No Shame in Asking

Over the past 14 months, I've become pretty good at asking for favors.  Not for me, mind you.  With each trip to Tohoku, with each story I hear, I think of ways to give a little something to those I meet, those who've lost so much.

It's not hard.  I put out there what I want to get for the people here in Tohoku.  I ask nicely.  I tap my network.  I push.  I ask others to push.  It works more often than not.  When it does, the heavens open up, angels sing, and there's magic in the air.  I'm truly blessed to be a part of this.

The requests I make come from stories I hear.  There's usually no special event that kick-starts the story telling.  Conversations over lunch and dinner spin off into sharing of personal sorrows, concerns, and memories over lost ones.

Kazu-san and I are having dinner again.  A member of Ofunato's ad-hoc "relief supplies delivery team" we met last April.  He's one of these "genuinely good guys."  A bit of a sports fanatic, he's tanned year-around, always looking for the latest sports craze.  I like him.

"Did I tell your our local baseball team is called the Ofunato Red Sox?" he tells me one night months ago.
"No, you did not," and I'm just the slightest bit annoyed.  Tickled as well, being from Boston (go Sox!) but I also can't believe we've known each other for months and he's just now telling me this.
"You're just now telling me this?" I mock scold.  He laughs.
"Yeah.  I don't know why I didn't tell you before."
"Are you any good?"  I must ask.  No team using the name "Red Sox" can be mediocre.
"Yeah.  We're good."
"You better be," and I hide my smile.  Not well, evidently, as Kazu smiles back.

Months go by and after March 11th this year, we're out to dinner again.  This night he tells me two of the eleven team members from the Ofunato Red Sox team died last year.  I didn't know this until now.  One was working at the Rikuzentakata Hospital, and one was driving around his neighborhood in Ofunato looking for people to take to higher ground when his car was swept away.  On March 11th of this year, the remaining nine teammates went to the two locations where their friends died offering prayers and incense.  Kazu and I were together for part of the day on the 11th, ringing the bell at one of the local temples at 2:46pm sharp, along with the other temples also ringing bells.  We looked out over the ocean and bowed our heads.

Kazu cries this night as he tells me how the guys went out on the 11th after praying for their two friends.  He's embarrassed he's crying, and he wipes his tears away quickly.
"Sorry," he says.
"Sorry.  I haven't cried in ages.  I'm sorry.  Really."
"It's okay," I say, but I know it's not for him.
"My dad told me, 'If you're going to cry, cry by yourself.  Don't ever let others see you cry.'  Sorry.  You aren't supposed to see this."

He goes on to tell me half the players on the team don't want to play ball this year.  Losing their two teammates left too big of a hole. 
"They were good guys, you know?" Kazu says.  I nod.  "Some of the guys don't want to play without them."
"How about you?"
"I do."  Of course he does. 

And, here I hatch my plan.  Every baseball player in Japan, professional or amateur, old or young, knows Bobby Valentine.  The Bobby Valentine who is now the Manager for the Red Sox.  The Red Sox.  I decide to write to Mr. Valentine, explaining what Kazu just told me, and ask for a letter of encouragement.  A sort of, "If you guys are going to use the Red Sox name, you sure as hell better play ball" letter.  I ask Kazu if he'll write a letter, too.
"I'll translate it," I tell him.
"Really?"
"I can't promise anything.  I'll try, though.  I'll hit everyone I know who knows someone in the Red Sox."
"Really?" Kazu asks again.
"Really."

Fast forward two months and I get a call from Kazu one Saturday night.
"Guess what came in the mail today?" and just like that, I grin into the phone.
"No way!"
"Really!"

This is Kazu and one of the players going through the box of good sent by Mr. Valentine and the Red Sox.  Tonight, several of the other team members are meeting to decide who gets what.  I translated the letter Mr. Valentine wrote (truly beautiful).  They each have copies.  The guys who come tonight will also get copies.

"You going to keep playing?" I ask the two as they do the manly equivalent of girlie squeals picking up the items in the box.
"Hell yeah," Kazu says.  His friend is silent.  I look over and see he's choked up.  It's moment like these I'm grateful I've shed any sense of shame in asking for favors.  And, the Boston Red Sox rock.  Just saying.