The Most Unmissable Apology

A story, quote, and lesson about humility that cuts through status

It was supposed to be a light moment.

At the SV League All-Star Game in Kobe, Yuji Nishida stepped up for a halftime serving challenge. Big crowd, big energy, the kind of intermission where everyone relaxes for a second and enjoys the show. Nishida, one of Japan’s biggest volleyball stars, did what elite athletes do on autopilot: he fired a serve.

Except this one drifted.

Instead of landing where it should, the ball veered off court and struck a courtside judge in the back. Not the kind of mistake anyone plans for, and not the kind you can pretend did not happen, especially with cameras rolling and thousands watching.

What happened next is why this moment went viral.

Nishida’s face changed instantly. No shrug. No “oops.” No half-smile to play it off. He broke into a sprint toward her, then dropped into a belly-first slide across the court and stopped face-down in front of her in a full dogeza, one of the deepest forms of apology in Japanese culture.

And he did not stop there.

He stayed low, then rose into a kneeling posture and kept bowing, again and again, clearly more concerned with her reaction than the crowd’s laughter or applause. The judge, thankfully unhurt, smiled and bowed back, both acknowledging the apology and signaling she was okay.

It was cinematic, sure. It was also disarming. Because for a few seconds, the game stopped being the point. The arena stopped being a stage. Nishida stopped being a star. There was only one thing that mattered: a person got hit, and he wanted to make it right.

“Humility is not thinking less of yourself, it’s thinking of yourself less.”

- Rick Warren, American pastor and author

It is easy to be humble when you have nothing to lose. The real test is humility with an audience.

That’s why this apology hit people so hard. Nishida had every reason to protect his image. He is famous. He is talented. He is the guy people came to watch. In moments like that, ego usually kicks in fast. We start calculating: How bad does this look? Can I laugh it off? Can we move on before it becomes a thing?

He did the opposite. He treated the judge like she mattered more than the moment. More than the crowd. More than the highlight reel. He chose care over cool. And in a world where so many apologies are performative, the irony is that his felt sincere precisely because he seemed to forget he was performing at all.

That’s what humility does. Humility is one of the fastest ways to connect with another human being because it says, “I see you.” Not your role. Not your status. You. It collapses the distance that power creates. Boss to employee. Celebrity to stranger. Customer to cashier. Leader to follower.

And it keeps us grounded in reality. Because the truth is, titles are fragile. Salaries change. Influence fades. The spotlight moves on. If your identity depends on always being above the moment, then the moment will eventually break you.

Humility is what keeps us human when life gives us reasons to act untouchable.

It is also what keeps empathy alive. Once we decide we are too important to admit fault, too high-status to be embarrassed, too busy to repair what we damaged, we do not just lose humility. We lose ourselves.

So now I ask you:

When was the last time you apologized without defending yourself first?

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