Naoki Kobayashi

I remember vividly a day from my younger years, a time when my body was my fortress and my appetite knew no bounds. It was during my prime as a sumo wrestler in Tokyo, Japan, a time when I was revered for my strength and agility in the ring. But now, at 62, those days seem like a distant dream, overshadowed by the health problems that plague me.

One particular day stands out among the countless others spent in training and competition. I had just won a major tournament, and the celebration feast was nothing short of legendary. The aroma of grilled meat filled the air as trays of sushi, sashimi, and tempura lined the banquet table, enticing my senses.

Amidst the cheers and applause, I indulged in a feast fit for a king, my chopsticks dancing from one delicacy to another with practiced precision. Plate after plate vanished before me as I savored each morsel, my fellow wrestlers cheering me on with each bite.

But as the festivities came to an end and the last scraps of food disappeared, I couldn't shake the lingering feeling of emptiness that settled in my stomach. Despite the overwhelming abundance of food, there was a hunger within me that no amount of eating could satisfy.

Now, as I reflect on that day from the perspective of a 62-year-old man battling diabetes and chronic pain, I realize the toll that such excessiveness took on my body. The indulgences of my youth, fueled by the demands of my sport, have left me grappling with the consequences in my later years.

But even as I navigate the challenges of aging and illness, that memory serves as a reminder of the strength and vitality that once coursed through my veins. And though my body may be weaker now, the spirit of the sumo wrestler still resides within me, a testament to the resilience of the human spirit.