More on Baseball in Japan

"My son's baseball game is tomorrow," I hear Kazu say on the phone.  "It's the first game of the season without the sixth graders.  He's starting.  Can you be there?"
"Of course," I say.  "Definitely.  What time?"
Kazu tells me the game will begin at 10:30, and that his wife will pick me up at 10am the following morning.
"Great," I tell him.  "I'm looking forward to it."

I set my alarm for 9am because one hour is plenty of time to get ready.  Add to this, sleep and I do not get along of late so I want to sleep in as late as possible.  In my dreams on Saturday morning there's a noise, a buzz, and then a siren.  I wake up groggy and realize my phone is ringing.
"Hello?"  I say, trying not to mumble.  I hear Mika's voice on the other end.  Kazu's wife is calling at ... 8:30??  So much for sleep.
"Did I wake you up?"
"No, of course not," I lie.
"I'll be there in 20 minutes."
Huh?  Did I hear her right?  I rub my eyes as if this will wake me up.  That means she'll be here shortly after 9am.  What happened to 10am?
"Got it," I say and panic.
"See you soon," she chirps and hangs up.

An hour is plenty of time to get ready but 20 minutes is not.  I rush through my shower, throw on something clean and look for the bottle of tea I thought I left sitting on the coffee table the night before.  I see Mika's car outside, pulling into the back parking lot.  She's early.  (Of course.)  I grab my bag, hoping everything I need will still be inside and rush out the door.

I follow her in my car through winding mountain roads climbing higher and higher into the hills.  I've not been to this part of Ofunato before.  It's a good thing I'm not trying to find this place on my own.  I'd be lost for hours.

We arrive at the baseball field and join a group of mothers already watching the boys at batting practice.  I notice the mothers are all in blue.  There must have been a memo.  Team colors.  I'm in black.  Oh well.  We exchange our good mornings.  There's a lot of buzzing, mothers chit-chatting in twos and threes.  I stand over to the side watching the two teams playing.  One of the teams has a large cheering section.  The mothers all in purple t-shirts (they definitely had a memo) chanting something I don't quite understand.  I marvel at their rhythm, that everyone knows the melody, that they seem to know what to sing when.  Pop fly caught?  There's a chant.  Strike out?  Something different.  Base hit?  A combination of cheering and waving and a lyrical sing-song I can't make out.  These moms are serious about cheering.

I walk back over to the moms and say, "I have a question."  They all look up. I point to the moms in purple and ask, "Do we have chants, too?  Are we going to cheer?"  Some giggle, others nod, while Mika says smiling, "Sort of.  But there aren't enough of us to make a lot of noise.  We do what we can though, right?"  She turns to ask the moms.  More heads nod.
"Amya-san, You can cheer with us," a young mother I've not met before tells me.
"Well," I start, "I would, but," and here I tell stories about cheering American-style.  We boo, hiss, toss things onto the field to show our displeasure, make fun of the players on the other team, jeer our own when they make an error.  "Remember, I'm a Boston Red Sox fan.  We're maybe the worst of the bunch.  We take baseball seriously.  Our cheering gets nasty.  I don't know that you want me cheering.  I might yell at the ref or something."

Instantly they begin to talk.  I hear "how different" and "yelling at the ref?" and "we can't boo" and I take it all in, smiling.  In the end, I join the mothers in the cheering section, vowing not to make a fool out of myself or Kazu (who's coaching today) or the other moms.  I'm handed two plastic bottles filled with little plastic marbles.  "Use these," I'm told by another mother I don't know.  I agree and sit down on the concrete bleacher seat.

I don't know why I agreed to watch Kazu and Mika's boy play.  Our team stinks.  We'll surely lose today (again) and this will put Kazu in a bad mood for the rest of the weekend.  Indeed, by the bottom of the third inning we're down five to one, our pitcher having walked every other player, and then thrown enough wild pitches for them to score.  I regret my decision to be at this game and start planning my exit.

Then the winds change direction, the sun shines down on us without burning our skin, and we can almost hear angels singing.  There are moments when bad luck turns to good, and I'm about to witness one right here in a baseball field tucked away in the mountains of Tohoku.  I see Kazu running out to the third base ref.  I take away from Kazu's pointing and several boys running that he's switching pitchers.  Not a bad idea, considering at this rate we'll surely lose.  Again.

The pitcher on the mound is a boy so small and so short that I immediately question Kazu's decision.  There's no way this little thing can throw a ball with speed and accuracy.  I look down at the small boy and picture myself picking him up like I used to with my son, at first heavy but then remarkably light once he's in my arms.  I watch the boy throw a few practice pitches and am pleased I didn't speak my thoughts about his ability to anyone around me.  The boy can throw.

He strikes out the first at bat, and here the magic begins.  The ground ball to the short stop is caught, and the pitch thrown to first base is perfect.  Another out.  We all cheer, standing up in unison, banging our bead-filled bottles together making quite the racket.  The next batter hits the ball high to right field.  The mothers and I collectively cringe.  None of our outfielders can catch a fly ball.  We follow the ball with our eyes as it lands into the glove, and jump up again cheering wildly.  This change in pitchers kick-started a series of hits, homeruns (including a grand slam by Kazu and Mika's boy), errors by the other team, and at the end of the game we had won 16 to five.  Our team rocks.

All throughout the game, the mothers cheered and called out, their timing perfect and their voices in complete unison.  That whole "sort of" comment from before was total crap I now realize.  One of the dads calls out something into his yellow megaphone and the moms repeat it perfectly each time.  We, too, have special cheers for certain acts of bravery from the boys on the field.  I don't know these of course, and so I just bang my bottles together and often one time too many, turning heads asking with their eyes "Who's the one that's off beat?"  I decide I'll just try to end my bottle-banging a few beats early in the hopes I don't make a bigger fool out of myself.

Later that night I ask Kazu about his decision to switch pitchers.  "Why didn't you just use the second pitcher from the beginning?  That first pitcher cost us five runs in three innings.  You saw how well that small boy pitched.  I don't get it."
"Well," Kazu says, taking a long drag on his cigarette, "the first boy is older."

Here we go.  Age trumps merit.  I'm about to ask, "You'll put a lesser pitcher in because he's older, even if it means you might sacrifice the game?" but don't.  The serious adherence to the concept of hierarchy here in Ofunato strikes again (no pun intended).  I find myself amazed by the way social rules control behavior, especially as I compare Tohoku's to Tokyo rules.  It's as if I have two different lives here in Japan;  Ofunato and Tokyo could not be more different.  It's not that Tokyo lacks a system of advancement based on hierarchy.  Certainly the rise to the top is in some part based on age.  There is, however, an understanding in Tokyo that merit matters.  Good employees, even younger ones are promoted.  In Tokyo the old system of age before ability is on its way out.  In Ofunato, there's no attempt to embrace this system of merit over age.

The good news is these pockets of cultural shifts that occur between regions keeps me on my toes.  I dare not assume anything in Japan.  The bad news is, I always feel two steps behind.  Just when I think I've got life in Tohoku figured out, I encounter a new rule or a previously unidentified norm.  I tell myself all this uncertainty keeps me young and fresh.  Most days I believe that.  On Saturday, I focused on how proud I was of those boys, and of Kazu, and of the cheering mothers.  I'll work on identifying more previously unheard of Tohoku rules later.

Spring Baseball

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On this first day of spring, I am standing outside watching two elementary school teams play baseball.  It’s freezing, grey skies threatening to break open pouring down buckets of what will surely be cold rain.  In the baseball field before me boys aged eight through twelve battle each other with skill and strategy.  Proud parents stand around in what I can only describe as a combination of holding vigil and controlled cheering.  Every inning brought on new questions and insights.  Today I’m an observer of an entirely new phenomenon:  baseball.

How is baseball a new phenomenon?  I’ve grown up playing it, I’ve gone to games, I have my opinions on which team I’m loyal to.  Today’s baseball game was, simply put, different.  What I have to say about these two hours would make for an interesting thesis, my cultural observation radar picking up signals from all directions. 

First, I notice the difference in the coaches.  The one shouting instructions to the team I’m here to cheer on and watch is a friend.  His voice carries in the plastic megaphone, and I hear almost a gruffness in his voice.  It’s not that he’s angry.  It’s more that he’s being, I suppose, commanding.  Like a father you dare not disobey, the boys take every command with a hearty “Yes!” as if they’re honored to be spoken to.  The coach for the other team is almost kind, contrasting the two styles in a way that surely no one will miss.  He compliments the boys, cheering them on, encouraging, throwing in a suggestion here and there.  My friend does not compliment.  Neither does he out right scold, but he is not at the moment exuding “nice.”

I ponder this.  On one hand, even those who are not parents should be able to see the benefit of encouraging children.  We thrive with encouragement.  The difference between a kiss on the forehead followed by a “good job” and “the look”, silently admonishing while forewarning what might happen with mouthing back—these personify child psychology 101.  Kids simply do well, better when encouraged.  I wonder why my friend, the coach on our team isn’t fuzzier with his warmth.

But, I get it.  Once these boys reach middle and high school, there will be no warmth from their coaches.  I assume my friend is slowly working towards thickening the boys’ skin, especially the older ones, so once they hit the rigid hierarchy of the real world they will be prepared.  I see the coach’s point.  The mother instinct in me kicks in right away, and I want to say, “Let them be boys as long as they can.  They’re just kids.”  The truth lies somewhere in the middle but this is not my call to make.

Then there’s the difference in the make up of those of us “in the stands.”  Support for “their” team is comprised of mothers.   Only mothers.  I see no dads watching this game today, even though it’s a national holiday.  Our team has more dads than moms.  This fascinates me.  All of the dads are out on the sidewalk chain-smoking, sure not to be on school property lest they defy the sacred baseball field.  They’re standing or squatting off school property, their cigarette smoking sometimes blowing towards us, and at other times away from us.  The women are inside the green mesh wall separating the field from the sidewalk.  We’re careful not to be too loud, but clap with every strike, hit, and run scored by our team.  We cluck quietly with every walk offered by our pitcher, every successful base stolen by our competition all the while making sure the boys don’t hear us.  The dads on the other hand, all baseball players themselves, call out to their boys.  At one point a dad behind me warns the third baseman (base boy?), “He’s about to steal!” when the boy on second base is about to make a run for it.  Their voices half-scolding, “Come on!” and half-complimenting, “Nice catch!” are silent only when the other team does something well. 

The mothers on our side all shivering with hands in pockets wonder together what happened to yesterday’s sunshine and warm breeze.  Soon we see two dads bring out long canvas bags.  I know what these are.  We’re about to get wind protection.  I’m secretly thrilled.  Any barrier from the cold will be a welcome relief.

Four of the dads erect an open-air hut—a gazebo without walls—but then I see each dad take a long leg-pole holding up this canopy and walk towards the head coach and the team.  The dads look as if they’re carrying Cleopatra herself as they march over placing the protective cover over the men and boys.  No relief for us, evidently.  We’re only the moms.

I mention this only to say the coaches on the opposing team are out in the open, standing on the sidelines with a constant stream of comments to the players.  The mothers, however, are standing under a similar canopy-concoction.  Protect your women, right?  Of course our dads will value the comfort of the coaches over that of the cheering mothers, myself included. We’re all here for the teams, coaches and players alike.  You’re cold?  That’s your fault.  Or so I imagine the dads’ reason collectively.  

The boys themselves out in the field seem to be calling out something to each batter in the box.  I can’t make out their words.  I can’t even tell if I don’t get what they’re saying because:  1). this is “baseball talk” which I don't speak, or 2). this is yet another version of the local dialect, or 3). between those whose voices have changed and others with higher ones there’s an octave difference making it difficult to hear.  Certainly it can’t be me who doesn’t get it.  Of course not.  I assume it’s something similar to what I’ve heard American baseball players say, their “Hey batter batter batter” which in hindsight actually sounded more like, “Heeeeey, batabatabata.”  I ask one of the dads later and he confirms I’m close. 

“The boys are saying, ‘Hey batter, hit it to me.’”

“Is it a taunt?” I ask.

“No, it’s not that.  Maybe a distraction.  When you hear that from seven different directions it can be a lot of noise to block out.  There are some teams where the boys will say, ‘Hey batter, I’ll bet you can’t hit it to me.’  The coaches are supposed to stop that, though.”

The other team didn’t call out the same phrase.  Theirs stopped at “Hey” but here the chorus of “Hey”s coming from every which direction at complete random intervals was distracting, even for me. 

I could write much more about this day, but I’ll leave you here, buzzing still with the calls of the boys, coaches, and dads ringing in my ears.