Play Ball

     Life in Okinawa was more or less what you’d expect from life on a tropical island. Autumns were like a mild Midwest summer, perfect for BBQs and golfing. Winters were temperate, and the American servicemen and their families could be spotted milling about in shorts and t-shirts against a sea of overcoats and puffer jackets. Springs brought a blooming season that would make most botanical gardens blush, like God had sprinkled color around the world Himself.

     Summers, however, were unbearable for the Americans. Sweltering heat waves that warped buildings and roads, the full force of the sun bearing down on you as though you were staring down the barrel of a loaded gun, and a humidity that textured entire villages like forgotten lollipops under a minivan’s third row. It was on one of these summer days that the opportunity of a lifetime came to a very young me.

     Baseball has long been a fan favorite in Japan, even before the US occupation, and even though not ethnically or culturally Japanese, the Ryukyus were no exception. My father had heard from his CO, with kids just older than us, that our local major league team, the Chunichi Dragons, would be doing a fan meet with souvenirs and autographs. My old man had been a lifelong fan of America’s pastime, and although we were quite literally on the opposite side of the globe, his love for the game never once wavered. That was how I found myself standing in line outside of Agre Stadium on a Saturday morning.

     A fan meet and autograph signing, no matter the sport, will always draw the most devoted and invested of a franchise’s fanbase. Many times, the volume of eager fans is increased by those who seek autographs for resale, or collection, or friends or family, or even simply the lukewarm fans looking for a keepsake. These trends were definitely true in Japan, but were compounded on Okinawa.

     Given the bad history between the Ryukyuans and Japanese, the ruling Liberal Democratic Party took little interest in the economic and social development of Okinawa as a prefecture, and most every Tokyo-based organization thought similarly. As a result, there were no actual local teams in Okinawa. Rather, locals chose a team from the mainland, and became devoted fans. And given that the Dragons often practiced and auditioned at Kadena Airbase, they were the closest thing Chatan–and all of Naafa, really–had to a local team.

     This meant that the crow outside of Agre Stadium was much larger than five-year-old me could have anticipated. In fact, it was larger than twenty-two-year-old me could deem reasonable. In my humble estimation, I would have placed the crowd waiting for signatures at roughly 42% of the population of Naafa. About two blocks worth of space next to Agre Stadium was occupied by Kuwae Junior High School. The line to see the players extended from the gates of Agre, wound around the parking lot, stretched to the far end of Kuwae Junior High, and wrapped around the corner, where I’m sure there were even more people.

     My father, ever one for efficiency, thought himself wise to such a situation, and insisted that we arrive in line no later than three hours before the game. We should have arrived six hours before the game. The wait in line was only made less bearable by the intense heat and humidity, and a plague of mosquitoes that would make Pharaoh himself grateful for the mercy of God. More than once, my father left my mother and I in line to go to the FamilyMart down the street for popsicles and water. And while he himself was equally a victim of the island, not even Okinawa could keep him from such an opportunity.

     I, however, was lost. Very lost. As a casual fan of “Tuesday Morning Football” (Monday Night Football, for those of you stateside), my understanding of the world of ‘sports’ was limited to the gridiron, the pigskin, and the rabid fanbase of the NFL. I did not go to sports, sports came to me, and they came with air conditioning and the smell of breakfast being fixed. And despite my father’s repeated attempts to explain the difference before we arrived, I couldn’t grasp the fact that baseball could be watched in-person.

     After what felt to a child like an eternity of waiting, the time for us to meet the team had finally come to pass. As we approached the players, my father grabbed my hand and turned it upwards. He pressed into my open palm a brand-new baseball, as crisp as autumn air and as white as fresh snow, that he presumably had acquired during one of his many trips out of line to tend to me and my mother.

     “What’s this?”

     “It’s a ball. Here,” he guided me toward the center fielder, returning his bow with a quick smile before switching to Japanese, “Yakyuusenshu-san ni sain wo motomete. Go on, ask for his autograph.”

     I looked from my father to the fielder to the baseball, the back to the player before saying, “Daddy, this isn’t a football. You said this was sports.” Before my father could open his mouth to correct me, I looked to the fielder and said, “I’m sorry. Moushiwake arimasen. Otousan wa anata-sama ga senshu datta to itte shimatta.”

     The center fielder laughed and nodded, and suspecting the language barrier, looked to my father and said, “ Etto…sumimasen ga, nihongo de, supootsu wa mada supootsu desu.”

     My father laughed, embarrassed, and replied, “Yes, I know. He’s still learning English, too, so he thinks that all sports are American football.”

     The center fielder smiled and turned his attention back to me. “You like American football?” he asked in a thick accent.

     I nodded vigorously. “Hai! I love it!”

     “Wait a moment, please.” He turned and jogged down the line of players, until he reached the door to the locker room. Opening it, he yelled something in Okinawan, and waited until another player exited before walking over to me. He gestured to the new player with a big grin, and said to me, “Daigakusei no toki, amerika futtobooru wo shitanda. In university, American football. He play.”

     The player smiled and lowered himself to my level. “Haisai！Nice to meet you! I sign ball?”

     Dumbstruck at being in the presence of someone who really truly had played a game of football, I just nodded and offered him the ball in my hand. He took it, signed it, and handed it to the center fielder. He, too, signed it, and handed it back to me.

     “Hi-five, friend! Thank you for being fan! We love American football also!”

     My father smiled and led me down the line, where the rest of the players signed the ball. With each artistic signature, the ball looked more and more like some ancient runestone, freshly exhumed by an excited graduate student. English and Japanese characters, etched in black ink on the white leather, flowed together like streams into a river.

     By the time we had entered the stadium, I was reeling. I got to meet a football player! A real life football player! I was so excited that when my brain finally processed what had just happened, I exclaimed to my parents, “I did it! I met a football star!”

     My father raised an eyebrow and gave me the side-eye. “Oh? You got to meet a football player?”

     “Yeah! Didn’t you see him? How cool!”

     He let out a defeated chuckle. “Are you happy you met a football player?”

     “Yeah! Thank you!”

     “Sure thing, son. I’m glad you enjoyed it.”

     Our attention turned to the first pitch, a slider that went wide left. And although I was confused as to why a football player was standing in the outfield with a glove, the feeling of my first taste of America’s pastime has never faded.