Rion Ichihara: The Young Man Waiting at the Edge of Light at AZ Alkmaar

At fifty-two, I discovered the World Cup—a fever that needs no reason. Before that, I never allowed myself to stay up all night for a football. But once inside the fever, I realized that what kept me watching was not the goals or the stars, but the people standing at the edge of the light. They train, they sit on the bench, they celebrate a goal, then they sit back down. Rion Ichihara is one of them.

There is a certain poetry in the way the 21-year-old Japanese centre-back talks about his situation. He is in his second season at AZ Alkmaar, a club playing in the Eredivisie and the Europa League. In the third part of a four-part interview series, Ichihara says he must produce results this season. Last season his opportunities were limited. This season he refuses to use reality as an excuse.

His mantra is simple: “Why not me?” He does not believe he is overwhelmingly inferior to the centre-backs ahead of him. But he also understands that the coach decides. Trust comes from training, from minutes, from small tests that nobody sees. AZ Alkmaar are not a financial powerhouse, but they are known for developing young players and selling them later. Japanese media follow this pathway closely. Yet media attention cannot put a player in the starting line-up—only the coach can.

Ichihara knows that the Europa League is one level above the Conference League, and that one match can change a player’s standing or lead to an offer. Sunderland of the Premier League might be part of that imagined leap; Shakhtar Donetsk play in the Champions League, and Japanese football dreams of such stages. But his greatest ambition is to represent the Japanese national team.

The distance to that team is not close enough. U-23 Japan and the senior team may play at the same time, and Ichihara does not want to skip steps. His first goal is to avoid injury, stay involved, and turn consistent availability into a foundation. A regular spot remains in his heart, but he knows he must earn it. This is the quiet pressure that no fan can see.

This is not a story of a unique talent being suppressed. It is the story of a young player at a threshold. The difference between “I believe” and “I have proven” is the gap he must cross. Playing time is the only measure that brings reputation back to earth. One good match creates a chance, but only regular minutes create a career.

I also noticed the ABEMA de DAZN promotion placed at the end of the article. Japanese media are turning individual stories into commercial products. This creates an expectation loop: fans want him to succeed, media want headlines, and the player just wants a starting spot. If minutes do not come, hype can turn into frustration. I have seen many Asian players in Europe suffer under that weight.

Still, there is something valuable in his calmness. No complaints about the coach. No criticism of teammates. He talks about proving himself in practice, about earning trust. This is the language of someone who understands that European football owes him nothing. If he keeps that spirit, and if his body survives a demanding season, the opportunity will come—whether in the Europa League, a cup tie, or the Asian Games with Japan U-23. What matters is readiness when fate suddenly calls.

The Asian Games could be his stage. But the club-versus-country question remains. A tournament outside the FIFA window may make AZ hesitant to release him. From the player’s side, however, it is a path to the national team. He must choose the right moment.

This is not a story of a rising star. It is a story of a football player standing before a doorstep, with everything ahead and nothing yet in his hands. All he has is belief and a stubborn question: why not me? That question can become a fire or a burden. The coming months will decide. The pitch is not just a place for the ball to roll—it is a place where dreams land. Some land softly; some land tilted. Rion Ichihara is learning how to land when no one is watching.