Bound For I Don't Know

Summer vacation amongst the JET community is an opportunity to put those hard earned yen to work.  Many people use the week off in summer, as well as some of their precious twenty vacation days, to tour other countries in Asia.  Flights to China, South Korea, Cambodia, and especially Thailand are all, of course, much cheaper from Japan than they are from everyone's home countries, half a world away.  People also use the break to return home.  In general, summer vacation is a great time to get out of Japan.  

But, when Ryan and I sat down to discuss our plans, our conversation never left the borders of Japan.  It didn't even cross our minds to go elsewhere.  For whatever reason, we can't bring ourselves to leave.  Maybe we love Japan too much.  Maybe everything that we have seen, eaten, touched, and experienced so far has been so impressive that we want to wring as much of it from this country as possible while we are here.  Every different area of Japan has a speciality food.  Ask a person from Iwate what food you should eat in Okinawa, and they will tell you 'anything pig and goya champloo,' even if they have never been to Okinawa.  Ask an Okinawan what you should eat in Iwate, and they will probably say Morioka reimen, even if they have never left Okinawa.  It's like every Japanese person knows exactly what foods are good in what area, regardless of their personal experiences.  And, perhaps, Ryan and I have bought into that. Maybe we really do believe that the best miso ramen is in Sapporo, and the best tskemen is in Tokyo.  And, maybe we really do believe that to 'experience' Japan, we have to eat all of these foods from all of these different places, and do all these things in all these different places. 

Or, maybe we don't leave Japan because we're not ready.  Maybe we feel like we haven't yet caught the Japan we were hoping for, and visiting some other country for vacation would be an acknowledgment of our failure.  After all, if we love Japan so much, why should we want to leave?  

When I first found out, back in New York about a year and three months ago, that Iwate would be my home, I looked forward to getting away from everything familiar and starting over.  As one of the most rural prefectures in Japan, I envisioned, however misguided I might have been even at the time, dark nights in a house with no other houses around.  I saw myself reading and writing and studying and retreating from people.  At the same time I was nervous about withdrawal from society but also relishing the cliche, semi-romantic hermetic lifestyle.  I quickly found out how wrong I was.  Delivered to my city of 100,000 people, two gigantic malls, a movie theater, a train station (bullet train included) connecting me easily to any major city, and even an amusement area called 'American World,' complete with batting cages, movie rental store, Baskin Robbins and a ferris wheel, my nights and weekends have been anything but monastic.  This schism between my expectations of a quiet and disconnected lifestyle and the reality of my actual lifestyle, which is scarcely discernible from the one I had hoped to leave in America, readily affects my travel plans.  It's almost like my life is too good, and too comfortable here.  My seamless transition has left me wanting more of a challenge.

Perhaps that's why, when my parents came to visit, I dragged them to a town in the middle of nowhere to see some run-down temples that we had to walk quite a ways for.  I didn't want to see the giant, touristy temples of Kyoto.  I wanted to find something tiny and secluded, something I could call my own discovery. 

Perhaps that's why, for this summer vacation, Ryan and I decided to disregard standard JET policy and travel against the current.  We chose a place that prompted people, Japanese and foreign alike, to exclaim, 'What?  Why?!' when we told them of our plans.  We chose a place whose name's pronunciation sounds the same as 'I don't know.'  We went to the northern-most point of Hokkaido, the most sparsely populated island of Japan, and then went even further. We went to Wakkanai.

To get to Wakkanai, we travelled through Sapporo.  Sapporo is a fantastic city, and not small by any means.  The first day there, we met up with a college friend of mine who is also on the JET program.  The whole weekend, unbeknownst to us, was Sapporo's summer festival weekend. We ate, drank, and were generally merry.  There's no real reason to bore you with those experiences, since that was standard city party stuff: karaoke, an all you can eat/drink lamb buffet, outside festival with dancing and singing competitions, playing guitar in the grass with a Japanese blues man, and meeting other foreigners and walking loudly through the streets.  So, I'll just show a couple pictures of that part of the vacation, collect my thoughts, and get into the meat of the vacation - Wakkanai - in the next installment.

In fact, this is all that you need to know about Sapporo.

The next two pictures are of the famous canal in Otaru, which is a city about forty-five minutes by train west of Sapporo.  There is a lot of European architecture along the canal, like the gas lamps that line the canal.  The canal was nice, although a little too romantic for Ryan and my tastes.  We had to do something manly after walking the length of the 'darling canal' together. We hung sheet rock and drank a beer.  

This is not baseball

健太郎　川原 was born in the remote hills of Hokkaido, hidden from people and tucked away, alone with his parents. It was there, in his little bubble of forest, that he played amongst nature all day: catching fish, chasing frogs, making spears and fishing lines from whatever it is that people make those things from. He learned to be quick like a fox, fearless like a serow, and alert as an owl. He had to be, because nature never lets you win like your parents might have when you were younger. You can’t reset the game and try it on an easier setting, or put in a code and skip to the final boss. Falling rocks don’t apologize like a popped collared tennis instructor might after he accidentally pelts you with a soft, fuzzy green ball. 川原 learned, emphatically, that everything that is done must be done at a frenzied pitch of concentration and focus. One misstep in the woods and you don’t eat for a night, or you break your ankle, or worse yet, you get lost and eaten by a ravenous wolf-deer. When川原 finally emerged from his bubble of forest to go to middle school, scarred, pocked, and with more than a few wolf-deer carcasses to his name, he needed something to throw himself into day and night; he needed to find a home for his unbridled energy. He found baseball.

出礼久 was born on an urban hill, in one of the most un-remote cities in the world, hidden from people because there were so many others to look at, alone with his parents. It was there, in the greatest city in the world, that he played in the concrete jungle all day: catching trains, chasing ice cream trucks, making super-soakers that shot ketchup and staying cool during summers with video games and ice cream. He lived in a bubble of protection, never believing that anything bad would happen to him, probably because nothing bad ever did. His parents let him win games when he was younger just like he lets kids win against him now. He learned that life is a series of games, and you choose which ones to play hard, and which ones to take it easy for. In fact, he learned that in some games you don’t have to play your hardest to win; as long as you won, that was what was important. He needed something that was elegant and difficult, yet didn’t demand too much of him at every second. He found baseball.

健太郎　川原 and 出礼久, improbable and impossible though it may seem, found themselves coaching the same baseball team. They often talked.

出礼久: Why isn’t Miyamoto pitching the first game of the single elimination tournament? Shouldn’t our ace pitcher pitch a game that we have to win?
川原: But in the bullpen two days ago, his control wasn’t very good and he wasn’t throwing as hard as he usually does.
出礼久: That’s because it was a practice bullpen session. He was working on his form.
川原: Yes, but he wasn’t working on it hard enough. It didn’t look like his usual form. He looked like he was taking it a little easy.
出礼久: He was taking it a little easy!
川原: Exactly.
出礼久: Right….exactly. We agree.
川原: Yes, we do.
出礼久: So, he will pitch tomorrow, then?
川原: No.

川原: What a great game that was, wasn’t it 出礼久?
出礼久: I thought parts of it at the beginning were very good. But it took a long time for us to score 31 runs, and it was hot outside. I am very sun burnt.
川原: The team tried their hardest! And the other team looked a little dejected after the fourth inning.
出礼久: Well, I think that’s because they were losing 16-0.
川原: I hope they learned their lesson, though.
出礼久: What do you mean? They only had ten people, and one pitcher. They had to borrow two players from the basketball team just to have enough to play.
川原: But their body language was awful.
出礼久: Did we really have to keep stealing bases after it was 25-0?
川原: Yes, it’s our job to run, and it’s the catcher’s job to throw us out.
出礼久: I don’t think the catcher had ever played baseball before. And, did you forget that it was 31-0?
…

Of course, not every Japanese high school baseball manager was raised in the forest, but for the most part, the teams seem to play that way. Every team that I have seen, and it has been quite a few now, is polished in terms of the extraneous, non game-related matters. The water coolers are always filled. After the 5th inning, both teams sprint onto the field with rakes to sweep and tend. Foul balls that leave the playing field are retrieved almost immediately by the first year students who are waiting by the exit gates in track-like starting positions. Everyone bows to umpires, everyone screams encouragement through the entire game, be it a 3-2 thriller or a 31-0, heat stroke inspiring epic. Every batter runs out every hit ball. I have noticed, on my team, that if a batter makes an out and has to return to the far dugout, he never runs in front of the other team’s infielders. He either curls back around through foul territory, or runs a lap around the outfield shallows. Bats and helmets are dutifully collected and re-racked, first base and third base are both coached by players who relay signs from the dugout. Umpires never have to ask for more baseballs, or water. In the unlikely event that the visiting team retrieves a foul ball and gives it back to the young home team retrievers, the bow given in exchange for the ball is deep and sincere. Everyone has a responsibility. And, as far as I can tell, everyone views their responsibilities as equal to any other responsibility, including the players who are responsible for playing the actual game on a given day. Running after foul balls is a position just like shortstop is.

The term I used earlier, ‘extraneous, non game-related matters,’ I have come to realize, is my bias. On my high school team, no one wanted to get the water for the starters. No one wanted to chase foul balls because it meant you weren’t part of the game. You were extra. You yourself were extraneous, a servant for the people with more talent. Everyone fought, tooth and nail, for playing time. But, in Japanese high school baseball, just being on the team and being at the game is playing time.

Japanese high school baseball is more like a way of life for three years than a club. The baseball team, even if it is not a very strong team compared to other teams (like at my school), is above the other clubs. They practice everyday, without fail. Baseball practice, of course, includes studying for school classes. While other teams get days off to study where they like and how they like, or just take a day off, the baseball team comes to school and sits in a room and studies together. The captain of the baseball team is the appointed ‘spokesman’ for assemblies and functions, such as greeting a new principal or closing and opening school ceremonies. Only the baseball team gets 応援, or cheering. Before the big summer tournament, entire schools gather in their stifling gymnasiums and practice cheers for two hours every day for a week. They sing the school song, they rehearse scripted cheers and dances, and they learn player specific cheers for each player who might be in the starting lineup that day. These cheers are all written on paper and expected to be memorized before the big game.

And there in lies the difference. High school baseball in Japan is a ‘big game’ sport, just like American football. In fact, it is more so. There is no regular season in Japanese high school baseball. There are two tournaments a year, each one being single elimination. All the other games that are played, and there are plenty of practice games (believe me), mean nothing. Every baseball team gets put into its prefecture’s tournament at random, without seeds or regard for won-lost records. This is why 川原 demands his team to be ever on high alert. With only one game deciding their entire season, he can’t afford for his players to have a let down in intensity and effort during that one game. They have to learn how to turn themselves on, even if the weather is bad or something happened in their lives that has nothing to do with baseball. They need to learn to forget about what they are feeling and do what they were programmed to do: catch grounders, chase foul balls, make plays, fill water coolers, and lay down bunts. One misstep and the entire season is for naught. It’s really quite startling to realize that half of all high school baseball students in Japan play (in American terms) one game seasons.

While I can see where 川原 is coming from, I don’t agree with it. I believe that in playing each game and practice at a fevered, constructed pitch, he dilutes the intensity of the games which are intrinsically more special. And, in teaching them to forget about the moment and focus on the physical aspects of the game, he robs them of enjoying a truly special game. A high school game with friends, teachers, and classmates watching (because they all are bussed to the stadium, even if it is 3 hours away) is a memory forever, unless a player is too afraid of making a mistake or too focused on thinking about getting water. Baseball is a game, not a way of life.

Where exactly I fit in on this baseball team has always been a tight rope act. I preach not over-throwing, staying within yourself, it’s a long season type things. I generally handle the pitchers, because K was not a pitcher and so does defer to me on pitching things. I help with mechanics and ‘being a pitcher.’ The biggest thing I am trying to teach is the concept of ‘adjusting.’ The pitchers just don’t seem to do that. They will keep on throwing the same pitch in the same spot, in the same sequence, because that is how they were taught to do it. They really believe that there is some flaw in them that makes their outside slider always get hit to right field. If, somehow, they ‘do it’ better, they will get better results, they think. I try to teach them to look at their results, and then make decisions from there. If their slider always gets hit after a fastball, they probably shouldn’t do that anymore. It’s possible that the ‘perfect game plan’ doesn’t work for them, and they need to find their own. You ‘win’ by looking at the results you get and changing or not changing. But, maybe winning isn’t everything.

川原: This is not baseball.
出礼久: What do you mean?
川原: This is 野球.
出礼久: Isn’t that just the Japanese word for baseball?
川原: No, they are different games.
出礼久: But the rules are exactly the same.
川原: There is more to a game than the rules.
出礼久: That doesn’t make any sense. A game is nothing more than a set of rules.
川原: Is a painting just colors?
出礼久: There is no ‘winning’ in painting.
川原: Should a painter paint for himself, or for others?

(After laying off a slider in the dirt, Kousuke cracks the next pitch, an outside fastball, to right field for a line drive single over the right fielder.)

出礼久: That was beautiful.
川原: Yeah, it sure as. Nice batting.