the grounds of the sacred Meiji Shrine in Tokyo, it was by far the most successful
of the professional tours from America—thanks in part to bright-eyed pitcher Eiji Sawamura, a fastballer said to throw in
the high 90s, who struck out Ruth, Lou Gehrig and two other major league stars in succession, in a 1-0 loss.
Shoriki, who carried a 16-inch scar on his skull from the broadsword that the Warlike Gods had buried into it, was thus persuaded
to establish his own professional team, the
Dai Nippon Tokyo YakyKurabu
(The Great Japan Tokyo Baseball Club), which later became the Tokyo Giants, to promote his newspaper.
Sawamura was among the first amateur stars the club signed up. Another was a high school pitching sensation named Victor Starfin,
the stateless 6′4′′ son of Russian aristocrats who had taken refuge in Japan at the time of the Bolshevik Revolution. Then
there was a pair of infielders—Keio star third baseman Shigeru Mizuhara and second baseman Osamu Mihara, a Waseda stalwart—who
would both achieve lasting fame in their later years as pro baseball managers.
The Dai Nippon squad celebrated their founding by touring the United States in 1935, where, billed as the team that had faced
down Ruth and company behind Sawamura, they won 93 of 102 games against various semipro outfits and minor league teams and
drew enthusiastic crowds.
The success of the Tokyo Giants abroad prompted the Hanshin Railways and six other major companies to organize their own professional
franchises and, in 1936, the Japanese professional league was born—under a charter that outlined the goals of fair play and
improving the national spirit. The league’s director general pledged that the new pro game would “purify the baseball world”
and lead to a real world series between Japan and the United States.
Morinji Camp
Pundits like Tobita charged that the professional game—which began as autumn and spring seasons starting in the fall of 1936,
before moving to a regular one-season format in 1939—was sullied by monetary considerations and the inability of the players
to resist the temptations of the flesh. The pros, in fact, however showed abundant fealty to the concept of
seishin yaky,
as witnessed by the memorable training camp held by the Giants to prepare for the 1936 fall season. The Giants had lost a
spring tourney and numerous summer exhibitions in dismal fashion. Tokyo manager Sadayoshi Fujimoto had determined that the
galling defeat was the result of his players’ spiritual weakness. “These guys smoke and drink too much,” he said, “they’re
always out at night chasing women. No matter how much I complain, they don’t listen.” To rectify this unendurable situation,
he devised a special pre-autumn-season camp to toughen them up.
It was held at a remote practice field near Morinji Shrine in the town of Tatebayashi, Gunma Prefecture, a rickety, teeth-rattling
three-hour train ride from Tokyo. It was not an ideal site for honing one’s baseball skills. The infield was strewn with rocks
and pockmarked with potholes, the outfield was a sea of weeds. However, to Fujimoto, who had played at Waseda in the immediate
post-Tobita era, that was irrelevant.
“The purpose of this camp is not to improve our fielding or our hitting,” he declared at the outset, “but to hone our fighting
spirit. It will be a battle between me and the players and only one side will prevail. The players won’t like it, but this
is necessary in order to build the Giants.”
For nine days in boiling early September heat that reached 94 degrees that year, beginning at seven each morning and lasting
all day, Fujimoto put his charges through Torquemadan workouts, making them chase after hundreds of flies and grounders, an
exercise which left their bodies covered with raw bruises and abrasions from the irregular bounces batted balls took on the
uneven surface. Not a few players, their uniforms torn
of the professional tours from America—thanks in part to bright-eyed pitcher Eiji Sawamura, a fastballer said to throw in
the high 90s, who struck out Ruth, Lou Gehrig and two other major league stars in succession, in a 1-0 loss.
Shoriki, who carried a 16-inch scar on his skull from the broadsword that the Warlike Gods had buried into it, was thus persuaded
to establish his own professional team, the
Dai Nippon Tokyo YakyKurabu
(The Great Japan Tokyo Baseball Club), which later became the Tokyo Giants, to promote his newspaper.
Sawamura was among the first amateur stars the club signed up. Another was a high school pitching sensation named Victor Starfin,
the stateless 6′4′′ son of Russian aristocrats who had taken refuge in Japan at the time of the Bolshevik Revolution. Then
there was a pair of infielders—Keio star third baseman Shigeru Mizuhara and second baseman Osamu Mihara, a Waseda stalwart—who
would both achieve lasting fame in their later years as pro baseball managers.
The Dai Nippon squad celebrated their founding by touring the United States in 1935, where, billed as the team that had faced
down Ruth and company behind Sawamura, they won 93 of 102 games against various semipro outfits and minor league teams and
drew enthusiastic crowds.
The success of the Tokyo Giants abroad prompted the Hanshin Railways and six other major companies to organize their own professional
franchises and, in 1936, the Japanese professional league was born—under a charter that outlined the goals of fair play and
improving the national spirit. The league’s director general pledged that the new pro game would “purify the baseball world”
and lead to a real world series between Japan and the United States.
Morinji Camp
Pundits like Tobita charged that the professional game—which began as autumn and spring seasons starting in the fall of 1936,
before moving to a regular one-season format in 1939—was sullied by monetary considerations and the inability of the players
to resist the temptations of the flesh. The pros, in fact, however showed abundant fealty to the concept of
seishin yaky,
as witnessed by the memorable training camp held by the Giants to prepare for the 1936 fall season. The Giants had lost a
spring tourney and numerous summer exhibitions in dismal fashion. Tokyo manager Sadayoshi Fujimoto had determined that the
galling defeat was the result of his players’ spiritual weakness. “These guys smoke and drink too much,” he said, “they’re
always out at night chasing women. No matter how much I complain, they don’t listen.” To rectify this unendurable situation,
he devised a special pre-autumn-season camp to toughen them up.
It was held at a remote practice field near Morinji Shrine in the town of Tatebayashi, Gunma Prefecture, a rickety, teeth-rattling
three-hour train ride from Tokyo. It was not an ideal site for honing one’s baseball skills. The infield was strewn with rocks
and pockmarked with potholes, the outfield was a sea of weeds. However, to Fujimoto, who had played at Waseda in the immediate
post-Tobita era, that was irrelevant.
“The purpose of this camp is not to improve our fielding or our hitting,” he declared at the outset, “but to hone our fighting
spirit. It will be a battle between me and the players and only one side will prevail. The players won’t like it, but this
is necessary in order to build the Giants.”
For nine days in boiling early September heat that reached 94 degrees that year, beginning at seven each morning and lasting
all day, Fujimoto put his charges through Torquemadan workouts, making them chase after hundreds of flies and grounders, an
exercise which left their bodies covered with raw bruises and abrasions from the irregular bounces batted balls took on the
uneven surface. Not a few players, their uniforms torn
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