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His size 3XL T-shirt reads “Akebono,” but in the rehabilitation facility where Chad Rowan resides, he is widely referred to as “Taisho” (boss or chief). Read more

TOKYO >> His size 3XL T-shirt reads “Akebono,” but in the rehabilitation facility where Chad Rowan resides, he is widely referred to as “Taisho” (boss or chief).

It is written on the box that holds his daily pills and it is the name that facility staff acknowledge in the hallways when asked for directions to his room.

It is a deferential title and a way of maintaining some privacy from fans and the curious for the man who, in 1993, shook the conservative sumo world to its feudal underpinnings.

By winning the New Year’s Tournament in January against sumo blue-blood Takanohana in what was, to that point, one of the most-watched sumo bouts on TV, he made sumo history and international headlines by becoming the first foreigner to achieve the exalted rank of yokozuna in Japan’s national sport.

These days, the 49-year-old Waimanalo native watches his sumo from a bedside television, saving his once-renowned strength in the ring for the challenges of physical therapy and regaining health and mobility after suffering acute heart failure 20 months ago.

“One day at a time,” he tells a visitor. “That’s all you can do.”

Patience, hope and the constant encouragement of his family have been Rowan’s companions in an ordeal that began on the southern island of Kyushu in April 2017.

Rowan retired from sumo in 2001 after a nearly 13-year career that produced 11 Emperor’s Cups, symbolic of tournament titles. He eventually joined pro wrestling and competed on a couple of circuits.

While wrestling in Kitakyushu, his heart rhythms became erratic, the family said, and he sought treatment. On a visit to a hospital there he collapsed. Doctors placed him in a medically induced coma and he spent 10 days in an intensive care unit.

After he was stabilized and recovering, arrangements were made for the arduous task of transporting him to Tokyo, no easy or cheap process in Japan when the patient is 6 feet, 8 inches and weights more than 440 pounds.

For a year now he has been in a rehabilitation facility a moderate distance from his family’s suburban Tokyo home that allows his wife, Christine, to make the nightly drive for visits after work and on weekends. His two sons, Connor, 15, and Cody, 18, can stop by on weekends. Daughter Caitlyn, 20, a former basketball and volleyball player, is a student at the University of Hawaii and is in regular contact.

He is subdued and soft spoken, a change from his past gregarious self, but hazel eyes light up when he talks about the family. He notes that Connor, a football player, and his team went to Okinawa to play some games.

Their pictures and some scenic photos of Hawaii overlook Rowan’s bed. An array of get-well and birthday cards posted on the back wall of his room exhort him on.

“Stay strong and well, aloha from Hawaii,” reads one.

But except for taking in Cody’s high school graduation in a wheelchair — “he wasn’t going to miss that,” Christine says — Rowan has pretty much been bound to the ground-floor area of the facility, where his room and nearby rehab areas are located.

Their visits and the meals they occasionally bring, including his much-favored hot dogs with ketchup and rice, serve as a welcome break from facility food. On this night, Rowan looks over a tray just delivered by a staff member and tells her, “niku tabetai” (I’d like to eat meat).

She smiles, but the requested meat is not forthcoming.

The facility is said to have served a number of athletes over the years and has some particularly relevant devices, including a huge parachute-like harness that is a key part of his workouts, allowing staff to hoist his now 300 pounds and, then, place his feet on the ground enough to assist in his therapy.

For the workouts he wears a pair of custom size 191⁄2 basketball shoes and a set of T-shirts made for him by the Adidas company that are objects of conversation curiosity. The shirts have the Chinese characters for his name, “Akebono Taro,” and read “Friend of Adidas” across the front.

The former Kaiser High basketball player says his goals include, one day, walking out of the facility, getting “back to Hawaii and riding a bike.”

And, perhaps, playing “Waimanalo Blues” on his ukulele again.

Reach Ferd Lewis at flewis@staradvertiser.com or 529-4820.