else.
He has never heard that itâs because Japanese children field too much, or hit too much, or throw too much. Nobody, he says, has blamed Koshien or nagekomi, or if someone has, heâs been deaf to such complaints. American pitchers get hurt too, donât they? If anything, Joko says, the Japanese arenât working hard enough anymore. Itâs not that they risk losing something important to us, to our softer way of thinking. âWeâve already lost it,â he says.
He is not alone in his fears. âIf Koshien changes,â the former Met Masato Yoshii says, âI think we would lose what is beautiful about baseball.â
âWhat a game that was,â Gondo says, remembering Saitoâs 948 pitches once again.
Joko concludes his chat about American misdeeds by walking onto the field with buckets of balls. The boys surround him in a tight circle. Joko picks one. The boy stands maybe 30 feet in front of him, and Joko starts rifling balls, left and right, left and right. The boy dives, gets up, dives again, again and again and again, the balls mostly just out of reach. A dozen, then two dozen, then three dozen, now four, until at last the spectacle is over. The boy retreats out of the circle, and he is dirt-caked and heaving. Sweat and snot and tears cover his face. Several minutes later, his hands are still on his knees, and he still struggles to catch his breath.
Meanwhile, another boy has been chosen. Itâs the catcher, the whippet. Now he too begins diving, left and right, left and right, left and right. The boys are screaming encouragement, and he continues, stretched out and back to his feet, again and again. He is covered in earth from head to toe, but Joko continues to throw, and the whippet continues to dive, until suddenly, out of the dust: he smiles. Somehow he is smiling, and Joko is smiling back at him, until finally the whippet catches one last ball, exhausted, facedown in the dirt. The boys roar in unison. They have just witnessed the difference between victory and defeat.
âThatâs how we communicate,â Joko says, the smile still on his face. âWe speak without talking.â
The afternoon passes into evening, with so much speaking and so little talking, until the sun starts to set beyond right field and the brown earth goes golden. Anraku has returned from his run at the golf course. He is still wearing his leather jacket; his giant teenage body continues to cook. Joko has told him to be ready, that if they make Koshien again, he will throw every pitch. âI want to prove this is the right way,â Anraku says. âI want to prove the Japanese way is the right way.â
He knows that if he gets hurt, then the Japanese way might be finished along with him, his arm the final straw. It is his greatest fear. Unlike Hideo Nomo, he wonât be the start of something. Anraku will be the end, the monster that leaves his city in ruins. âIt will be my fault,â he says. His manager was talking about a discarded bento box, but he wasnât really talking about a bento box: this is up to him.
If he were an American kid, if he really were Stephen Strasburg, he would be that almost mythical brand of prospect whose gifts are appraised by baseball jewelers looking at him through loupes and locked away in a vault. Instead, Anraku was born Japanese, which means he is a different commodity, measured by different values. Anraku is not from this place; he is of this place. He is this place. He is his high school and prefecture and Japan. He is his mother and father. He is his manager. Most of all he is the rest of these beautiful boys, everything they are and everything they hope they will be remembered for having been. He knows that his fate will also be theirs. He knows by heart which way is home. And so off Anraku goes unafraid into the night, swinging his arm at his shoulder, as though heâs only just begun to warm up.
FLINDER BOYD
20
He has never heard that itâs because Japanese children field too much, or hit too much, or throw too much. Nobody, he says, has blamed Koshien or nagekomi, or if someone has, heâs been deaf to such complaints. American pitchers get hurt too, donât they? If anything, Joko says, the Japanese arenât working hard enough anymore. Itâs not that they risk losing something important to us, to our softer way of thinking. âWeâve already lost it,â he says.
He is not alone in his fears. âIf Koshien changes,â the former Met Masato Yoshii says, âI think we would lose what is beautiful about baseball.â
âWhat a game that was,â Gondo says, remembering Saitoâs 948 pitches once again.
Joko concludes his chat about American misdeeds by walking onto the field with buckets of balls. The boys surround him in a tight circle. Joko picks one. The boy stands maybe 30 feet in front of him, and Joko starts rifling balls, left and right, left and right. The boy dives, gets up, dives again, again and again and again, the balls mostly just out of reach. A dozen, then two dozen, then three dozen, now four, until at last the spectacle is over. The boy retreats out of the circle, and he is dirt-caked and heaving. Sweat and snot and tears cover his face. Several minutes later, his hands are still on his knees, and he still struggles to catch his breath.
Meanwhile, another boy has been chosen. Itâs the catcher, the whippet. Now he too begins diving, left and right, left and right, left and right. The boys are screaming encouragement, and he continues, stretched out and back to his feet, again and again. He is covered in earth from head to toe, but Joko continues to throw, and the whippet continues to dive, until suddenly, out of the dust: he smiles. Somehow he is smiling, and Joko is smiling back at him, until finally the whippet catches one last ball, exhausted, facedown in the dirt. The boys roar in unison. They have just witnessed the difference between victory and defeat.
âThatâs how we communicate,â Joko says, the smile still on his face. âWe speak without talking.â
The afternoon passes into evening, with so much speaking and so little talking, until the sun starts to set beyond right field and the brown earth goes golden. Anraku has returned from his run at the golf course. He is still wearing his leather jacket; his giant teenage body continues to cook. Joko has told him to be ready, that if they make Koshien again, he will throw every pitch. âI want to prove this is the right way,â Anraku says. âI want to prove the Japanese way is the right way.â
He knows that if he gets hurt, then the Japanese way might be finished along with him, his arm the final straw. It is his greatest fear. Unlike Hideo Nomo, he wonât be the start of something. Anraku will be the end, the monster that leaves his city in ruins. âIt will be my fault,â he says. His manager was talking about a discarded bento box, but he wasnât really talking about a bento box: this is up to him.
If he were an American kid, if he really were Stephen Strasburg, he would be that almost mythical brand of prospect whose gifts are appraised by baseball jewelers looking at him through loupes and locked away in a vault. Instead, Anraku was born Japanese, which means he is a different commodity, measured by different values. Anraku is not from this place; he is of this place. He is this place. He is his high school and prefecture and Japan. He is his mother and father. He is his manager. Most of all he is the rest of these beautiful boys, everything they are and everything they hope they will be remembered for having been. He knows that his fate will also be theirs. He knows by heart which way is home. And so off Anraku goes unafraid into the night, swinging his arm at his shoulder, as though heâs only just begun to warm up.
FLINDER BOYD
20
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