Shared here is an excerpt of Manchester City footballer Ilkay Gundogan in the New York Times during his lengthy recovery from a season-ending injury and the effects of loneliness and isolation.

By Rory Smith

For months, the best part of the day was the first part. Every morning after he returned from Barcelona at the end of January, Gundogan had arrived at Manchester City’s training facility — in the shadow of the Etihad — at the same time as the rest of the squad.

At first, his teammates made a point of fussing over him, welcoming him back, asking how long it would be until he would be playing again. “After the second, third and fourth day, it is less and less attention,” Gundogan said. He preferred it that way, being just another face in the crowd.

Gundogan had been in this situation before. In August 2013, only a few weeks after he scored for Borussia Dortmund in the Champions League final, he had sustained a back injury that would, eventually, prevent him playing for a full year. Three years later, Manchester City signed him while he was sidelined with a patella injury, so keen was Guardiola, the club’s new manager, to work with him.

“That is the most difficult thing: to feel that you are useless, not worth as much as before, not worth as much as the others.”

As Gundogan walked the long path to fitness once more, he could not only make light of his past — “I am quite good at sitting on the couch now,” he joked one night in Barcelona — he could draw hope from it.

On the day Gundogan tore his ligament, he had cried on Guardiola’s shoulder, his despair overwhelming him. Less than 24 hours later, he had reconciled himself to his situation. The A.C.L. is a more common injury than his back problem; there was a clear road map to follow.

But another long stretch out troubled him, too. His injuries might have been unrelated, but he knew what the cumulative effect would be. Soccer has a short memory. There is always someone ready to take your place in the coach’s plans, in the team’s roster, in the fans’ affections.

Gundogan appreciated the sympathy, but he exists in a brutal world. He did what little he could to mediate its effects. He posted regular images on Instagram, and made sure he was present on Twitter. He enjoyed the interaction and, in particular, the photography, but pleasure was just a byproduct.

“I do not want people to forget me,” he said in February.

That kept him going as his recovery started in earnest — that desire not to be forgotten, not to be written off.

His schedule was physically exacting, his life mapped out for him by Cugat, Sala and City’s medical staff. Monday and Friday were for conditioning; Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday were for strength; Wednesday was cardio work. On Sunday, he rested.

The principal target, as explained by James Baldwin, the City physiotherapist overseeing his recovery, was “to restore the mechanics of the knee.” Baldwin talked about “gait re-education,” and proprioception, making sure all the disparate parts of the body are working in unison. In simpler terms, Gundogan was learning to walk again.

The exercises were simple, but demanding: a series of stretches and flexes, lifts and dips, followed by an arduous series of crabwalks. As the weeks passed and Gundogan’s knee improved, the exercises were made incrementally harder: resistance bands were introduced, or a Bosu ball, or an unstable surface. Baldwin said the idea was to “replicate the elements of human movement.”

All of City’s state-of-the-art facilities were available to Gundogan. His cardio work took place in a heat chamber. A couple of afternoons a week were spent in the pool area, walking against rapids to build up resistance, using underwater treadmills, donning one of a dozen buoyancy suits that hang on the walls. There were regular cupping sessions, to “stimulate the lymphatic system and clear effusions in the knee,” Baldwin explained early in the spring.

The days were long and tiring, but it was not the physical demands that were most punishing. It was the mental strain, the sense of being apart, adrift, incomplete, surrounded by those constant, early-morning reminders of what he used to be, and where he wanted to be. “The general feeling,” Gundogan said, “is of loneliness.”

“The worst thing for me is seeing the other players,” he added. “I see them on the training field, when they are in the locker room, when they go up to the meeting before training. I see how they work in the gym, and I am not able to do the same. You know that you are not able to be a full part of the group.

“That is the most difficult thing: to feel that you are useless, not worth as much as before, not worth as much as the others.”

Read the rest of the story on NYTimes.com.

Eight athletes opened up about their mental illnesses in a story by USA Today.

Michael Phelps (swimming), Imani Boyette (basketball), Mardy Fish (tennis), Rick Ankiel (baseball), Royce White (basketball), Allison Schmitt (swimming), Brandon Marshall (football), Jerry West (basketball) share their respective stories of battling depression and bipolar disorder. The story is written by Scott Gleeson and Erik Brady. Below is an excerpt of Rick Ankiel’s story.

Rick Ankiel

HARDLY ‘IMMUNE TO INNER PAIN AND TORTURE’

Rick Ankiel was on the mound for the St. Louis Cardinals against the Atlanta Braves in Game 1 of the 2000 National League Division Series when he found he couldn’t do what had always come so naturally. Ankiel, the pitcher, couldn’t pitch anymore.

He threw five wild pitches in an inning; no major leaguer had done that since 1890. More starts produced more wild pitches. He was never the same.

“There’s such a stigma, especially with men, that you can’t falter, and that you shouldn’t get help.”

Baseball people said he had the yips — jitters that make it nearly impossible for an athlete to throw a strike or sink a putt — though in his case severe anxiety was at the root of it.

“For anyone who hasn’t had it happen to them, they don’t understand how deep and how dark it is,” he says. “It consumes you. It’s not just on the field. It never goes away. … It’s this ongoing battle with your own brain. You know what you want to do — in your heart. But your body and brain won’t let you do it.”

Ankiel would eventually have to give up his pitching career. Remarkably, he would come back years later as an outfielder. He is one of two players in major league history who have started a postseason game as a pitcher and hit a home run in the postseason as a position player. (The other? Some fellow by the name of Babe Ruth.)

Anxiety on the mound led to obsessive thoughts in his daily routine. TV analysts called him weak. They said he lacked mental toughness.

“I can’t imagine how bad it’d be with social media nowadays,” he says. “There’s such a stigma, especially with men, that you can’t falter, and that you shouldn’t get help.”

Ankiel found himself envious of players who had physical injuries that rehab could fix. He turned to therapy, breathing exercises and different medications — mostly to no avail.

“Nobody really had any answer,” he says. “There’s no remedy or cure.”

Ankiel was USA TODAY Sports’ high school baseball player of the year in 1997. Some touted him as the second coming of Sandy Koufax. And then, poof, it was gone.

“It was beyond frightening and scary,” he says. “We’re getting paid millions, but that doesn’t mean we’re immune to inner pain and torture.”

Ankiel wrote about all of this in The Phenomenon: Pressure, the Yips and the Pitch that Changed My Life, which came out this year. It tells of how he tried vodka and marijuana to calm himself. Nothing worked. Enter Harvey Dorfman, the late sports psychologist, who became a father figure in Ankiel’s darkest hours and helped “save my life” as his pitching career unraveled. Dorfman, who wrote The Mental Game of Baseball, helped Ankiel face his abusive childhood.

“For athletes, you want to try to turn over every stone possible to be at the best of your ability,” Ankiel says. “So if there’s a doctor or counselor who can help you, why not turn over that stone? Having a culture conducive to mental health is big. I think we’re getting there. Just about every (MLB) team has a psychology department. I’m glad we’re starting to understand. We’re all human, and I think the more we talk about mental health, the better.”

Read the rest of the story on USAToday.com.