An Unexpected Departure

[der meister 3,248]

               I have seen a lot of different moods from young Ryuji Sakamoto over the past few seasons of being embedded with him: elation, determination, anger, a ferocity that can be downright unnerving. One mood I had never seen until yesterday, however, is despondency. While he hasn't outright said it, the sudden turn in mood directly correlates with the departure of Ms. Ann Takamaki and her carry-on bag stuffed to the zipper with sweets. I find myself reflecting upon the brief time she and I spent at the PATH mall last week, and her voracious appetite for chocolate-filled crepes. She was utterly charming and polite during her visit, and I can certainly see why Ryuji likes her so much.

 

               Much of his personal practice time since the end of the Toronto Legion's season and Ms. Takamaki's departure has been focused on his puck handling skills, something that he seems to treat as a challenge, considering how late into life he was before picking up the sport. The improvements he's made in that area over the past few seasons are frankly astounding, and I look forward to seeing if they pay dividends for the Legion next season. Beyond some extra time on the ice doing stick drills, however, Sakamoto has largely been staring off into space, glassy-eyed. I can tell that he's in an unfamiliar headspace, stuck between anxious and apathetic, and idly I wonder if that will affect his offseason training.

              

               "How long until next season starts, man?" Sakamoto asks one afternoon, not bothering to look in my direction. He's been staring out of the apartment window at the street below, watching the cars and people go by. I'm not sure exactly how long he's been sitting there, but it's been the better part of two hours. Or maybe three.

              

               I check my calendar. "Another month," I reply. The groan that issues from Sakamoto is enough to make the water in my glass tremble.

              

               "I guess I could go to the gym again and work on my strength," he whines, shaking his head. This side of Ryuji Sakamoto is, to put it kindly, unpleasant to be around. Suddenly, his head shoots up and he pivots in his chair to face me. "Dude!" he exclaims, his eyes wide with excitement. "Let's go to Tokyo!"

              

               I blink at him, surprised by his sudden shift. "Tokyo?" I ask, the question sounding stupid in my own ears.

              

               "Yeah, man!" he continues. "I can introduce you to my old friends, we can hang out at the arcade, see what's going on back home. I'll pay for everything, so don't worry about that. It'll be a blast!"

              

               And that's how I found myself waiting in Toronto International Airport two days later, nursing a burgeoning migraine and an overpriced and over-iced coffee. Sakamoto's leg is bouncing with excitement, making the hard plastic bench vibrate in rhythm. A few people come over and ask Sakamoto for an autograph or a picture, and he's eager to oblige, flashing a well-practiced and surprisingly natural sharp-toothed grin. I hope he settles down once we're in the air, or else this is going to be a long two weeks.