who have the same feelings as I do.

If you’d like, please feel free to comment, follow, and click 'Like'♪