Because they are so obviously different, some prodigies are unable to live a normal childhood. Eric Lo Shih-kai, a 13-year-old Taiwanese golfer who last November became the youngest person ever to play in a PGA European Tour event, spends most of his energy on the links practicing his game when he is not in school. His day starts at 7 a.m., when he jogs at a park near his home in Loutung then practices approach shots until it is time for school. After classes let out at 4 p.m., he heads to the course, where he spends the next five or six hours on drills—sometimes driving 300 golf balls in a session—before finally heading home for bed. "The golf course has been like a day-care center to Eric," says his father and coach, Tony Lo Chi-tung, a 51-year-old retired bus driver. "There is nothing else in his life." But the teenager, who plans on turning pro by the time he is 17 or 18, says he doesn't mind. "I'm not like my normal classmates, who only think about having fun without worrying about the future," he says. "I prefer to be hardworking at a young age. I'll enjoy myself when my efforts pay off later."
There are other costs these young stars must pay for their passions. Junichi Ono, 13, is quiet and reserved for his age, making him hard to spot among his rowdy classmates at Kurakuen Middle School in Nishinomiya, Japan. But he stands out from the crowd. Ever since he drew his first character, "Liberty-kun," a Statue of Liberty doodle he made when he was six during his first trip to New York City, Ono has shot to fame as a noted Japanese Pop artist. His debut exhibition was held when he was eight; he has since had several books published, mingled with adult artists (Japanese and foreign) and met heads of state Junichiro Koizumi and George W. Bush (whom he recalls, with a caricaturist's economy, as "the guy who choked on a pretzel"). His mother, clothes designer Naomi Ono, says she once tried to set up a joint exhibition with some art students. "But we couldn't, because they only produced one or two pieces a year. Can you believe that? Junichi goes to school, does his homework, plays with friends—but produces at least 300 drawings yearly."
Ono occasionally comes off as odd to some of his seventh-grade classmates. "He talks to himself a lot," says one. "He's a little strange," says another. Indeed, his teachers also say he is exceptionally sensitive. Many of his pieces are inspired by New York City (he wants to be an architect when he grows up), so 9/11 was a huge shock. "Junichi really took it to heart," says one teacher. When Ono recently visited New York City to open an exhibition of his work, he took time out to see ground zero. "He got back in the car without saying a word," says his mother. "He still hasn't talked to us about it."
Notoriety, too, adds to the pressure of being a beautiful freak. Step into the diminutive shoes of Japanese table-tennis star Ai Fukuhara. She started playing Ping-Pong at the age of three when she could barely see over the table. Two years later she was winning competitions, often trouncing opponents three years her senior. Her powerful volleys and tendency to burst into tears when she lost made her a favorite among Japanese fans, who nicknamed her "Ai-chan," chan being a suffix reserved for children. On top of homework, she must endure a punishing training schedule and unrelenting attention from the media. When traveling by train to tournaments, "women would come up and pinch her cheeks," says Chiyo Fukuhara, her mother.
Now 14 and in training for the Athens Olympics, Japan's table-tennis ace wants her life back. Her name isn't Ai-chan, she insists—it's Ai Fukuhara. Previously her manager answered for her at press conferences; these days, she speaks for herself. And the trademark waterworks? Fukuhara still cries, she confesses, but her tears are not for public consumption. "I used to cry when I lost. Now I let it all out once a month. The stress and exhaustion build up and everything I've been keeping inside just explodes. Sometimes I cry even when there is nothing particular to cry about." And although constantly orbited by various trainers and managers, Fukuhara remains convinced of one fact: her talent is entirely her own. "If I ever decided to quit," she says, "then nothing my parents would say would change my mind. It's my life, not my parents'."
